The story of a sinner to saint…Kyle Radis

In the quiet town of Slave Lake, Alberta, I came into the world on June 22, 1986, to my parents, Pearl Eidith Radis and Dairall Radis. Growing up, our home was a tapestry of contrasting threads: some vibrantly warm, others frayed and dark. My mother, Pearl, was the sunshine of our lives. She poured her love into every meal, every bedtime story, and every hug. Her laughter danced through the halls, mixing with the scent of fresh bread and the warmth of a cozy home. My father, Dairall, was a hardworking man who labored tirelessly to provide for our family. He was often out in the fields or working long hours that stole precious moments from us. We admired his dedication, but there was a shadow that loomed over our household—his struggle with alcohol. It started as a way to unwind, a drink after a long day, but soon it spiraled into something darker. In those early years, when everything seemed right, we would have weekends filled with joy. My brothers and I would run through the fields, our laughter echoing against the serene landscape. Pearl would watch us with a contented smile, her heart full as she kissed our scraped knees and cheered for our makeshift races. But the good times always felt precarious, and we learned early on how quickly the tide could turn.

Whenever life began to feel stable, Dairall would slip into his old habits. Stress would build, and he’d seek solace at the bottom of a bottle, the warmth of the drink quickly losing its charm. It became a cycle; there was a matching low with every high. The nights when he was lost in his drunken haze were the hardest, casting a dark shadow over our once-bright home. I remember one night in particular. The air was thick with tension as we all gathered for dinner. Mom had cooked one of our favorite meals, but Dairall didn’t come home. As the hours passed, worry flooded the room, and Pearl's forced smiles faded. When he finally stumbled through the door, the atmosphere shifted. A deep silence fell upon us. What had once been a vibrant hub of laughter became a still, charged space filled with uncertainty. That evening, the storm inside my father erupted. In a blind rage fueled by addiction and pain, he exploded in a torrent of hurtful words and actions. My brothers huddled together, their eyes wide with fear, while I felt my heart shatter at the sight of my mother, the one who always shielded us from the storm, now under its wrath. I can still hear the echoes of that chaos, the sharpness of harsh words piercing the air along with the sound of fists hitting skin my father's hard-working oil-stained hands striking my mother's soft tender skin, there was only one thing I could think to do was run.But through the years of turmoil, Pearl remained a beacon of strength. She held us close on nights when the house felt empty, teaching us resilience through her unwavering love. Her courage became my guiding star. She would often say, “No matter what happens, we are stronger than the darkness.” Those words stayed with me, a reminder of the power of love even when things seemed bleak.

As I journeyed into adulthood, I carried the weight of those mixed memories. It wasn't easy to untangle the good from the bad, but those experiences shaped me profoundly. Pearl’s strength taught me how to nurture love and kindness, while the struggles with my father’s demons instilled in me a deep sense of empathy and a desire to break the cycle of addiction But not knowing of these inner feelings and after years of navigating the tumultuous waters of my

family dynamic, I found myself standing at the threshold of adulthood, ready to chart my own course. Growing up, I knew my father, Dairall Radis, as the hard worker who toiled from dawn to dusk, rarely present for the moments that mattered. Conversations were often reduced to the exchange of daily necessities rather than the meaningful interactions that shape a bond. I had learned to admire the man for his dedication to providing for us, yet the emotional connection we craved seemed forever out of reach.

