From Childhood Trauma to Unshakable Faith: Francisco Brock's Journey Through the Storm

Ross: What inspired you to write Through the Storm, Into His Arms at this point in your life?

Francisco: I wrote Through the Storm, Into His Arms at this point in my life because I finally understood that my story was not just something I survived; it was something God wanted to use. For years, I carried pieces of my testimony privately—the little boy on Waverly Avenue, the grief of losing Montez, the disappointment of the military door closing, the jail-cell surrender, the weight of ministry, and the storm of 2022 that touched my name, my family, my mind, and my future. I had preached, led, encouraged others, and kept moving, but there were still places in me that needed language. This book became the place where I stopped hiding behind strength and allowed God to turn pain into witness. I wrote it for the person standing in a storm right now, wondering if God still sees them. I want them to know He does. The storm may be loud, but God’s arms are still strong enough to hold the whole truth of their life.

Ross: Your book is deeply personal. What was the most difficult chapter to write, and why?

Francisco: The most difficult chapter to write was the part that took me back to Waverly Avenue and forced me to face the little boy I used to be. Writing about that house, the fear that lived there, falling from the bunk bed onto that old red rocking chair, crying because I was hurt, and then being punished and put outside in shame was painful in a way I cannot fully explain. It was difficult because I was not just remembering an event; I was remembering what it taught me. It taught me to hide pain, listen for danger, read rooms, and believe that hurting could somehow make me the problem. I also had to write about seeing my mother trying to cover me while she was still trapped in her own storm. That was hard because it made me grieve for the child I was and for the family pain we were all trying to survive. But I knew I could not write honestly about healing if I skipped over the place where fear first trained me. Going back there on the page was painful, but it also allowed God to touch a place I had carried for a long time.

Ross: Throughout the book, you distinguish between surviving and healing. What does true healing look like to you?

Francisco: True healing, to me, means no longer letting survival be the only evidence that I made it. I survived a lot before I healed from it. I survived childhood fear, shame, the grief of losing Montez, and the guilt that came with replaying that accident over and over in my mind. I survived the embarrassment of the military dream collapsing and the pain of being judged by a record without the whole story. I survived public pressure, silence, and the 2022 storm. But healing required something deeper than continuing to function. Healing meant letting God into the rooms I had locked. It meant therapy, prayer, honest conversations, daily affirmations, and learning how to be present with my family in ways I had not always known how to be. Healing is when hard talks begin becoming healed talks. Healing does not erase the story, but it changes who gets to hold the pen. The wound may still be part of the testimony, but it is no longer allowed to lead my identity. True healing is holy work because it makes you whole enough to live, love, lead, and begin again from a healthier place.

Ross: Many readers carry wounds from childhood that no one else sees. What do you hope they take away from your story?

Francisco: I hope readers who carry childhood wounds take away the truth that God saw them then, and He sees them now. I know what it feels like to grow up with pain nobody fully understands. I know what it is to become quiet, guarded, protective, and strong before you ever learn how to be safe. Some people are still carrying a younger version of themselves inside—a child who was afraid, embarrassed, overlooked, or forced to grow up too soon. I want them to know that what happened to them was not their fault, and it does not have to become their final definition. God can reach into the very places where shame entered and begin restoring dignity. He can heal the child inside the adult. He can teach a person that they are not too damaged to be loved, trusted, called, or used. My prayer is that readers feel permission to stop pretending they are fine and begin trusting God with the parts of their story they have been afraid to name.

Ross: Your faith is central to this book. How has your relationship with God changed through life's storms?

Francisco: My relationship with God changed because the storms made it more honest. Earlier in life, I had questions I did not always know how to say out loud. I wondered why painful things kept happening. I wondered why God allowed certain doors to close, why grief could be so heavy, and why people who claimed to love God could still hurt or abandon others. But through every storm, I learned that God was not afraid of my questions. In a jail cell, facing the possibility of losing my future, I did not come to Him with polished words. I came with surrender. In 2022, when I had to remain silent while my name was questioned, I learned to trust God as Defender. Through Danny’s daily calls, prayer, Scripture, therapy, and the slow work of healing, I discovered that God was not distant from my pain. He was present in it. My faith became less about performing strength and more about knowing I could be weak in His arms and still be loved.

Ross: You write candidly about grief, family, leadership, and personal growth. Why was it important to share not only your victories but also your struggles?

Francisco: It was important to share the struggles because people do not need a perfect testimony; they need an honest one. An honest testimony can reach places a polished story cannot. I did not want to present myself as a man who simply overcame everything without scars, questions, mistakes, or moments of weakness. That would not have been true, and it would not have helped the people I wrote this book for. I wanted readers to know that I have known grief, guilt, family pain, leadership pressure, disappointment, accusation, silence, and the need for healing. I have also known accountability. I had to face choices from my past while still believing God had a future for me. Sharing the struggles matters because many people are trying to serve, lead, parent, preach, build, and smile while privately breaking. I wanted them to see that grace does not wait until the story looks clean. God meets us in the messy middle. He can use a cracked vessel, but He also loves that vessel enough to keep healing it.

Ross: The title is Through the Storm, Into His Arms. What does that phrase mean to you personally?

Francisco: That phrase means everything to me because it describes the path God used to bring me closer to Him. I did not get to go around the storm. I had to go through it. I went through childhood fear on Waverly Avenue. I went through the grief of losing Montez on the very street I had tried to avoid. I went through the disappointment of a military dream that collapsed, the humbling of a jail-cell surrender, the pressure of leadership, and the pain of a public storm that made me question whether my name, ministry, family, and mind would survive. But through all of that, I learned that the storm was not stronger than God’s arms. His arms were in the phone calls from Danny. His arms were in the truth that finally came forward. His arms were in therapy, prayer, family repair, and the restart through Christopher Johnson’s call. Through the Storm, Into His Arms means the storm did not get the final word. God used what tried to break me to draw me closer to the only One who could hold me completely.

Ross: If someone picked up this book while facing one of the hardest seasons of their life, what do you hope they would find in its pages?

Francisco: If someone picks up this book while facing one of the hardest seasons of their life, I hope they find more than a story. I hope they find a place to breathe. I hope they find language for pain they have not been able to explain and courage to believe that their storm is not the end of them. I hope they see that God can meet a person in childhood wounds, grief, disappointment, a jail cell, public pressure, silence, therapy, the kitchen table, and the quiet years when nobody is clapping. I want them to know that vindication and healing are not always the same thing, and that it is okay if restoration takes time. I hope they close the book believing that they are not forgotten, not disqualified, and not beyond the reach of God. The storm may be real, but so is grace. And even if all they have left is enough strength to whisper for help, God’s arms are already reaching for them in the middle of it.