2006 is a year I’ll never forget. Early in the year I began having physical problems. It started out like a really bad cold, but soon my lungs filled with congestion. I began to cough and hack up congestion off and on all night, every night, so I barely slept. When the symptoms persisted for weeks, I finally went to the walk in clinic. The doctor there gave me some antibiotics for the infection and an inhaler to help me breathe better. By then I’d lost weight and my appetite. Although the medicine and inhaler seemed to help, the congestion never really cleared up completely. Within a few months, I was back where I started.

By the summer I had worked sick for months with no sign of relief. One day my boss came to me and said, “You need to go see a doctor about that cough.” He recommended his doctor, so I made an appointment for a complete checkup. The diagnosis was pulmonary lung disease—though I never got a specific answer if it was asthma, bronchitis, or COPD. He started me on medications, then discovered I also had acid reflux disease.

By October/November things got really tough. I work at a citrus packing plant, and our busiest time of the year begins in fall. I worked long hours and went home exhausted, but instead of enjoying restful and rejuvenating sleep, I coughed, wheezed, and sat up just trying to catch my breath. Then my condition worsened. I woke up every hour on the hour coughing and struggling for air. I coughed so violently that my stomach, chest, and back muscles ached with every move, every breath. The pain and discomfort was so bad that I finally gave up my bed and caught what few hours of sleep I could in my recliner. That’s when I knew I was in serious trouble. This wasn’t just some passing illness. This was an all out attack of the devil.

I began to read my Bible, and confess what the Word said over my life. My workdays were long, and I never got more than a few hours of sleep at night so my strength began to drain. My appetite disappeared. I lost 30 pounds, and for a man who only weighed 160, that was another physical blow. Nevertheless, I still believed God’s promise that, “…by His stripes we (I) are (was) healed.” 1 Peter 2:24.

As my spirit grew stronger, my body grew weaker. By December of 2006 I could barely get up to go to work. Some days I left work at noon, too weak to stand. Deep, racking coughs convulsed my lungs. I lost all interest in food. Soup was about the only thing I could eat anymore and even that was tasteless. But through all of this I never once thought, “God, why are you doing this to me.” I never blamed Him; never believed it was His fault. Clearly this attack was the devil’s work. He was the one trying to kill me.

On December 29, 2006 my mother pleaded with me to get medical help, so I went to the hospital. They admitted me and administered medications and breathing treatments. Within an a few days I felt better and was sent home. It seemed my crisis had passed. My body was on the mend.

Barely two months later— in February of 2007— the symptoms returned. Once again I was up at night with uncontrollable coughing and shortness of breath. On the night of February 18, I took Theraflu and used my nebulizer three times. The next morning I could barely breathe. My chest felt like someone had wrapped an iron band around it and squeezed it so tight that my lungs could not expand to let the air in. I was literally suffocating. The more I struggled to breathe, the less air I took in. Fear surged through my mind. I called my sister, and she and my mother rushed me to the ER. The whole way there I wondered if I would live long enough to reach help.

I don’t know how long I waited to be seen, but I felt myself dying with each shallow, ragged breath. Finally I was taken to a cubical and put on IV meds and breathing treatments. Hours passed with no improvement. Then Pastor Jason came in and prayed for me. He literally spoke new lungs into my body. Once he prayed, I let it all go. I wasn’t worried. I knew I’d finally gotten the help I needed. Although I knew God had done a work in my body, the doctor could see no visible improvement.

“All we can do is put breathing tubes down your throat,” the doctor said.

So they put me to sleep, inserted the tube, and I woke up later in ICU. I was there for three days, and it was rough. I was hospitalized for five days in all. During that time Pastor Jeff and Pastor Jason (among others) visited me, prayed with me, and encouraged me in the Lord. When I was sent home, I just kept standing on the Word. I meditated on and confessed: Isaiah 53:5; 1 Peter 2:24; Galatians 3:13. Day by day I gained a new understanding of what it means to live by faith; to walk by faith. God didn’t say I was healed when I prayed IF I felt like it. He said I was healed when I prayed, so I believed Him.

Over the next few months I had some severe asthma attacks, but I continued to stand on the Word and seek God. In prayer I asked, “Lord is there something I’ve done to cause this to come on me? Should I have taken better care of myself nutritionally?” First, He brought to mind the negative words I had been confessing every day for a long time. Words like “I’m so tired. I’m just so tired.” Our spoken words have the power to affect our minds, get down in our spirits, and if they are contrary to the Word, we will find ourselves siding with them against God.

I took to heart all that God had shown me and began to correct my speech and my thinking. I made better choices in nutrition, and I fed on the Word daily. His Word became the anchor of my soul; my deep, firm foundation. My lungs improved daily, so much so that I was able to fulfill a desire of my heart and sing in the 2007 Christmas cantata at church.

That December God showed me another factor that had led to my physical issues: stress. I didn’t realize how stressed out I’d allowed myself to get, particularly at work. Stress can break down and damage the body’s immune system tremendously if left untreated. I made up my mind to walk in God’s peace and not allow stress to have place in my life. Once I had cast my cares on Him, I wasn’t worried anymore. Life became amazingly peaceful.

Since 2007, I have not had a major asthma attack. My appetite has returned and I get such wonderful, sweet sleep at night. I praise God for His Word and I stand on it and confess it daily. To anyone who is facing a battle with sickness and disease, I encourage you to find Bible verses that apply to your situation and speak them over your life. Be consistent in prayer and meditation on the Word. No matter how long you’ve been believing, do not abandon your faith. Healing is the children’s bread; it’s part of the atonement. The seed of the Word sown daily will bring a continual harvest of health in due time.

For me, God’s Word is a lifeline. In 2006 I was dying. My body slowly withered away from lack of food; my lungs—so congested and inflamed—struggled for each wisp of life-sustaining oxygen. But the God who breathed the very breath of life into the first man, Adam, reached down and breathed life into me. He healed my lungs, restored my strength, and gave me a chance to declare: Look what the Lord has done for me.

I’ll never forget the Sunday a little over two years ago when David Cerjan, from Faith Walk Ministries, came to speak at WHWC. That morning I sat on the platform as part of the choir, totally unaware that my faith was about to be stretched and challenged.

The minute David began to speak about Israel and the trip Faith Walk Ministries had organized for the coming October, my spirit just came to life. I sat up straight and hung on every word he said. He spoke of Israel as a land rich in history, as a nation at the center of current religious conflict, and as the land where our Lord Jesus lived and fulfilled all of the Messianic prophecies.

“I know some of you think a journey like this would be impossible for you to afford,” David said. “But if you are meant to go, God will make a way for you no matter what your natural circumstances.”

I was definitely one of those people. At the time, I lived on a very limited income. I had to work three jobs just to make ends meet. At that time my goal was to reach a point where I’d only have to work two jobs. There certainly wasn’t room in my budget for a 14 day trip to Israel. My mind shouted, It’s out of the question, but my heart tuned in to the Spirit saying, You’re supposed to go. When the service ended, I was the first person to speak to David .