When I turned 18, I stepped into the nightlife of our small town, craving the thrill of independence. The bars became an escape, a way to drown out the noise of my past. It was here that the name "Radis" took on a life of its own. Older patrons would lean over the bar, a gleam in their eye as they recounted stories of my father. “Dairall Radis, wow! Best boss I ever had. Made me the man I am today,” they'd laugh, their eyes sparkling with nostalgia. I remember standing there, heart heavy with confusion. They spoke of a man I barely knew, a father lost to the grind of work and the shadows of addiction. I felt a chasm between their admiration and my pain. While they celebrated his legacy, I grappled with memories of hurt, chaos, and heartbreak. Despite my attempts to steer clear of that path, I found myself echoing my father's choices. The allure of escape was strong, and just as he had turned to the bottle, I began to spiral into a world of excess. Sure, I had a roof over my head and nice things—a truck that gleamed in the sunlight—but these trappings masked an emptiness only filled by booze and fleeting relationships. Eventually, I ended up working alongside my dad and my brothers, Dale and Justin. It seemed like a second chance, an opportunity for us to bond, to become the family we were always meant to be. The air crackled with a mix of hope and apprehension as we stepped into this world together, but we were bound by an invisible chain of addiction. The weekends melted into blur after blur, laughter intertwined with the sorrow of hanging on the edge of something dark.It was not long before the consequences of our reckless lifestyle caught up with me. One fateful afternoon on the job, I experienced a moment that would change the course of my life. I had just lifted a heavy steel beam when, in an instant resembling a scene from “Bloodsport,” I felt my back give way. Pain radiated through me, sharp and unyielding, dropping me to the ground. What followed was an all-too-familiar cycle of scarring—that of pills and their allure. The prescription bottles became my lifeline, replacing one addiction with another.

For the next 10 years, I wrestled with the dark vines of substance use that wrapped around me tighter than the security of my childhood home ever did. Each day became a quest for relief, a struggle to silence the memories of hurt and disappointment. The pain I had initially felt grew into a numbness that wrapped itself around me, isolating me further from the family I had longed to connect with. Amidst the pill bottles and desperate attempts to escape reality, I realized that, despite all our struggles, I wasn't alone. My brothers waded through the same murky waters, and my father, too, had his burdens. The addiction that shackled us all was not merely our individual fight but a twisted legacy we inherited. In any moment of clarity, I would think back to those bar conversations and the men whose lives my father had touched. It hurt to think that they saw only success and determination in Dairall Radis. They didn’t witness the chaos I grew up in but As the years of Addiction over came us In the heart of Edmonton, the phone rang incessantly, an unwanted reminder of a life I was trying to escape but couldn’t quite shake off. Justin, Dale, and I had spent years in and out of prison, our lives an endless cycle of fleeting

freedom and confinement. The weight of addiction had entwined itself around our family like a cruel vine, ensnaring us at every turn, pulling us deeper into its grasp. Each of us had scattered across Alberta and B.C., our paths winding further apart and yet marked by the same shadows of our past.

My mother, a once vibrant woman, struggled to keep her head above water. She had moved more times than I could count, often seeking refuge in new neighborhoods—always hoping for a fresh start. But the trouble we brought into her life seemed to follow, like a dark cloud. Noise filled the rooms as our girlfriends clashed or gang members showed up, causing chaos where there should have been peace. Each release from jail only brought more heartache for her, and I could see her spirit fraying. Alone, she began to turn to methamphetamine, trying to soothe the stress that overwhelmed her. The drug did little but amplify her fears, leading her deeper into instability. I watched helplessly as she descended into the early stages of dementia, her once- bright eyes clouded with confusion and pain. Meanwhile, my father, Dairall, had settled in Kelowna, B.C., far from the chaos but never fully escaping it. Despite our estrangement, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope when I heard about his latest attempt to seek help. He had been to rehabilitation countless times, always slipping back into old habits as soon as the world became too heavy. But this time, it felt different. As he faced his reflection in the mirror, he wrestled with his demons, tears flowing as he knelt and prayed, “God, if you are real, I don’t want this anymore. I’ll love you forever if you change all of me.” That day was pivotal. As he slept, a profound experience washed over him at 4:10 AM. It was not a loud proclamation but a tender whisper of grace. Jesus came to him in a dream, shattering the walls built of guilt and shame. A feeling of pure euphoria enveloped him, cleansing his heart and mind. In that moment, he felt the weight of his sins lifted, replaced by an undeniable sense of love and purpose.

