BY

LINDA WELCH

AS TOLD TO

PAT BANTA KREML

When I was a little girl, I had no idea how much of a struggle my life would become nor how relentlessly God would pursue my heart. I was a happy child. As the youngest of five, I always had someone to play with. I felt loved and accepted. Nothing in my life seemed out of the ordinary until I started school at Saint Joan of Arc Catholic School in Kokomo, Indiana. Even though I tried my best, I couldn’t catch on to the lessons like the other kids. Finally, when I was eight years old and still in kindergarten, the nuns advised my parents to have me tested.

The results confirmed that I had learning disabilities and would never be like normal children. Saint Joan’s didn’t have a Special Education Program, so my parents enrolled me in public school, and so began many difficult years of shame, humiliation, and verbal abuse from students and faculty alike.

No one had ever explained my “limitations” to me, so I had no idea I wasn’t normal until I was eleven years old. One day, this boy—who ironically was also in Special Ed. at school—began to taunt me because of my speech impediment. He laughed at me and yelled, “You’re nothing but a stupid retard.” I didn’t know what a retard was. Later, when I found out what the word meant, the knowledge crushed me. I went home that day, shut the door to my room, and cried until I fell into an exhausted sleep.

From then on, life at school became a misery. You would think that after a few years I’d get use to being called names; that it wouldn’t hurt or bother me anymore, but it did. Almost every day I’d come home from school so wounded that I wanted to die. My parents were not Christians at this time, so the only knowledge I had of God was based on what I’d learned in Catholic school. I knew God was all powerful. He could do anything He wanted to. So I’d come home from school, lie on my bed, and beg God, “Please make me normal. Make me like the other children or kill me. I don’t want to live like this. I can’t live like this.”

Instead of things getting better, they got worse. It seemed like every time I turned around someone would discourage me. Once, when I was in ninth grade, we were having a career day at school. I told the teacher I wanted to be a nurse. She looked at the class and said, “Don’t you understand. You are a bunch of stupid kids. Half of you will never even go to high school. NONE of you will go to college. The only job you’ll ever be able to do is work at a fast food restaurant. Get used to it.” Her words stunned me, but I was stubborn. I couldn’t get used to it, and I didn’t want to believe what she said was true.

Elementary school and middle school were bad, but high school was worse. I felt so out of place all the time. So alone. One day I was sitting in the cafeteria at Gaither High when someone yelled at me, “Hey, stupid retard!” When I looked up, he threw a piece of pizza at me. The slice slid down my hair and made a mess of my clothes. I ran to the restroom, tried to clean up as best I could, but it was no use. Tears of hurt and frustration almost overwhelmed me. Why was I born this way? Why can’t I be normal? God, why can’t you make me normal?

It was about this time that a girl I’d met invited me to youth group at her church. I went and heard the gospel for the first time. When the invitation to accept Jesus was given, I went forward and surrendered my life to Jesus. I felt such peace that night; such a sense of belonging. A worker in the group told me, “It doesn’t really matter if you got saved or not because if you die you’ll go to heaven anyway. God doesn’t hold people like you accountable.” I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I knew God had done something in my heart; something I desperately needed.

Unfortunately, salvation does not mean all of your struggles and problems disappear. Kids continued to make fun of me, call me a freak and a retard, and throw food at me. One male teacher told me that I was ugly and would never marry because no one would want to marry someone like me. Part of me believed what he said, but part of me still hoped for something better. Many nights I cried myself to sleep, begging God to change me or kill me, but each time He would say, “No, child. I won’t kill you. I love you just the way you are.”

Finally, I graduated from high school in 1990. By then I was twenty years old. I took a class and became a C.N.A. (Certified Nursing Assistant). I landed a job at Tander Nursing Home. Maybe I couldn’t be a nurse, but I could still help people. I had done other jobs before, but this job made me feel really fulfilled. Maybe I couldn’t be like normal people, but I wasn’t as helpless as I’d been told I’d be either. My job coach from Bona Vista—an organization that helps people with disabilities—warned me I’d never be able to do this job, but for nine months I proved him wrong. But just like in high school, there were workers at the nursing home that did not want to be around people like me. A false accusation about me neglecting a patient was filed, and on Halloween night, 2005 I was fired.

It was the last straw. I had reached the end of my patience. Anger and hurt slashed away at the few tiny vestiges of hope that remained in me. I got in my brand new Toyota Corolla and started to drive home. I could hardly see the road through my tears. The devil began to taunt me in my mind, “You’re ugly. You’re stupid. You’re a freak. No one wants you. You’ll never be normal. You’ll never be anything. Your struggles aren’t even half over. Things will get worse and worse. You can never live on your own. You’re going to end up in an institution.”

All of the ugly declarations I’d heard all of my life bombarded my mind until I couldn’t see any way out except to kill myself. I turned my car into a city park area and pulled up to the edge of the lake. This was it. I couldn’t take anymore. I would drive into the lake and drown. Everyone would be better off without me. My hands beat the steering wheel as I screamed at God, “This is all Your fault. If You had made me normal I wouldn’t have to be in this place right now. I wouldn’t have to feel this way. Why didn’t you kill me? Why, God? Why?”

Suddenly I felt a burning sensation in the midst of my chest. At first I thought I was having a heart attack, but soon the sensation spread though my whole upper body. A peace came over me and I heard God’s voice in my spirit say, “Turn the car around. You’re mine.” Hope revived in my heart that night. I turned the car around, and went home.

After that night I knew I needed to strengthen my spiritual life; something drew me to Winter Haven Worship Center. As the worship and praise went forth, I felt such a peace; such a sense of belonging. That day I rededicated my life to the Lord and found a church home. Now I am surrounded by a church family that loves me and accepts me for who I am.

Life still holds many challenges for me. Finally, after all the years of being in a special needs program, a vocational rehabilitation counselor tested me and explained that I am borderline mentally retarded. I have an IQ of 74 and suffer from comprehension and attention deficit disorder. No one had ever explained that to me. I do understand that I have limitations, but everyone has limitations; mine are just more obvious than most. But I also know that I serve a limitless God. As the scripture says, “If God be for us, who can be against us.” I have learned that I am who I am; who I was made to be, and that God loves me. I am precious in His sight. He is not ashamed of me, and I refuse to be ashamed of myself for I truly can “do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Linda works as a part time cashier at WalMart. She is a valuable part of the Winter Haven Worship Center Drama Team as well as the WHWC Choir.