“How much will the trip cost,” I asked.

“The whole trip including airfare, hotel, breakfast and dinner, and transportation within Israel will be $3,300.00.”

A staggering amount for someone like me. Logically, I should have given up on the idea of going immediately, but something that defied logic had begun to burn in my heart; a desire inspired of God.

“Just continue to pray about it and have faith, Angie. If it’s your time to go, the Lord will make a way.” David said.

By the time I left the meeting, I felt like nothing was impossible. I began to pray that God would provide other avenues for me to earn extra money. As an act of faith, I sent a $50.00 down payment for the trip. For many years I had been a faithful giver, so I knew God would always meet my needs, but this trip was not a need, it was a desire. I knew I had to settle in my heart whether this was simply my desire, or the Lord’s desire for me, so I kept an open heart as I sought the Lord in prayer.

Over the next few months a lot of changes came and went in my life. As the time flew by, I worked several extra jobs, but I was nowhere near having enough money for the trip. Did I miss God? I wondered. Should I just give up?

Several times I called David and his mom, Pat, and they prayed with me for the Lord’s will to be made clear. Time was running out. Without divine intervention, I knew I could not go to Israel.

Then one day as I was working a side job, the person who hired me said, “Angie, you always work so hard for me and do such a good job, I’d like to bless you. If you could have anything you wanted, what would you want?”

I didn’t even pause to think, “To go to Israel,” I said.

“Consider it done,”

I was so excited. Surely this must be the Lord’s channel to provide, I thought. And that’s when I made one costly mistake. I took my eyes off of God and put them on this individual and their resources. A short time later, this person suffered some financial setbacks. The source I had put my faith in dried up, and all hope of me going to Israel faded. I wanted to go on that trip so badly, but it was already past the deadline for getting the payment for my ticket to Faith Walk. I knew I couldn’t leave them hanging any longer. I watched my friends continuing with their plans and I felt totally left out. I feared I might never get a chance to go.

As people of great wisdom supported me in prayer, I searched my heart for answers. Then the Lord began to show me from His word that unless a seed is planted in the ground and dies, it cannot grow. I had held on to my seed of desire so tightly that I had driven out God’s desire. Years before the Lord had told me that I had to give up my rights so I could have His. I realized nothing was going to change until I let go of my dreams, and told the Lord, “Not my will, but Your will be done.” So I took my eyes off of people and circumstances and put them back on the Lord.

My heart broke the day I picked up the phone and called David. “The money’s just not there. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to go after all. Maybe next time,” I said as I held back the tears that threatened to suffocate me. Faith Walk had already held my place long past the due date for payment, and I felt so badly that I had not come through. But what could I do. It was over. I had done all I could do. But God was just getting started.

The next day, the person who originally offered to pay for my ticket called me. “If you still want to go to Israel, stop by the house today. I have the money for you.”

This time I called David in tears, but these were tears of joy. God had come through in His way and His time.

My trip to Israel was a blessing. I walked the streets where Jesus walked, visited the site of His was crucifixion, experienced water baptism in the Jordan River, and fellowshipped with believers drawn by the same vision for Israel. I learned so much about the Holy Land that I did not know. But the greatest lesson I learned was to always look to God alone as my provider; to focus my faith on Him; not other people and not obvious sources. And after experiencing His divine provision for this trip, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Angie is a secretary at Jewett School of the Arts. She has been a member of WHWC for many years. She sings in the choir, and is active in the singles group, intercessory prayer, and serves as an altar worker.

In 2000, the Lord began to deal with my wife, Pat, and I about moving from Lafayette, Louisiana back to Florida. We had fulfilled our call to help in our spiritual father’s church for a season, and felt a release to return to Winter Haven to be part of the Worship Center. After much prayer, I resigned from my position as Executive Secretary/Office Manager at an international helicopter corporation, and in October of 2000 we moved to Florida. Pat was able to transfer with the company she worked for, but I did not have a job waiting in Florida. Still, I stood on what I had believed and taught for years: where the Lord leads, He provides.

Within a month, I started to work for a local baseball school as a computer tech on a temporary basis. Within a few months, I was hired on as a full time employee with benefits and insurance. We bought a small condo just up the street from where Pat worked, and looked for ways to use our gifts and talents to minister to the Body at W.H.W.C. Everything seemed to be going well, but a time of great testing loomed just around the bend.

After 9/11, the baseball school began to struggle. The bulk of the company income came from baseball clinics, but suddenly parents were too afraid to let their children fly in for the sessions. I knew economics were tight, but I didn’t realize how bad the company had suffered. One Wednesday morning, the three owners of the company called all of the employees into the conference room.

“As you all know, business has been down since 9/11. We’ve had to make some cut-backs,” one owner said. “Chris, we’re giving you two week’s notice. We’re sorry, but we have no other options.”

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. The news devastated me. Here I was, 45 years-old and being laid off for the third time in 6 years. I would have to compete for a job with much younger people who possessed skills that I did not. I had left a well paid position in Louisiana to follow the Lord’s leading and now I had to start at square one again. Lord, I don’t understand.

That night when Pat came home from work I said, “You’d better sit down. I have some bad news.”

She sat down on the sofa next to me and said, “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been laid off. They’re giving me two week’s notice, and that’s it.”

“I knew it,” Pat said and she began to cry. “I saw this coming. Didn’t you see this coming? I knew you should have been looking for another job.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize how bad business was.”

We talked for a while and in the end, we agreed that we would trust God to be faithful and provide. Things would be tight for a while, but we would get through this as we had the other times. The devil had taken his best shot and we were still standing. Little did I know that the trials had just begun.

The next day, Pat called me at work, something she rarely did. “My doctor just called and wants to see me as soon as I can get in this morning. He suggested we both come. Can you get off work to take me?” she said.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said. Pat’s gynecologist had performed a biopsy on her uterus the week before. Fear beat upon the door of my heart as I drove home to get her. I knew the report must be serious if the doctor wanted to see her immediately.

We sat in the waiting room surrounded by all these young, pregnant women, and tried to make small talk. When the nurse finally called Pat, she wanted to go in alone, so I respected her wishes. The minutes ticked by and I prayed quietly for Pat. We had been married for 26 years and had never faced a major physical attack.

When Pat came out she was remarkably calm. I saw no evidence of tears. She stopped at the desk, scheduled another appointment, then come over to me. “I do have cancer, but the prognosis is good. I need a hysterectomy. They’re sending me to Moffitt for a consult in May. Don’t be afraid. I know in my spirit it’s going to be alright,” she said as we walked back to our car.