Back home, life continued to spiral out of control. I thought about my father, hoping to reconnect, but remnants of guilt held me back. I feared I could never be the son he hoped I would be; too many mistakes had been made, and my life was a testament to that struggle. Meanwhile, I worried constantly about my mother, who was losing herself piece by piece. She was a prisoner within her own mind, trapped by the very addiction that was supposed to ease her pain. Then, out of the silence of those dark cold nights in the Edmonton jail, I received a phone call from my father. His words were not laced with anger or disappointment but rather infused with hope and love that I had never known from him. He spoke about his transformation, how real his faith now felt, and how he wanted to be there for us. He spoke of God’s grace and a desire to help our family heal. The sincerity of his words shone like a beacon across the 1,400 kilometers that separated us. Perhaps there was a chance for redemption, not just for him, but for all of us. If he could turn his life around, maybe we could too. When the heavy steel door of the jail creaked open, I felt an unsettling mix of relief and dread wash over me. The last few months had felt like an eternity, each bright day slipping further into the shadows of my mind. As I stepped into the sunlight, I squinted against the brightness, the fresh air hitting me like a rush. Justin was waiting for me, his familiar face cracked with uncertainty, but a flicker of hope danced in his eyes. It was good to see him—I’d missed him more than I could say.

Dad arrived soon after, his old truck rumbling up the gravel path. He stepped out, a mix of sternness and relief etched on his face. “Glad you’re out, son,” he said, but there was a heaviness in his tone, a cautiousness I hadn’t noticed before. As we piled into the cab, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The drive to Kelowna, once a manageable trek, seemed interminably long. I watched the landscape morph from flat fields into rolling hills, each mile a poignant reminder of everything I’d left behind.Dale was clean and sober now, a beacon of resilience in our fractured family. He’d recently become a father, welcoming a little boy named Wolf Grayson Radis into the world, and I could feel the pride in Dad’s voice every time he mentioned Dale’s newfound stability. It was a stark contrast to the chaos Justin and I had brought upon ourselves.Mom was living with my niece, Athia, in a little apartment downtown, a space filled with laughter and light, but she and Dad were separated. I thought of her often, recalling her warmth, her stories, and her unwavering optimism in tumultuous times. Yet, as we settled back in Kelowna, I felt the familiar gnawing emptiness inside. Justin and I had promised ourselves we would get clean, but that promise slipped further away with every passing day.From the moment we stepped through the door of Dad’s place, I could feel the tension in the air. Dad tried to trust us; he really did. He offered us a roof over our heads and a chance to start anew, but we were lying from the beginning. We never stopped using drugs; instead, we spiraled deeper into our habits. As weeks turned into months, Dad’s trust in us crumbled under the weight of our deceit. I could see it in his eyes—disappointment, fear, and a sadness that clawed at me.Eventually, Dad reached his breaking point. One evening, he finally laid down the ultimatum: “You boys can stay, but you have to stop using. If you don’t want to quit, I can no longer help you.” I remember the way those words hung in the air, counting the seconds as they sunk in. I exchanged glances with Justin, and we both knew the truth—we chose the drugs. As the days turned into a blur of desperation and chaos, we ended up homeless, living in a world that felt increasingly bleak.

Time blurred on, a perpetual cycle of highs and lows, until that fateful day in the trail. I was lost in the haze of consumption when an event happened that would change my life forever I was attacked by someone he started the fight but I finished it sadly, I hurt him badly. The gravity of what I’d done crashed over me. Once again, I found myself behind bars, lost and alone, staring at cold metal walls. I couldn’t escape the sense of failure that enveloped me. But when my sentence ended, I was released to the only place that would take me: the Mustard Seed men’s recovery house. It was a place filled with hope, but also many broken souls, people wrestling with their own demons.I stepped into the recovery house, feeling equal parts fear and determination. Maybe this was the wake-up call I desperately needed. I didn’t want to keep repeating the cycle that had consumed me for so long. As I settled into my new surroundings, I realized the journey to recovery would be long, but something inside me sparked—a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could learn how to embrace the light again. This time, it would be for me, At the Mustard Seed men’s recovery house, I was surrounded by reminders of my past life, whispers of chaos echoing through the halls. Each day was an uphill battle, filled with the struggle to forge a new path when the shadows of my old life loomed large. I was starting to find my footing, inching toward hope, when tragedy struck my family.

