05/06/2025
I shot m**h in a church bathroom. Let that sink in.
In the middle of two men of God who loved me deeply trying to tell me about Jesus, I excused myself, walked into a clean, tiled bathroom stall in the church … and I shot up. Not because I wanted to disrespect them or God. But because my body was *screaming*.
I was dying in real time, and I didn’t know how to stop.
I had driven to meet these guys in a stolen 2006 Jaguar.
I was ten days awake. No sleep. No rest. Just paranoia, hallucinations, and the feeling that som**hing invisible was constantly watching me. My body was twitchy and cold.
Somehow, Bart had gotten me to come to this church. He’d been chasing me for years. Not in a pushy way, but in the way that real love does. It keeps showing up. He was an elder at this trendy church, a place where a couple thousand people showed up every Sunday, wearing name brands and smiling and holding lattes. He didn’t care about any of that. He cared about me.
Richard came too. One of the pastors. Soft-spoken and wise. A theologian who would never claim the title. The kind of guy who looked you in the eye when you spoke, even if your pupils were shot and your breath reeked of chemicals.
We met at the coffee shop inside the church. Ten minutes in, I started falling out. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t hold still. I felt like my skin was inside out. I don’t remember what they were saying. Som**hing about grace. Som**hing about how Jesus never stops knocking. I mumbled an excuse and headed to the bathroom.
I locked the stall door behind me, pulled off my shoe and sock, and shot up in the top of my foot. The veins in arms and hands were gone. Scarred, collapsed. Just scar tissue and regret. I found a vein in my foot and slammed the shot. Everything left, then my brain lit up like a smoldering fire flaring into a blaze from a splash of gas. For a minute, I could breathe again.
I knew they knew.
When I walked back, I could feel the needle mark pulsing with every step.
But they never said a word.
They stayed.
They stayed.
They didn’t call security. Didn’t ask me to leave. Didn’t act embarrassed to be seen with me. They leaned in closer. We talked about the deep stuff. My doubts. My guilt. The theology I couldn’t wrap my head around.
But what matters most is this: at that table, I surrendered my life to Jesus Christ.
Not halfway. Not one foot in, one foot out. Not like all the other times I “tried to get clean” or “turned over a new leaf.” No. This was full surrender.
I asked Him to save me.
And He did.
That church didn’t kick me out. Those men didn’t walk away. They did the hard thing - the uncomfortable thing. They loved me when I was completely unlovable. They didn’t care about image or rules or what people thought. They saw me. And they stayed.
And because they did, I’m alive.
If you’re part of a church - be like them. It’s hard. I was hard to get through to. They pushed past that. You should too.
If you’re someone who feels too far gone - hear me. You’re not.
Jesus came after me in a bathroom stall, with a needle in my foot, after ten days awake, a stolen car in the parking lot, and a lifetime of damage.
He saved me.
He’ll meet you too.
Wherever you are.
—
We are making a documentary about what God has done in my life. You can learn more and see the trailer here:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/fascinationfilms/killing-kyle-orth