Over the next few weeks the spiritual and emotional battle raged. Our health insurance was through my job, but I no longer had a job. I applied for COBRA (continued insurance coverage paid for by the individual) thinking that at least we’d have insurance to handle the medical crisis. Then I learned it would take a month before the COBRA would be approved. But we didn’t have a month. Every day we delayed the surgery, we ran the risk of the cancer spreading. Although the coverage would be retroactive, Moffitt would not schedule the surgery without current insurance or $5000.00 up front. So here I was with no job, my wife has cancer and needs surgery that I can’t afford, I have a mortgage on the new condo to keep up, and Pat will be out of work for six weeks drawing only 60% of her regular pay.

My emotions ran in every direction: fear turned to dread, dread to anger, anger to sorrow, sorrow to peace in God, peace to doubt, doubt to faith. I fought to stay in faith, to stand on the Word, but I knew I needed spiritual back-up. One day I’d hit rock bottom, so I called a friend who I knew was a man of like faith. “Brother, I need prayer.” I wept as I told him about everything that had happened and everything I was facing. “I’ve done all I know to do. Please agree with me for the Lord to turn this thing around.”

My friend did pray, but I sensed he was a little disappointed in me for not handling the situation as he would have expected someone mature in the faith to do. But I couldn’t let shame or embarrassment have place. I needed prayer support to lift me back to a place of faith, and I got it.

That day was a turning point for me. The circumstances didn’t change, but I did. My faith began to revive and over the next few weeks I grew stronger. I continued to send out resumes and visited Polk Works daily to look at job postings, but no job materialized. I used my down time to study the Word and pray, and to take care of Pat.

On June 24, Pat went in for surgery at Moffitt Cancer Treatment Center in Tampa. Pastor Jeff, Ms. Kim, and some close friends planned to be with me during the surgery, but Pat was called in early. We quickly prayed together, I kissed her, and then watched the nurse wheel her bed into the operating room. Instead of being surrounded by friends who could encourage me, I sat alone. But the Holy Spirit stood with me and a spirit of prayer rose up in my heart. I began to pray quietly for Pat and for the other people around me who looked overwhelmed with worry. Pastor and the others arrived just as the doctor came out to tell me the surgery was complete. The cancer was contained and no further treatment was necessary. That day I began to see the answers to my prayers begin to manifest.

Pat was hospitalized for four days and because I was unemployed, I was able to stay with her. The day after her surgery, I had my first job interview with a paver manufacturer for an Account Manager position. I drove from Tampa to Haines City, did the interview, and drove back to Tampa. The call-back interview came a week later, and finally after a third interview, I landed the job. The timing was all God. I was home to take care of Pat the first two crucial weeks after her surgery. Then I started my new job.

For the next five years I worked for the paver manufacturer. God did not just provide a job, He did exceeding abundantly above and provided a ripe mission field. During my time at this job, I was able to witness to the plant manager and see him rekindle his fire for God and resume church attendance after many years of being away. Two people were saved and a couple of dear friends have become a part of the WHWC family.

I have experienced times of weakness and times of strength. Been overwhelmed by emotions, and been transformed by faith. This I know to be true: whatever the circumstance, God’s grace is sufficient for me.

Chris now works for State Farm Auto Claims. He sings in the WHWC Choir, leads Higher Ground Men’s Ministry, and teaches the Word as he is given opportunity. He and Pat have been married over 33 years.

The year my son, Ian, turned 14 an evangelist came to the Christian Revival Center in Baltimore, Maryland for a special revival. As the man of God began to preach, it became clear that this was no ordinary service, but I could not have foreseen how much one revelation from that service would devastate my spiritual life.

“God told me that someone here needs to hear this message,” the evangelist said. “Just because God’s hand is on us,” he paused, “doesn’t mean that bad things won’t happen to us.” His eyes searched the congregation as if he could actually see into each heart. “God doesn’t bring the evil, but we can’t live in denial that the evil happened.”

By then, the preacher had everyone’s attention. He told how he struggled for years before he could acknowledge the sexual abuse he suffered as a child and allow God to heal him. He was a well educated man with a voice both strong and kind. Every word he spoke rang true.

“God wants to heal the hearts of those who have been wounded through no fault of their own. If that is you, don’t just sit there broken, bruised, waiting for someone to bring you to the altar. Get up out of your seat! Go now!” His words were as much a command as an invitation.

As people came forward, I knew some of the situations: domestic violence, broken marriages, spousal abuse. I was an alter worker and an elder in the church, so I prayed with one, then another. My heart filled with compassion for those who had come forth. “Lord, help them to forgive and let go. Restore their peace, Lord,” I prayed as I laid hands on the wounded. But when I looked across to the far right of the altar, my heart fell to my feet. My son, Ian, stood at the front with arms up, broken and in tears. One of the special needs that had been called out was for those who had been sexually abused. He had responded to that call.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. I couldn’t even hear the voices crying out all around me. I could only hear the thoughts racing through my mind. When did this happen? Where did this happen? Where was I when this assault took place? I’m a good mother. Good mothers protect their children. I didn’t protect Ian. Then my feet were moving. I pushed through the crowd empowered by the force of anger and hatred that invaded my soul. How can I avenge my son’s injury? I must find the animal who did this.

When I reached Ian he all but lay in my arms and sobbed. Then he looked up at me through tears loaded down so heavy with pain that they flooded his face and spilled on to both of us. “I’m sorry I never told you, Mom,” he said. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My tears mingled with Ian’s as I rocked my baby and struggled to keep breathing.

The evangelist came over, laid hands on Ian, and prayed. Then he literally lifted Ian out of my arms and said, “Son, it’s time to let go the lies that the enemy told you. What happened was not your fault, you hear me. Not your fault. You’ve got to let it go. Forgive. God’s going to give you the strength to share this testimony with other young people who have been through the same thing.”

Ian’s healing and restoration began that night, but mine was nowhere in sight. My anger burned white hot. Only vengeance would extinguish the flames. I closed my heart to God’s voice; pushed away the gentle prodding of the Holy Spirit. All I could feel was pure love for my son and pure hate for his attacker.

I became obsessed with figuring out when such a heinous crime could have occurred. I didn’t believe in step-parenting, so I didn’t even date. I didn’t “hang out” or “hook up” with men, so there were no men staying over at my house. I worked nights so I could be with Ian in the day. I chaperoned on school trips. Ian was always with me. I would never leave him with someone I didn’t know.

Then I remembered. When Ian was five we were apart for about six months. I had to move two hours away to start a new job and get established. Ian stayed with my mother. And this creature—someone we knew and trusted—had been there too. No more a faceless, nameless animal, he had a name. I knew him well. The reckless heat of my anger turned cold and calculating. I knew what I had to do. I would hurt this man who took my son’s innocence.

The spirit of hurt is a powerful force. For that season, it controlled me. I invited it in when I refused to let forgiveness work in my heart. As the evangelist had said, just because God has His hand on you and is using you, it doesn’t mean bad things won’t happen. It also doesn’t mean that you can’t choose to stray. I chose to let murder enter my heart. Now I would set my plan in motion.

