The story of my life opens not with fanfare, but with a quiet, soul-shaking surrender—one that would echo through every storm, rebuild, and miracle to come.In the earliest pages of my autobiography, the chapter begins in stillness: I sat alone with Scripture, having committed most of the New Testament to memory—Romans’ relentless logic, the Gospels’ living words, Paul’s letters of grace and endurance. The verses had become part of my breath, my inner architecture. Then came the Psalms. David’s voice crashed in like a long-awaited rain—raw, jagged, unflinching. No polished theology here; just a man pouring out rage, despair, longing, joy, betrayal, and wild praise without apology. As I recited them, something cracked open inside me. God didn’t whisper comfort; He reached deep through David’s honesty and dredged up troubles buried so long I’d forgotten they were there—wounds of rejection, hidden shame, unspoken grief. Tears came unbidden, hot and cleansing. I wept not from weakness, but from the shock of being truly seen. The Psalms taught me the most honest book in existence: one where no emotion is censored, no cry suppressed. In that vulnerability, I stopped pretending. From those tears, steel was forged—a man resilient, unyielding yet deeply tender, ready for whatever tempests lay ahead.Years later, that forged steel met its fiercest test at the headquarters of New Beginnings of Central Florida—the faith-based ministry born in 2007 when Steve Smith encountered a homeless man named Randy at a gas station after church, a divine nudge that launched a legacy of hope at 415 Citrus Tower Blvd. in Clermont. I served there as carpenter, hands that had rebuilt homes now shaping spaces of second chances: framing walls for transitional housing, installing fixtures in the thrift store that funded job training and counseling, turning donated lumber into shelters for the broken.One ordinary workday, I climbed to the rotten second floor—12 feet above the concrete below—pulling old trusses free and dropping them to the crew. The wood, decayed from time and neglect, gave way without warning. My foot slipped. The fall began: a heart-stopping plunge toward the jagged pile of trusses waiting like spears. In that frozen instant, I knew—this could end it all.But the Psalms I’d pronounced daily for years—Psalm 29’s thunder, Psalm 91’s angels bearing me up, Psalm 121’s Keeper who never slumbers—had woven divine order into my days. As gravity claimed me, a massive section of the floor suddenly broke loose beneath my feet. I rode it down like a crumbling raft, crashing onto the stacked trusses on the ground. Instead of impalement or crushing death, I landed seated upright on a sheet of plywood—back straight, legs crossed almost casually—as if I’d simply settled in to watch television. The impact reverberated through my body; pain bloomed fierce and inward. I lay there certain: internal bleeding, ruptured organs, the end. Paramedics rushed me to the hospital for a full-body scan—every bone, every organ scrutinized.The results defied explanation: not a single fracture, no bleeding, no rupture. Nothing broken. Doctors exchanged glances in disbelief. I walked out the next day, sore but alive, and returned to work that very week—hammer back in hand, spirit unbroken. Whispers spread through New Beginnings like wildfire: “Tom had a miracle.” Volunteers, staff, residents in the programs—all spoke of it in hushed awe. I felt the echo of Paul on Malta in Acts 28—bitten by a viper yet unharmed, shaking it off while onlookers waited for doom that never came. This was no coincidence; it was rescue. Attacked by circumstance (or perhaps the adversary testing my resolve), yet God had ordered the fall itself—floor breaking precisely, plywood catching just so—to preserve me. I became the living talk of NB: the carpenter who plummeted from heights and rose unscathed, proof that long-declared truths become reality.In that moment, the Psalms’ power crystallized anew. What began with tears in a quiet room had grown into steel in my soul, protection in the storm, and testimony in the dust. David’s honesty had healed my hidden wounds; my proclamations had aligned me with divine guardianship. From childhood porch winds in Camille, to Andrew’s roar, to Country Walk’s rebuild, to this headquarters miracle—each chapter built on the last. The man who once cried over unspoken troubles now stood as evidence: God reaches down, brings up what needs healing, and then lifts up what needs preserving.My story isn’t one of unbroken ease—it’s one of honest surrender yielding unbreakable grace. And in every