Sitting on the floor of a dimly lit basement in a rented house in Buffalo, N.Y., bleary-eyed and defeated, I watched the phone as it rang. My reflexes were dulled by marijuana and despair, and I had reached the end of myself. In the third-floor bedroom slept my fretful two-year-old daughter. In the living room, shattered glass from a broken window and blood from her father’s battering arms was yet to be cleaned. And in the basement I slowly reached to answer a call from the only Christian I knew.

My life was marked by rebellion. My mom was a cheerleading coach, so I played football. She loved pop music, so I listened to emo and indie punk. I’ve always had a violent reaction to keeping up appearances, so I rejected everything that was considered a social norm. All of my friends were outcasts, and I preferred that. I still do. Outcasts tend to be more honest.

Eventually my self-inflated ideas of heroic rebellion bore their true fruit. I was kicked out of my home at ...