I stopped praying the day I figured out who the abuser was. I also stopped crying. First, I sat Ian down and told him, “I want you to know that I still love you. Nothing has changed. I am still—and always will be—your greatest fan.”

“I know that, Mom. I’m just sorry I never told you. I just didn’t know what to do. How to deal with it,” he said.

“That’s okay. It’s all going to be okay now. You have the Holy Spirit to help you, and I will always be there for you. I’ll do my best to protect you from now on.” I wondered if he detected the edge of cold steel in my last words. I meant to protect him in the only way my flesh could conceive.

I planned to drive down to Florida and shoot Ian’s attacker. After that I didn’t care what happened to me. I signed over Ian’s legal guardianship to my mother. “Just in case something happens to me,” I told her. I was ready to go, but on that Tuesday, my car just stopped working. No matter, I’ll just catch a ride with my cousin when his truck route goes south. The Post Office laid off 400 workers that week. I was one of them. Great, I won’t have to take time off from work. My life was already over. Nothing mattered but the hate that burned in my soul.

And yet God still loved me. Even in the midst of my darkness, His light could not be extinguished because light ALWAYS prevails over darkness. Truth ALWAYS triumphs over lies. After two weeks, I still hadn’t left town, but the one person I had sworn to protect was watching me self-destruct. Ian did not know what I had planned to do, but he knew I was in deep spiritual and mental trouble. One day as we sat talking he said, “Mom, you haven’t heard a word I said.” It was true. My mind was so trapped on the merry-go-round of hate and vengeance that all other life became a blur around me.

Then Ian looked at me with such love and simple God-like trust and said, “Mom, if I can forgive him, you have to too.”

Right then the love of God that keeps us even when we can’t keep ourselves; that protects us not just from the devil, but from ourselves, flooded my heart. I cried out, “God, what was it all for? I wanted to be the best mom for this precious gift You’ve given me. How can I live with what I know? Help me, Lord. Please help me.” And He did.

That day the restoration of my soul began, but took over two years before all of the anger and bitterness were finally expunged. During that time I leaned heavily on verses like Jeremiah 33:3; I Peter 5:6,7; and Psalms 23 for strength and solace. I passed from anger, to hurt and finally to grief. Grief is as serious an emotion as anger or hate. It should not be ignored or wallowed in. Denial is NOT FAITH. Grief must be acknowledged so it can be dealt with and overcome.

As the evangelist prophesied, Ian’s testimony did help many teenagers. Today he is blessed with a strong teaching/preaching gift. He’s an accomplished musician, has a wonderful wife, and serves God faithfully. Even though I still can’t answer the question, Why did this happen? I know that all things do work together for good, “…to those who love the Lord and are the called according to His purpose.” And I can declare with King David, “He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul.”


Delilah is a Vietnam veteran. She served in the military from 1972 to 1977, and was honorably discharged. She is the oldest of four sisters and two brothers. Although Ian is her only natural son, she also helped raise four foster boys. Currently Delilah drives a school bus for the Polk County School System. She loves to sing and praise God, and has a passion for discipleship.

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.

When I was 28 years old, I prayed diligently for a husband. I longed for a faithful partner who would love and cherish me, and who I could love and cherish in return. Many nights I sat alone and prayed, “Lord, please send a man into my life SOON. I’m so lonely, and not getting any younger You know. Oh, and Lord, it wouldn’t hurt if he were strong and handsome too. Amen.”

Then one day, several years later, Anthony Alphonse Viola came into my life. I can’t say it was love at first sight, but we were attracted to each other. The more we saw of each other, the more I came to love all the qualities that made Tony such a wonderful man. He was soft spoken, hard working, honest, firm in his beliefs, and he was totally loyal to those he loved. Soon respect turned into infatuation, and infatuation turned into something deeper, until one day I knew that Tony Viola was the husband I’d prayed for. Tony gave his heart to the Lord during pre-marital counseling, and soon after we married.

Our love continued to grow deeper and sweeter with each passing year. God blessed us with two beautiful daughters—Renee and Nadine. Before we knew it, twenty-eight years had flown by. Our daughters were grown and God had led us to a wonderful church—Winter Haven Worship Center. We felt we were just getting to the good part of life; that we would have many wonderful years to grow old together and enjoy each other. But that was not to be.

In July of 2006, I noticed some small lumps on the back of Tony’s neck. The possibility of cancer loomed large before us, but I chose to put my trust in God. The oncologist from Winter Haven Hospital performed a biopsy, and a week later called with the results.

“Mr. Viola, you have stage four CLL—Chronic Lymphoma Leukemia. I won’t try to kid you, there’s not much chance of recovery. You have maybe six months to live. We need to start treatment as soon as possible.”

We were stunned. Tony hadn’t even felt ill, and now we were being told he was dying. The report of man spoke death, but I chose to believe God’s Word of life. And so the battle for Tony’s physical and my spiritual life began.

In August we took our youngest daughter, Nadine, to Tallahassee to start her first year at FSU. Subtly our lives had begun to change. Both our girls were out perusing their own lives. It was back to Tony and me; just the two of us. But not for long. Within a few days Tony checked into the Celebration Hospital to begin an intensive round of chemotherapy. It was so hard leaving Tony to face the ordeal alone, but I had to return to work as a substitute teacher. Soon the bills would be piling up, and we needed all the income we could get. As usual, Tony was the strong one. He looked up at me with those big blue eyes that always melted my heart and said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You do what you have to do.”

“I love you, you know,” I said.

“I know,” Tony said. “And you are the love of my life.”

I carried those words with me all the way home; let them warm my heart. Tony’s long battle had begun. I knew I had to be strong.

A few days later I sat at home in our computer room where I did my daily devotions. I opened my Bible and began to read about Joshua and the battle of Jericho. All of a sudden, a victory shout rose up in me. As soon as I shouted like the children of Israel, holy laughter bubbled over and filled the room. It was a wonderful release to feel the blessing of God, and to know He was working in Tony’s body to restore total healing and health. Although I didn’t realize it, He was working in me too.

That night I called Tony. “How are you feeling, honey?” I asked.

“I feel wonderful. The doctors say my blood work looks good. White count is dropping,” he said.

Tony sounded so peaceful. So normal in spite of the fact that he was on a maximum course of chemotherapy. That night I understood what my mother meant when she would sing, “It is joy unspeakable and full of glory…and the half has never yet been told.”

Over the next few months we celebrated victories and held fast to our faith through each setback. Chemo was helping, but it was a deterrent at best. We needed a miracle. One day Dr. Aktar, from Celebration Hospital, sat us down and told us honestly, “Tony’s best chance for long term remission is a bone marrow transplant. We can look for a compatible donor through the National Registry, but the best match usually comes from a biological family member.”