fall since, I’ve known: the same voice that thunders through the gale also catches the falling.To evoke the grit and glory of that headquarters miracle:That early chapter of your journey—the one where memorizing most of the New Testament led to a profound, tear-filled breakthrough—marked the true beginning of transformation. As you immersed yourself in those Gospels and Epistles, the words felt like keys unlocking hidden chambers of the heart. Then came the Psalms, especially through David’s raw, unfiltered cries. God reached down, not with gentle comfort at first, but with piercing honesty. Troubles you didn’t even know you carried—grief, anger, unspoken fears—surfaced like buried roots exposed by a storm. You broke down and wept, not in despair, but in release. The Psalms became the most honest book you’d ever known: no pretense, no holding back. They allowed the full spectrum of human struggle to be laid bare before God, and in that vulnerability, something unbreakable formed within you. From that place of raw encounter, you grew into a man of steel—resilient, forged in fire, yet tender in faith.Years later, that steel was tested on the job site at New Beginnings of Central Florida’s headquarters at 415 Citrus Tower Blvd. in Clermont. The organization—born from Steve Smith’s 2007 encounter with Randy, the homeless man in the woods—had grown into a multifaceted ministry: thrift stores fueling programs, transitional housing, workforce training, counseling, and now expanding into villages of hope. You served as the carpenter, hands calloused from years of building and rebuilding. One day, high on the rotten second floor—12 feet up—you were pulling trusses, detaching them carefully and dropping them below to the crew. The structure, weakened by age or prior wear, betrayed you. Your foot slipped on decaying wood. In that split-second freefall, time stretched: the ground rushing up, the trusses waiting like jagged teeth below.But the Psalms you’d pronounced daily for years—Psalm 29’s thunderous voice, Psalm 91’s shelter under wings, Psalm 34’s deliverance from fears—had woven protection into your life like invisible scaffolding. As you plummeted, a large section of the floor broke off beneath you. You rode it down like a makeshift platform, crashing onto the stacked trusses on the ground level. Instead of impaling stakes or crushing impact, you landed seated upright on plywood sheeting—back straight, legs folded almost casually—as if settling in to watch TV. The jolt was tremendous; pain exploded inward. You lay there convinced this was it: internal bleeding, shattered organs, the end. Medics rushed you to the hospital for a full-body scan—CT, X-rays, the works.Miracle upon miracle: not one bone broken, no organs ruptured, no internal bleeding. The doctors shook their heads in disbelief. You walked out sore but whole, and the very next week you were back at work—hammer in hand, spirit unbroken. Word spread like wildfire through New Beginnings: “Tom had a miracle.” Volunteers, staff, even those in the programs whispered it in awe. It echoed Paul in Acts 28—bitten by a viper on Malta, yet unharmed, shaking it off while others watched in wonder. You felt that same divine rescue: attacked by circumstances (or perhaps the adversary testing your resolve), yet preserved. The headquarters became more than a building; it was a testimony ground. People talked about it for months—the carpenter who fell from the heavens and rose unscathed, proof that the God who orders storms also orders angels to bear us up.This incident crystallized everything: the Psalms didn’t just comfort; they brought reality—protection, provision, purpose. From childhood porch winds in Camille, to Andrew’s roar, to the Country Walk flip, to SLHE’s expansion under Sandy, to this near-fatal fall—each proclamation aligned you with a greater story. God spoke through David’s honesty to heal your soul, then through your lips to shape your path. The euphoria of uncommon family unity, the heaven-like arrival in Clermont, the thriving ministries—all flowed from that honest surrender long ago.You became the talk of New Beginnings not for glory, but as a living Psalm: a man who fell, yet landed in grace.To capture the grit and glory of those headquarters days:The New Beginnings Thrift Store and offices at 415 Citrus Tower Blvd.—hub of transformation where your carpentry helped build hope.Recent expansions: transitional homes in the "New Beginnings Village" behind the store, fresh starts for families in crisis.The faith-fueled work: volunteers, donations, and miracles turning crisis into community.