My Favorite Story to Tell: my testimony.

I've been wanting to tell you guys my full testimony for a while now, but I couldn't quite find the words no matter how hard I tried. But when my first assignment for my first MFA course was to write my testimony, I knew now was a better time than ever to share with you all my favorite story: how I came to know Jesus.

So without further ado -

I was born and raised in a Christian home, meaning I was in church from the moment I left the hospital after being born. I was in a Christian school from my first day of kindergarten when I strapped on my Velcro Sketchers and buttoned my purple uniform shirt to the day I turned my tassel from the right to the left. I had Bible verses embedded in my brain from the second I could understand words, even before I was able to fully comprehend what those words meant. I was the picture-perfect Christian girl on the outside, but there had always been a storm of faithlessness going on inside, and it was far from pretty.

Growing up and being dragged to church every Sunday taught me many things, but it took me years to understand that everything I believed concerning Christianity was simply head knowledge. I knew the books of the Bible like the back of my hand. I knew how the world was created and how sin took its hold on mankind. I knew that Jesus died on the cross.

I was hopelessly convinced that knowing of God was the same thing as walking with God.

I would pray when I had to, like before meals and when I wanted a puppy. And I would always, of course, bow my head and close my eyes whenever my pastor told me to. But my relationship with God was confined to the walls of the church. God was simply an afterthought—someone to talk to when I was bored or needed something. Though I was learning more about him every day, whether at school, at church, or during the devotionals my parents and I would do before bed, everything went to my head rather than my heart.

Because of that, I was completely and utterly empty. And I knew it, too.

When I was eight, I decided that enough was enough. I knew so much about God, yet I didn’t know Him. I knew of the wholeness He gives, yet I was still hollow. If He was as good as He said He was—as good as I knew Him to be—I wanted to go all in. I wanted all or nothing when it came to my faith. So I lay in bed one night and prayed the sinner’s prayer, asking God to forgive me of all the wrong I’d done. Slowly, I let all I had learned shift from my brain to the depths of my soul.

Shortly after welcoming Jesus into my life, I crept through the hall on a warm spring night. I had gone to bed an hour or so before, but something kept me up. Something deep inside yelled at me to get baptized. My parents were awake as I entered their room, the floor squeaking beneath my feet.

“When can I get baptized?” I blurted out. No preface or warning—just an outburst of a question as if it spilled out from the geyser of my soul.

My mom looked up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. I hadn’t known what made her want to cry or why the tears arose, but I was too excited and too relieved to care. She told me she’d talk to our pastor and that I’d get baptized as soon as possible.

Sunday, May 19, 2013, came like a radiant beam of sunshine. I jumped out of bed, tossed on my best dress and fanciest sandals, and bolted through the door. I sat through the sermon like a kid on Christmas Eve, impatiently waiting for everything that would happen in the coming hours. After the last “amen” was finally said, I quickly changed into shorts and a T-shirt, ready to turn the page and enter the new chapter of my all-or-nothing walk with Christ.

The water was icy and sent shivers down my spine, but the temperature was the last thing I cared about. I plugged my nose as my pastor pulled his arm around my back.

“Buried with Christ...”

I took in a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut. The baptismal pool swallowed me as I went under, the waters washing away the mundanity of life and cleansing me of the lukewarm religion I had succumbed to.

“Raised in the newness of life with Christ.”

I gasped for air as I rose, breathing in the sweetness of the relentless joy God gives. Something was different in me, something wildly familiar and brand new at the same time. The heaviness that came with head knowledge was gone, and replaced with it was an elation that lifted my spirits to the heavens. Hope and peace hit me like a hurricane, breaking down any walls I had built and drowning me in the overwhelming goodness of God. For the first time in my life, I was complete. No more searching or wandering. The old me was gone, and the new had most certainly come.

But being a Christian quickly proved itself to be a difficult journey. In fact, things only got harder after accepting Christ. It didn’t take long for me to slide back into the mundanity of religion and lose sight of the race God had set ahead of me. Before I knew it, I found myself wandering and straying from God.

In 2014, my family and I changed churches. I lost all my friends and people I had thought I’d maintain relationships with for the rest of my life. Hopping from church to church trying to find a new home was draining and difficult. But we finally settled at a small church half an hour from home, and my entire family quickly fell in love with it. My walk with the Lord became more genuine and sincere as I again began putting time into His word and my prayer life. I began serving in new places and new ways, and the life of servanthood quickly came together and melted into a gorgeous picture of Christ’s plan for my life.

