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I'm standing backstage at a fine arts festival in Orlando. I've just heard my name announced, and then it happens. Stage fright. Small beads of sweat gather on my forehead, my stomach starts to tighten, and my throat goes dry. Doubts about my comedic ability start to wreak havoc with my psyche.

Why are you even here? You're not that funny. What makes you think God wants to use you?

The worst part is that I know my doubts have a point. How did I get here? It seems like just a few years ago that I was in Alaska, living a satisfied life as a hermit in a cabin that was so remote you had to walk a 200-yard trail through the woods and snow just to reach it. I mean, trick-or-treaters didn't even bother. I had to eat all the candy myself. It was torture.

But I learned a lot during that time. I learned not to feed a moose carrots through an open kitchen window, because their antlers can get stuck in the frame (on the plus side, it gives you a great place to hang your dishtowels). I learned not to bring a lost pet reindeer out of the snow so he can warm up in the cabin while I tracked down his owner. Apparently, reindeer get nervous in a kitchen, especially when they see the broiler, and will destroy everything in their path trying to escape. And I learned bears don't want you using their skin for a rug if they're not through with it. Long story.

I loved my life in "The Last Frontier." I had no television, no radio, no indoor plumbing. And since it was a homestead, I didn't even have a physical address. No one could find me there.

No one but God. It was in that cabin that I accepted Jesus as my Savior and started a personal relationship with Him. I had moved to Alaska to reexamine my life after a successful career as a stand-up comic in Los Angeles. I mingled with Robin Williams, Michael J. Fox, and Whoopi Goldberg, and I enjoyed the accolades that came from my performances and comedy gigs. But the Hollywood lifestyle led me to make some poor choices. I was having fun, but I had no peace.

So, on a whim, I decided to follow a Christian friend to Alaska. My secret plan was to disprove the Bible. I figured if I could do that, then I'd be able to return to my life in L.A. and live the way I wanted without any of the guilt. But as all great Christian testimonies eventually say, "God had other plans."

I can still remember the moment everything changed. It felt like God called me by my name. Torry Martin. Not "Boom-Boom," the nickname the bullies in my high school gave me one day while making fun of me for being overweight. They used to chant that name from the "cool kids" table every time I would walk across the cafeteria, timing the "boom-boom" sound effects to coincide with my footsteps. (I've since gotten even with all those bullies. At my last high school reunion, I was the only one who wore the same size now as I did then. Which I know isn't saying much. But there's something to be said for consistency.)

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