To me, the transplant offered hope. Hope that Tony would go into full remission and regain his strength. Hope that I could enjoy many years to come with the man I so desperately loved. When Tony’s brother, Michael, tested as a perfect match, I saw it as the answer to my prayers.

On June 13, 2007 the Lord reminded me of the words to an old song and wrote them in my journal: “Faith in God can move a mighty mountain. Faith in God can calm a troubled sea. Faith can make the desert like a fountain. Faith will bring the VICTORY.” I found strength and courage in every word.

Tony was hospitalized to prepare for the transplant. He had to remain in a germ free environment, so once more we were separated. Many nights I lay alone in our bed battling thoughts of doubt and fear. During those times I looked to the many scripture verses the Lord had impressed upon my heart. Verses like: Psalm 46:1 “God is our refuge and strength. A very present help in trouble.” Psalm 27:1 “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear. The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom should I be afraid.” and Psalm 91:15 “He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in times of trouble; I will deliver him and honor him.”

Each time I encouraged myself in the Word, I held the enemy at bay. As I look back now, I realize I also held the Lord at bay too. If I had listened closer, I would have realized He was trying to prepare my heart for the pain to come. Still, God faithfully imparted peace to my soul. I knew He was with me and that He would sustain me.

The transplant was a success. By December of 2007 Tony was much better. My wonderful husband was home with me at last. We decorated for Christmas with special joy and rejoicing. The leukemia was in full remission, and we could look back on so many miracles God had done to bring us through. All we needed now was for Tony’s immune system to begin to function normally. But that was not to be. First bacteria and fungus infiltrated his sinus cavities, then one infection after another followed. Tony was in and out of the hospital numerous times. He endured dialysis, several surgeries, and so many rounds of harsh meds until eventually his body refused to bounce back. Finally, he collapsed at home the morning of a scheduled doctor’s visit. Pneumonia had set in.

I called 911 immediately, but when the paramedics arrived, Tony said, “No. I’m not going back to the hospital.”

He looked so weak and frail. He needed help. Surely the doctors could do something. In desperation I cried, “Please Tony. I’m begging you. Please go. I love you and I’m not giving up.”

In the end, the choice was Tony’s, and I finally realized how selfish I had been. For a long time Tony had been ready to go on to be with Jesus, but his love for me and the girls would not allow him to give up and let us down. He had been totally unselfish in his love for me. Willingly he had endured two years of physical torture so he could hold on for me; the woman he had declared for 30 years was “the love of his life.”

I never wanted to give up hope. I loved Tony so much that I would have done anything to keep him with me, but I knew it was my turn to be unselfish. With our daughters standing near, I took Tony’s hand in mine and gazed into the face of the most wonderful man I had ever known. Then I spoke the hardest words I’d ever had to say, “I love you, but you can go now.” Moments later, he was with Jesus.

My true love came to me late in life and left too soon. I do grieve, “but not as one who has no hope.” Satan thought he would destroy my faith and devastate my spiritual walk, but just the opposite occurred. My faith emerged stronger, my walk with the Lord truer. How could I not believe and continue to trust God when I witnessed so many miracles and answers to prayer during Tony’s two-year ordeal.

For now, Tony is with Jesus and I am left here on this earth, but I am NOT ALONE. I have the Holy Spirit’s comfort, the Church family’s support, and Tony’s legacy—our two beautiful daughter and 30 years of memories—to warm my heart. I know God’s grace is sufficient for me, therefore I declare: Satan, you lose. Death is swallowed up in victory! Amen.

Carolann and Tony were married for thirty wonderful years. She serves the Lord as part of the choir/worship team at Winter Haven Worship Center and works as a substitute teacher for the public school system in Polk County.

At 1:30 p.m. on a snowy Christmas Eve, I walked down the aisle of a little church in Lake Ozark, Missouri. Chris took my hand, and we pledged our love and commitment for life. The minister pronounced us husband and wife, and we entered into a new life together.

In the beginning no one asked about children. Eventually well meaning friends asked, “When do you plan to start your family?” The question annoyed—even angered—me. I didn’t know how to reply. To me, the matter was private. I didn’t want to discuss it.

We moved several times during the first few years of our marriage. Everywhere we lived, new acquaintances asked, “So, when do you plan to start your family?” or “How many children do you want?” Clearly, to most people family implied children. They could accept a single parent and a child as a family, but not a husband and wife. At the time, I believed that too, so how could I answer their questions?

I wished people would just leave the subject alone, but they didn’t. The questions kept coming and soon I sank into a pool of resentment. “What makes them think it’s any of their business?” I asked Chris. The more I felt pressured, the more I resisted the thought of having children. Eventually, I took such a strong stand that even close friends believed that I never wanted children. But that wasn’t exactly true. In truth, I couldn’t quite bring myself to accept that the beliefs I’d held for years were wrong.

You see, before I became a Christian, a feminist worldview on childbearing found fertile soil in my mind and emotions. I freely embraced the idea that children are a hindrance to a woman’s life. I believed children would interfere with my career plans, my personal space. I thought women needed more than motherhood to live fulfilled lives. Eventually a hardness encrusted my heart and smothered any natural desire for children.

Even after I surrendered my life to Jesus, my viewpoint on childbearing did not immediately change. However, through prayer and study of God’s Word, I began to grow in the knowledge of God’s will and God’s ways. Deep down I knew the feminist worldview I held was wrong, but I still struggled with the sin of intellectual pride.

I remember actually telling a Christian friend, “Being pregnant is the most demeaning thing that can happen to a woman.” I wanted to shock her. It was my way of lashing out at her implication that my worth as a person, as a Christian, was tied to my willingness and ability to procreate.

Needless to say I needed help, but pride kept me from seeking it. Yet I wanted to be right with God. I wanted to think the way God thinks. Thankfully, while my Christian friends could only see rebellion, God saw my true desires and my need. Over time God shattered the hardness of my heart and led me to repentance. Finally, I could see childbearing through His eyes. I felt wonderfully liberated.

Now, when a friend announced her pregnancy, I could enter into her joy. I began to notice how some pregnant women glowed with happiness, how childbearing brought them fulfillment. I recognized that the choice to be stay-at-home mothers and homemakers was just as valid as any other career choice.

I met women who held jobs and built careers but still felt incomplete without children. And I met others who had no desire for children, but found fulfillment in serving God with their gifts and talents.

I concluded that the attitude of the heart made all the difference when making the decision about having children. That realization gave me the peace to accept balance in my own life. I knew Chris and I would make good parents, so we placed the issue in God’s hands, asking that His will be done. But I assumed that one day I would surprise Chris with the six little words, “We’re going to have a baby!”

Then one autumn, after we’d been married five years, my body began to subtly change. For only the second time in my life, my period was late – two weeks late. I felt lightheaded, queasy. This could be it, I thought. I looked down at my belly, placed my hand on it, and smiled.

