From the time I could remember, I was scared. Scared of being hurt, scared of being wrong. Being a tomboy, I usually had a scrape or a bump or something on my body that was hurting. I climbed trees to escape the house where I felt ignored. I read books to discover a life that was not mine. I was waiting for my life to happen. I was looking for answers on the bus, always doubting myself, wondering about my value, trying to fit in.

I was the third oldest of seven children. A farmer’s daughter. Born in Nebraska. Sometimes our household was fun, most times it wasn’t. It depended on whether or not Dad was drunk or if my brother Mark was in or out of the hospital. Doctors found a brain tumor in Mark’s head when he was 9 years old. I was 11. My love for him was fierce. He fought the cancer like a man, from the time he was 9 years old until he was 16.

I ran away from home when I was 17. That was when I met my first love, Carlos. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. His eyes seemed to feast on me when I’d catch him looking at me. My world got smaller when I was with him. It was just me and him. No one and nothing else mattered except when the drugs began to infringe on my territory. At the time our son was born, I was 19 and his father was in jail. As much as I loved Carlos, I knew we wouldn’t be together for long. My son deserved better.

My brother Mark’s funeral was four days after my son was born. People said, “Now Mark doesn’t have any more pain. He’s in heaven now.” Or, “God must have needed him.” As far as I was concerned, if that was God, I wanted nothing to do with him. I proceeded to live my life daring Him to kill me as I believed He had Mark.

I was a single mom. That was a new one for my family. I said good-bye to my son’s father and tried to make a life for us. I had no idea what I was doing. I ended up marrying a man I’d later refer to only as “Crazy Boy.” Why did I marry a man I knew only a few months? Because he asked. We married in May and by the end of the summer I was running for my life. He started slapping and choking me after we were married. He introduced me to one of his friends – marijuana. Many of his friends came to stay with us – hash, drug dealers, mescaline, girl friends, psilocybin, brown rice, acid, fear, police, and jail.

What I learned as a kid on the farm had not prepared me for this. My middle class standards dropped bit by bit. I had been choked so many times by Crazy Boy that I had come to the conclusion that I had nothing worth saying and that I might as well give up on figuring out why I was even here. My words were insignificant and powerless. I didn’t deserve any better. Even after I divorced him, the shame of having chosen such a horrible husband buried what little self-confidence I had. Add to that the multiple times I was raped over the next several years. It didn’t matter where I lived – Nebraska or California – or what my marital status was – single or divorced. The only conclusion I could draw from my messed up life was that men were not to be trusted.

I figured I’d be the toughest single mom in Los Angeles. I had had two more kids by two different fathers. I was 23. I was happy that my kids looked so much alike. They were all biracial, and we got a lot of attention wherever we went. When we went out in public, I put on my “game face” – I was strong and I could take care of myself. However, I was doing whatever drugs I could get for free. Plus I had started drinking and could drink more than most. I began having black-outs – not remembering how I had gotten home, waking up in strange places. Through it all, somehow I’d usually be able to come home and fix dinner for my kids. It seemed somehow just having them with me kept me sane and forced me to come back to reality long enough to tend to them. They loved me so much and trusted me to take care of them. I hoped I didn’t disappoint them.

By the time I was in my early 30’s, I was wishing that I would have a mental breakdown so somebody would take care of me. I still cried on my brother’s birthday. I was still afraid that one of my kids would die or that I would die and leave them completely alone. I was uncertain of the future. I was on and off welfare for about nine years. We had moved too many times to count. I was living from trauma to trauma – getting arrested on a felony, having my boys taken away from me for a couple of weeks, being evicted, having to stay with friends, and asking men for money while hoping they’d want nothing in return.

Even without knowing God, I knew I had slept with too many men. The drugs and drinking hadn’t given me a better life. I had no vision. I couldn’t picture my future. My life didn’t stand for anything. I was hopeless. About that time my kids started attending church on their own. It was impressive to me that as teenagers they had chosen a lifestyle without alcohol or drugs or running away from home. Their behavior started to change. They become more obedient. They listened to Christian music. Most of their friends were Christian. I envied their friendships. They had so much fun together hanging out, talking about God and the Bible. I remember going into my daughter’s room and finding a sheet a paper with “Prayer Requests” written across the top of it. My name was the first name on the list. I wondered, “Why is she praying for me? There’s nothing wrong with me.” By then I had stopped doing drugs out of fear of going to jail. The thought of having an accident while under the influence when my teenage kids had chosen not to drink was incentive enough for me to stop drinking.

Don’t get me wrong. I believed in God. I just figured he didn’t want anything to do with somebody like me. I appreciated my children’s improved behavior, but I became tired of hearing them talk so much about Jesus. One Sunday after they came home from church, I asked them, “So you mean to tell me that if I were to die right now, I’d go to hell?” I was counting on them being freaked out about me talking about dying and they’d tell me everything could stay the same. Instead my son John said, “Mommy, it’s not enough to believe. The Bible says even demons believe. See here, in James,” as he opened his Bible in front of me. My other two kids seemed to back away from John since my anger had taught them not to disagree with me. I didn’t say anything else, but as I looked at those words in my son’s Bible, they went straight to my heart. I started wondering, “Maybe they’re on to something.”

Over the next several years, my children continued attending church and Bible study. My oldest son encouraged me to pray every night when he kissed me good night. My daughter April sweetly invited me to go to church with them every week. My son John continued to find answers to my questions in his Bible.

Finally, on August 27, 1989, I went to Youth Sunday to support my kids’ participation in the service. They all had roles to play that day. As the service progressed, I took a hard look at my life and where I was going. I realized my way wasn’t working and I wanted a change. I wanted good friends like I saw my kids had. I wanted to go to heaven with them. I wanted peace in my heart and purpose in my decisions. I wanted my life to matter. I decided to follow Christ that day.

Now 18 years later, I am so grateful for God’s patience with me. He never reminds me of my mistakes. He always shows me what a fabulous future I have. I am forgiven. I am loved. I am valuable, and my life has purpose. My friends enjoy my company. They encourage me to dream and don’t shame me with my failures. I am discovering my destiny day by day.

I am not ashamed of my past because it gives me a compassion for women who have lived through similar experiences. I know how it feels to be hit. I know how it feels to be locked up. But now I know where to go for answers to my questions. My Bible! I look for girls and women who share some of my experiences and I do what I can to encourage them to see their value. I openly tell others my story because I want them to know the God I know — the one who loves us, the one who forgives us, the one who protects us.

I pray for the Treasures team when they go to the strip clubs. I pray that they show you how much you are loved. I pray that their actions will soothe your frayed nerves and that their gifts will remind you that we’re here. I attend the Oasis Christian Center in Los Angeles. I’m there most Sundays. Most people there know me. Ask for me, I’ll have my name tag on. I would be honored to meet you. Be strong and very courageous, my daughter-sisters.

Oh, and for a happy ending – how’s this? Remember my first love – Carlos? Well, he started learning about God’s purpose for his life in 1994. Through miracle after miracle, he was set free from many things. He determined to become a strong, vibrant force in our son’s life. Together we started searching the Bible to see how to best serve our Lord. Then in 1997, Carlos and I got married! You’ll meet him, too, if you come to the Oasis. He’ll be the smiling, handsome guy sitting next to me. God restored our love, and together we head up the prison ministry team at our church. We help ex-inmates find their way back home after they’re released. God is all about new beginnings!