In the blink of an eye, I received the call that would change everything. Dale, my older brother and role model, had died of an overdose. I couldn't wrap my mind around the news—his journey to sobriety had seemed like a beacon of hope not just for him, but for all of us. The universe felt cruel, pulling the rug from underneath me just as I was beginning to learn how to walk again. The loss hit hard, a crushing wave of grief that sent me spiraling back into a familiar darkness.Barely four months later, more devastating news crashed into my already fractured world. My mother, Pearl, had suffered a stroke and passed away. Pearl—my unwavering source of love and strength, my biggest cheerleader. I felt as though the foundation of my life had crumbled beneath me, leaving me adrift in an unforgiving sea of sorrow. Why was it that those closest to me were taken, while I remained?Yet amidst this profound heartbreak, I found myself at a crossroads. The weight of sorrow could have pushed me back into the arms of addiction, but instead, I made a choice. I picked up the Bible. What started as an innocent endeavor—a longing for solace—quickly transformed into something far more profound. Those pages felt alive in my hands, filled with stories and truths that reached deep into my soul.

As I began to read, I uncovered the depths of God’s love for humanity. The narrative of Jesus’s sacrifice resonated with me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I realized that He had died on that cross for our sins, and that God, in His infinite grace, had given His only son to save us. It was a message of hope and redemption, one that breathed life into my heart as I navigated through the pain of my losses.With every verse I read, I felt a sense of clarity descend upon me. I was no longer clouded by the choices I had made in the past; instead, I was enveloped in an overwhelming peace, a calmness that had eluded me for so long. Perhaps this was the clarity I had desperately sought, the understanding that despite the darkness that enveloped me, there was light available if I chose to embrace it.Each day, I soaked up the lessons found within the scriptures—words of wisdom that turned into guiding principles for my life. I discovered stories of hope in the face of adversity, lessons in resilience, and reminders of the unfathomable depth of God’s love for each and every one of us. I learned that my pain, while immense, could lead to growth and transformation if I allowed it to.

This newfound faith became the bedrock of my sobriety. No longer was I walking a path paved with drugs and despair; I was choosing to live in the light, buoyed by the love of God. I began to witness change within myself—strength, patience, empathy. I felt smarter, wiser, more grounded in my decisions. My heart, once heavy with grief, now swelled with a sense of purpose.I committed to my recovery, not only for myself but in honor of Dale and Pearl. I wanted to carry their legacies forward, to ensure that their struggles would transform into the strength that propelled me into a better future. I immersed myself in the community around me, seeking to uplift others who were fighting their own battles. Each encounter became a reflection of the love I had found in God’s word, and my heart yearned to share that gift.In the seasons that followed, I learned to embrace my losses while holding on to the overwhelming joy of God’s promise of acceptance, compassion, and hope. I realized that even in the midst of life's most profound tragedies, love endures and teaches us the very essence of what it means to truly live. With faith in my heart and a newfound clarity of mind, I chose to walk forward, grounded in the knowledge that I would never be alone. God had given me the power to be loved, to stay clean, and to build a life rooted in purpose. This was my new beginning, and I was ready to embrace it with open arms and in doing this my father is living a good life now proud of his sons and finding

there way in this world I plan to either go to school to become a social worker or get into seminary school and follow in the lord Jesus Christ and I have the Mustard Seed to thank for helping me build on my chef cornerstone and redefining what it means to be a Radis. I wanna say thank you to all who are helping through my path of light and wanna give a special thanks to Jeff the Manager at the mustard seed, James Giles my teacher of Christ, Curtis also a teacher of mine, Dianna who is a wonderful lady who has helped me at every corner of my work life, Roberta who is my remainder of my mother her hugs bring me to tears love you all and most of all Dad My father Dairall Radis thank you for being are cornerstone of faith if it wasn’t for you and Jesus Christ I wouldn’t be here.

The life of a sinner too man and a saint to the Lord.