JoJo the Jerk

We’ve spent four years keeping this girl alive. Bad actors were hunting her. She survived things no human—let alone a teenage girl—should ever have to survive. And recently, we almost lost her. Through no fault of her own, she ended up in a situation where her future here was suddenly in jeopardy. We were terrified. I didn’t sleep for days. But we’ve learned something on the front lines—whether it’s in a war zone, a courtroom, or a city block filled with ghosts: Human connection moves the needle. No screaming. No threats. No press releases. Just sitting eye to eye with people and finding the humanity in each other. That’s what saved her. We can’t tell the full story. We can’t name names. But what I can tell you is this: The Owen Army teaches people how to build bridges in the unlikeliest places. How to negotiate the impossible. How to use honor, humility, and clarity of purpose to find a path forward when it seems like all the doors are closed. Sometimes the war is loud. Sometimes it’s quiet and buried in paperwork. But it’s always real. And in this case… we won. She’s safe. We’re not stopping. And you can join us - OwenArmy.com/enlist

This is me and Ava. An abandoned skate park in South Memphis. We pulled off for a breather between calls— but there’s no real rest when a child is missing. A friend’s 14-year-old daughter vanished today. And if you know what we do, then you know what we’re up against. While chasing leads, we uncovered something darker— a 13-year-old boy went missing around the same time. His sister? Caught in the same storm I once barely survived. Addiction. Desperation. Trap houses. A friend of a friend knew her. Red flags everywhere. We followed the trail to a run-down rooming house. One of those places where hope goes to die. Doped-out faces. Twitchy hands. The smell of rot and resignation. I walked through that door with a purpose— not to save everyone inside, but to find three kids who didn’t belong there. Three kids who could still make it out. It tore me up. Because I know how to get addicts to talk. But I usually do it to help them. Tonight, I did it to get information— and then I left them there. Still drowning. Still burning. Still in hell. We didn’t find the kids. Not there. But we found enough to keep going. And I added another house to the list. Another battlefield. Another set of names I can’t forget. Because if it were Ava who disappeared— God help whoever stood in the way. I’d burn the world down. And if my daughter were stuck inside a trap house? Sick. Strung out. Waiting on someone to come looking? I’d pray there was someone like me. Who used to live there. Who knows the code. Who remembers what it’s like to be lost. We’re not done. We don’t stop. Because every kid deserves to be found. Even the ones hiding in hell.

There was a time when this broken, abandoned trap house was all Jess and I had. No heat. No running water. No hope. Just a couple of lost souls clinging to the wreckage of our lives. Addiction convinced us we didn’t deserve anything better. Shame whispered that it was too late. But the truth—the truth that Jesus taught through the story of the prodigal son—was something radically different: It doesn’t matter how far you’ve fallen. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. JUST COME HOME. We believed the lie for too long. That we were too far gone to be welcomed back. But somehow, by grace and sheer grit, we found our way home. Not just to four walls and a roof—but to healing, to purpose, to redemption. Today, that very same house—the place where we almost died—is a real home. It’s safe, warm, and full of life. Women and kids who once had nowhere to turn now live here, rebuilding their lives the same way we did: one day, one miracle, one act of love at a time. I don’t share this because Jess and I are special. I share it because if we can find our way back… so can you. Nevermind what you’ve done. Just come home.