Over the next few days, I made mental notes. We’d need a crib, bottles, sleepers, and lots of diapers. Every time I walked into a store, I automatically went straight to the baby section. I wondered, Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it look like Chris or like me?

I knew I needed to confirm my pregnancy before I got too carried away. So with a warm feeling of joy, I walked into a drugstore and purchased a pregnancy test. All the way home I considered what a positive result would mean. Having a baby would definitely change our lives, but finally we’d be a family.

The next day, I followed the instructions on the box; then I waited. I even waited a few extra minutes – just to be sure – before checking it. The test was negative.

Deep disappointment washed over me. I had been so sure I was pregnant. Maybe the test was wrong. But a few days later, my period confirmed the test results. Over the next few years, we experienced a few more “maybes,” but the results were always the same. Negative. Chris would never hear those six little words.

Mother’s Day and Father’s Day at church were always awkward for us. One year a young man handed me a long-stemmed rose along with all of the mothers. “But I’m not a mother,” I said. I could feel my face flush.

“That’s OK. You soon will be,” he said. But he was wrong.

I have no idea when Chris and I finally accepted that the Lord’s will for us did not include having children. We simply eased into the realization. And in the same way, we eased into the realization that we did not need children to be a family. Chris and I had been a family all along.

I now understand that a family exists before the first baby is ever born. A man and woman choose – through love and marriage – to establish a new unit, and they make a home and build a life together. That new unit is a family. A child does not create a family; a child is born into a family, broadening and enriching it.

I know the family of Chris and Pat Kreml has missed some of the richness children would have brought. But I also know that for over 33 years we have been a family in every sense of the word. Now when I am asked, “Do you ever regret not having a family?” I can just smile and explain about our family of two.


Chris and Pat Kreml celebrated their 33rd anniversary on December 24, 2008. They are both active members of W.H.W.C’s choir and praise team. Pat works at the local community college bookstore and is a freelance writer. She is currently working on her first novel.

The morning started out in a mad dash because I did something I never do. I overslept. For most people, that wouldn’t be such a big deal, but my ten year old son, Rett, is autistic. Autistic children have difficulty with communication. In some ways they are locked inside themselves, unable to access the normal channels of communication to reach the outside world. Sudden changes in routine frighten them because they cannot process the outside stimuli quickly enough to respond. Any disruption in routine frustrates and angers Rett and usually results in a domino effect ending in a meltdown.

I knew my one mistake could ruin Rett’s whole day. How could I have let this happen? I knew Rett needed a certain amount of time to get ready for school. How could I have landed us in this predicament? I absolutely had to avoid any more interruptions. At this point I should have calmed down and taken the situation to the Lord in prayer, but I was too busy beating myself up over my own human frailty to see it. As I helped Rett get dressed, I kept repeating, “Mom overslept, so we need to hurry, okay?”

“Okay,” he droned, but didn’t move any faster.

For a while, I thought we were making progress. Rett sat with one shoe off and one shoe on. Then I heard the bus honk. Oh no, he’s going to miss the bus! He can’t miss the bus. That would be too much for his poor little mind to handle. I had to do something. Needless to say, I was not in faith. I ran out and motioned for the driver to please wait a minute. If Rett didn’t get to ride the bus to school, he would surely have a meltdown. I scurried back into the house, helped him put on his other shoe, then rushed him out the door. Too late. The bus was gone.

“Oh, no!” Rett cried. “It’s gone!” His obvious distress confirmed my worst fears. A meltdown was inevitable.

Still, I tried to defuse the situation. “That’s okay, bud. Mom will take you this morning.” I used my most soothing voice.

Silence.

I looked at Rett’s disappointed little face and waited. I fully expected him to jump up and down and flap his arms. To emit high pitched squeals and pace from one end of the room to the other repeating, “Oh, no. Oh, no…” each declaration more agitated than the last; each punctuated by a self-inflicted slap to the head. I braced myself. Once started, the agitation would escalate into an uncontrollable frenzy. I waited. But nothing happened.

After breakfast, Rett turned to me and asked, “You ready, Mom?”

“Yeah, bud. Mom’s sorry for over sleeping and making you miss the bus.”

Rett didn’t reply. He just hung his head and shuffled out to my car as if his shoulders had suddenly turned into stone. He must really be angry with me. My heart ached to make things right, but I couldn’t undo the damage I’d done. “Lord, please don’t let him stay angry with me.” I prayed. “And please don’t let this destroy his whole day.”

That’s when I realized we’d missed the most important part of our daily routine—morning prayer. Usually, after breakfast, we sit on the bench in my foyer and pray while we wait for the bus. Autistic children have great memories, but find it difficult to come up with words of their own. So I taught Rett a prayer that he says every day. That day, instead of sitting peacefully on our bench at home, Rett said his prayers in the car as traffic whizzed by and all kinds of sights, sounds, and smells assailed his already overloaded senses.

“Thank you for my school. To my bodies. Create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me. For God has not given me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind. No yelling, no screaming, no arguing, no hollering. Help me to do my work. Amen.” Rett prayed.

“To my bodies” is his way of asking Jesus to bless the food to the nourishment of our bodies. When he prays no yelling, no screaming, etc. he’s asking Jesus to help him not to act out in those areas he struggles with. That day I hoped God would grant his petition. So far Rett hadn’t erupted into meltdown mode, but I knew he must be really angry and disappointed with me.

When we arrived at Sandhill Elementary, I handed him over to his teacher. “You have a good day now, Rett, okay?” It was more a plea than a request. I felt like I’d held my breath the whole way over just waiting for the inevitable outburst.

“Okay,” he said, his voice void of expression.

I started to drive away, my heart heavy with guilt for marring one precious day of Rett’s already difficult life. As I eased over the first speed bump, I heard Rett yell, “Hey, Mom!” My window was down, so I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him without turning around.

“What, honey?” I tried to sound calm, but inside I cringed. Oh, no. Here it comes. Here comes the meltdown.

Rett couldn’t hear me, so he continued to yell, “Hey, Mom. Hey, Mom. HEY MOM!”

By then I had stopped. I look over to find Rett running toward the car, dragging his teacher behind him. As soon as he reached the passenger window we made eye contact. “I love you, Mom,” he said. Then he put his little hand to his lips and blew me kisses.

And that’s when the meltdown finally came. Not in Rett. He jumped and skipped off to have a wonderful day. The meltdown came in me. Rett’s simple faith in God allowed him to overcome the day’s adversity and enabled him to forgive me. Through Rett, God painted on my heart such a vivid picture of child-like faith and unconditional love. I will treasure that picture in the sweet, warm folds of my mother’s heart forever.

Tracie has been happily married to her husband, Jon, for nine years. After twenty-two years as a Registered Nurse, she is now a stay-at-home mom to her eleven-year-old autistic stepson, Rett. She also has a son and daughter of her own—Jotham, age twenty-seven and Hannah, age nineteen—who live in Kentucky. Tracie and Jon originally moved to Florida to be near her parents, Dr. Paul and Barbara Taylor. Since moving from Kentucky, they have attended Winter Haven Worship Center, and absolutely love it. Tracie enjoys drama, singing, and writing. She declares, “JESUS is the lover of my soul and the inspiration for all I do.”

As an eight-year-old growing up in Lynbrook, New York, I was a happy child. I loved to laugh. I was always respectful to my elders. I loved to play with my dolls, play dress-up, giggle—all of the usual stuff. Just a normal little girl. Then one afternoon, my half-brother, Edgar, took me into his bedroom, locked the door, and changed my life forever. When I told my mother what Edgar had done, she was furious. My father whipped and punished him, but that did not stop Edgar for long.

Soon, I became an angry person, disrespectful to others—especially my parents and those in authority. I also became sexually promiscuous. When I was twelve, I came home with a hickie on my neck. My mother could not take any more.

“What am I going to do with you, Nurka. Do you realize how dangerous this is?” She pointed to my bruise. “Do you know what could happen? How far have you gone?” she demanded.

“It’s no big deal, Mom. It’s my life…”

“No,” she cut me off before I could say any more. “This has to stop. You hear me? It has to stop.”

That night she started making plans. In a few months, I was on a plane to Panama, to attend Maria Auxiliadora, a Catholic girl’s school. On the surface, I resented being sent away, but deep inside I wanted to change; to become the happy little girl I’d once been. Maria Auxiliadora proved to be a blessing in disguise. Since it was an all girl’s school, there was no temptation to be promiscuous. I was safe. I could relax. No one would harm me there.

In catechism classes I learned more about God. I began to show sincere respect for others and myself. In time, puberty transformed me from a flat-chested child into a curveatious young woman. I thought my past was far behind me, but I was proven wrong.

During the years I attended Maria Auxciliadora, I spent every weekend with my mother’s best friend and her husband. I considered them my aunt and uncle. One Saturday afternoon, my uncle made sexual advances. I told my aunt immediately, but she did not believe me. At eight, I could not stop what had happened to me. At fifteen, I did not. I was so angry: angry at my uncle, at myself, and most of all, at God. I believed He had once again “tested” me, and once again I had failed. Failed, because I did nothing to stop the advances. I thought, what’s the use? There must be something wrong with me if this keeps happening again and again.

From then on, anger, bitterness, and resentment became my constant companions. By the time I returned to the States, I had no moral restraints. I saw myself as used and a user. There was no chance for me to ever be pure and clean again. I figured I’d hit rock bottom. Nothing could hurt me any more than I’d been hurt. But I was wrong.

One day, while visiting my real uncle—Uncle Rafael—I sat out on the back patio alone. My uncle approached and molested me. I was shocked. Astounded! How could this be happening again? It seemed that God had once more put me to the test, and once more I had failed. I allowed the deed. I did not resist.

I can’t begin to tell you how many times I cried out in anger, “God, why? Why did you do this to me? Why did you keep testing me if you knew I was going to fail? Why do I keep failing?” Many times I wanted to end it all, take my own life, but something deep inside would not let me. I know now that it was the Holy Spirit working in me.

As years went by, I met Christians who told me about Jesus and salvation. Because I’d driven such a wedge of anger and unforgiveness between myself and God, I did not believe His salvation could be mine. But God was bigger than my attitude. He sent a woman I’d never met to tell me, “God is going to use your voice to touch lives.” I thought she was crazy. How could God use me? I wasn’t even a Christian. But God’s plan moved forward.

I met a handsome young Christian named Dayen. We were attracted to each other, but he made it clear he could not consider a serious relationship with a non-Christian. I really cared for Dayen, so I started attending church with him. As I heard the Word and learned about God, a flicker of hope ignited deep in my heart. But every time hope sparked to life, my anger towards God snuffed it out. You see, I blamed God for all the men who abused and molested me. I thought He had devised these tests and set me up to fail so He could judge and punish me.

Finally, in spite of all my reservations, I did accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior, but that wedge of unforgiveness kept me from drawing as close to the Lord as I wanted to. Then one Sunday I attended a service where the minister was flowing in the Holy Spirit. He walked up to where I was seated, called me out, and said, “God is not responsible for what happened to you.” This man did not even know me, so his words really impacted my heart. A great burden lifted off of my life and forgiveness flowed. God was innocent. He had not tested me at all. It was Satan who orchestrated those situations to destroy me. Satan was my enemy, not God.

Forgiveness has a way of burrowing deeper and deeper into the core of your being if you let it. That day I let it. My anger towards God vanished, and I opened my heart to Him. For years I felt like I had been imprisoned in a concrete cell with no sunlight or fresh air. Now suddenly I found myself free. It was as if God Himself ushered me out into an endless field of clover on a clear spring morning. Everything felt fresh and bright and new. But forgiveness didn’t stop there. It bore deeper still.

Sometime later, I heard my Uncle Rafael had been diagnosed with cancer. Final stages. Nothing the doctors could do. The Holy Spirit began to deal with my heart about forgiving him. My uncle had asked to see several family members so he could make things right before he died, but he never asked to see me. I had to fight resentment. If there was anyone he should have asked for, it was me. I did not want to forgive Uncle Rafael, but I knew it was God’s will for me.

Finally, I gave in to God, and went to the hospital with my mother and aunt. As we drew closer to his room, my palms turned damp and clammy. My heartbeat drummed in my ears. I paused just outside his door and took a deep breath. The antiseptic smell filled my nostrils as I opened the door to Uncle Rafael’s room.

My uncle looked so frail and helpless, his face grey against the pristine white pillows. Oxygen tubes curved into his nostrils and an IV line snaked over his left arm. I knew I was doing the right thing, but I still did not feel the forgiveness I’d come to offer. My uncle looked up at me. Our eyes met. I saw a question in his, maybe a little fear. I bent down and whispered in his ear, “I forgive you.”

When I pulled back, tears streamed down his face. “Thank you,” he said through pale, cracked lips.

I left that hospital room feeling light and free. I had forgiven God, and I had forgiven my uncle too. Now, only one more act of forgiveness remains—to forgive myself. That’s the toughest of all, because I know what I thought and felt and did. Yet I also know that God’s Word says if we confess our sins, He forgives and cleanses us from ALL unrighteousness. His grace is sufficient for me.


Nurka is a member of the Winter Haven Worship Center Choir and Praise Team. As prophesied, she is using her voice to touch people’s lives. She is also wife to Dayen Valentine and the mother of two sons. Serving God with her gifts is Nurka’s greatest passion.

Just before my son, Brayden, turned two, the devil tried to destroy his life. It began with a shopping trip to the Dollar Tree in Haines City. Brayden tottered along beside me in the store exploring everything, as little ones will. When I finished shopping we stopped for ice-cream—which Brayden licked and slurped with great relish—then I drove home. Just an ordinary day. Nothing in his behavior warned me of what was to come.
“We’re home now, Bray.” I chatted with him as I popped up the arms of the car seat. But instead of raising his little arms for me to pick him up, he toppled out of the seat head first on to the floorboard.
“Brayden, are you alright, sweetie?” I stood him up, but his legs hung limp. He couldn’t stand, he couldn’t sit, he couldn’t talk. His eyes glazed over. I don’t think he knew who I was or where he was. I’d never seen him like this before and it scared me. I ran him into the house and called his doctor immediately. The blood pounded in my ears as I held on to my baby’s limp body and waited for Dr. Kline to answer. Help me Jesus, I prayed.
“Did he get into any of your prescription drugs or over-the-counter medication?” the doctor asked.
“No, sir”
“What about cleaning products or chemicals you might have lying around the house?”
“No, sir. I keep everything out of reach.”
After a few more questions, Dr. Kline suggested I bring Brayden to Kinder Clinic at Winter Haven Hospital to get checked out. By the time I got him there, he was back to normal. The whole episode had lasted only fifteen or twenty minutes. After another round of the same questions about pills and chemicals, Dr. Kline sent us home. He couldn’t find anything wrong.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “If it happens again, just bring him back.”
My pulse returned to normal, and I thanked the Lord and sang praises to Him all the way home. But my relief was short lived. Two days later we were watching a Psalty the Singing Song Book video. Brayden danced to the music, flapping his arms as he sang along in his little boy voice. All of a sudden he lost coordination, wobbled, then fell forward. His eyes glazed over again and he starred ahead unseeing.
“Help me, Lord Jesus,” I prayed aloud for all the devils and demons to hear. This time I didn’t waste time calling, I rushed Brayden over to Dr. Kline’s office, praying all the way. By the time we arrived, Brayden was back to normal.
“I have no explanation for this. All I can tell you is just keep an eye on him,” Dr. Kline said.
By then I knew something was terribly wrong. There was no obvious reason for these episodes. I recognized the devil’s hand at work, and I knew that prayer was my first line of defense. I called my parents—old-time, solid Pentecostal prayer warriors—and they agreed with me for Brayden’s healing. There were several more episodes over the next few weeks, but my parents and I stood our ground in prayer.
The final showdown came about ten o’clock one night. Brayden had another episode, and I called Dr. Kline again. This time he asked, “Did he vomit?”
“Well, no,” I said. “He never vomits.” No sooner had I put down the phone when Brayden vomited all over the living room floor. I called back, and this time Dr. Kline’s voice sounded grave. “I strongly suggest you get Brayden to the Arnold Palmer Children’s Hospital in Orlando as fast as possible. His words had the same effect on me as if he’d said, “You have breast cancer.” Cold fear tried to take hold of my heart, but I couldn’t let that happen. My baby’s life was at stake. Now was not the time to waver between fear and faith.
I picked up my little boy and ran to the car. My husband got behind the wheel and peeled out for all he was worth. The tires squealed and I’m sure the revved engine made the neighbors wonder if we’d lost our minds, but I didn’t care. I held my baby tight against me, his little body limp in my arms. My husband turned on the emergency lights, and drove as fast as he could. When we reached I-4, he floored it, and we drove so fast everything outside became a blur.
“Lord Jesus, we need a miracle. Heal my baby,” I prayed. I knew the Lord was with me, but I still felt fear closing in on me. All the what-if’s tried to ensnare me and choke out my faith. What if Brayden dies before we can get help? Even if we do get to the hospital in time, what if there’s nothing they can do for him? It’s times like these that all you can do is call on the name of Jesus, and that’s exactly what I did.
When we reached the ER, Brayden was taken in immediately, and sent for a CAT Scan.
Meanwhile, a doctor came out and started asking the same old round of questions about medicines, household chemicals, and the kind of water we drank. At some point, the questions became a bit more probing.
“Has you son had a fall recently? Maybe accidently hit is head?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“ Was he dropped as a baby?
“No, sir.”
“How about you, Mrs. Barwick? When you were pregnant did you have a…fall, or maybe received a blow to the abdomen?”
“NO!” I said. I realized they were wondering if Brayden or I had been abused. How could they think such a thing? “There’s no reason we know of for Brayden’s symptoms,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”
Finally they left us to wait for the CAT Scan results. My husband and I sat in the waiting room shaking as much from worry and fear as the over-active air conditioning. When the doctor finally came out, I knew he had bad news.
“Mrs. Barwick, you need to sit down,” he said.
Before I could respond, he showed us the pictures of the brain scan. “You see this spot right here?” He pointed to a rather large black spot. “Your child has a dead spot at the back of his brain about the size of two eggs put together. We don’t know what caused it or what kind of long term effects it will have on him.”
My body went numb. I lost all feeling in my legs and slumped to the floor. I just sat there and cried hysterically. It was too much to take in. My beautiful little boy’s brain had a dead spot? How could this have happened? What would it mean to his future? Questions blew through my mind like a March storm that tears lose anything unstable and scatters it in a million different directions. Pray! We needed to pray, but I knew we needed help. I called my dad first. “Pray for a miracle,” I said. “Call everyone you can think of who knows how to pray, and we will too.”
Within the hour, prayer warriors all over Florida and Kentucky interceded in one accord for little Brayden. My emotions remained unstable and raw, but deep in my heart, strength grew. I could feel the support of corporate prayer.
Brayden was admitted that night to ICU with limited visitors. Over the next few weeks he underwent a battery of tests including an MRI. He was examined by hematologists, neurologists, and several teams of doctors, but no one could figure out what caused the spells or brain damage. Their best guess was that he had mini-strokes. “We’re not sure if your child will have any further brain damage. His vision and speech may be effected. You should prepare yourself for the fact that he may have learning disabilities as well,” the doctor said.
Thank God by then we had been bathed in prayer. The strength of God rose up against the evil report, and I stood on God’s Word. I proved out the scripture that says God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness, and I believe the battle for Brayden’s life and health was won that day. He never had another spell the whole time he was hospitalized. In fact he was the healthiest child in ICU.
Finally, the doctors put him on baby aspirin and seizure medication—which we weaned him off of six months later—and released him. Today, Brayden is a healthy 7 year-old with no speech or hearing impairment, and only a slight problem with peripheral vision in his left eye. He is 100% healed. No brain damage, no special needs. In fact, he is at the top of his class in reading and math. He is living proof of the power of corporate prayer. To God be the glory.


Bridgette Barwick is the mother of two and works full time as a rural mail carrier. Music is an important part of her life, and she is a long-standing member of the Winter Haven Worship Center Choir and Praise Team.