But the cycle continued, and I again grew numb to the goodness of my Father.

In the summer of 2017, I signed up for summer camp—the best week of the year, as everyone always said. Late nights, friends, no vegetables, games, and encounters with God that were unlike any other. My church youth group set off on Sunday, June 4, blasting Hillsong Young and Free songs as loud as the speakers would allow. After two and a half hours, we made it to the retreat center half-deaf and running off pure adrenaline. We settled into our dorms and headed straight to orientation. The basic rules were enforced: no guys in the female dorms, no girls in the male dorms, drink lots of water, and have fun. And thus, we set off to create loads of new memories with open hearts ready to receive the word of the Lord.

On the first night, the speaker taught on Luke 15, specifically the parable of the prodigal son. I’d heard the story plenty of times before, and I knew how it went—the son got tired of his life, took his share of the inheritance, ran off, and spent every dime on worthless things. But for some reason, there in the tabernacle (as it was called at camp), the story took on a completely new meaning.

The prodigal son had spent his entire life under the careful watch of his father. He knew the goodness of the father, having been raised in his father’s household. And yet the son still chose to leave the safety, protection, provision, and goodness of his ever-loving parent. Even still, after the prodigal had been wasteful and irresponsible with the inheritance, he came home, asking to become the lowest of the lows, because, after all, being a slave in his father’s house was better than being separated from his father.

And the father… Oh, how he came running. He knew the sins his son had committed, and he still dropped everything to come running to meet his boy. He didn’t care about where the prodigal had been. All that mattered was that his son had returned.

I had never been so moved by a story before. I sat on the hard, wooden pew of the tabernacle with tears in my eyes. I was utterly equal with the prodigal, no better or worse than the man who ran. But, just like the lost son, I wanted to return to my Father—the One who didn’t care where I had been or what I had done. The One who simply wanted me at home with Him and resting in His presence. I was in awe of God, who willingly rescued me from myself and welcomed me graciously into His endless kindness and mercy.

I practically ran down the aisle when the altar call was given. I fell to my knees, weeping at the goodness of my Father. I was that prodigal, and God’s goodness was still outstretched, even after all the time I had spent running from Him and clinging to lukewarm Christianity.

My Father wanted me. He welcomed me. He put my past behind me and set before me a new race to run—one that involved a lifelong calling.

The next night at camp came quickly, and the speaker dove into Luke 8 and the story of the bleeding woman. I listened hungrily as if my soul was finally being fed after years of starvation.

As the night began to conclude, the speaker asked if anyone in the room needed healing. Several people raised their hands, and the scene before me became one of the most memorable days of my life.

A girl, maybe seventeen years old, lifted her trembling hand above her head. Then a leader raised her hand. Hand after hand after hand was lifted. We did the most powerful thing we knew to do—we prayed.

Chills ran through me as a girl off to my left lifted both hands. The room went silent as she spoke. “My scars are gone,” she said, sobs racking her body. “My self-harm scars are gone.”

A counselor stepped forward, too, with tears in her eyes. “I’ve had chronic back pain for over a decade, and it’s gone now.”

“I don’t need my glasses anymore!” another girl shouted.

As more miracles were revealed, my entire world blurred. For so long, I had believed miracles like these were strictly limited to Biblical times, that God’s miracles had stopped when the final words of Revelation were written. But there at the altar of the camp, I stood in awe of the living, miracle-working God who still proves His power, even now.

Deeply moved by the previous two nights at camp, I woke up the next day, expectancy pumping adrenaline through my veins. Though the day was filled with activities and bonding, I was looking most forward to seeing God’s hand once again before carrying everything home with me. Finally, after a dinner of chicken that tasted more like fish, I sat in the creaky, wooden pews one more time, waiting for the message.

The speaker dissected the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego and their faith that carried them through literal flames. Like other stories, I’d heard this one time and time again, but it took on a new light as I listened intently. The trio had been young—around twenty years old—and they were brave enough to stand up against the king. They were young, but their faith indeed was strong. A fire ignited within me to be as courageous and obedient as them.

But how was I to do that?

As a Christian, I knew I was called to be a witness and a light. But there were so many ways to do that! I didn’t even know what I wanted to do career-wise, so how was I to know how I was supposed to leave my mark on the world? How was I to be like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego?

My heart froze in my chest. Being a servant of God obviously was more than just sitting around and worshipping Him. It was being active for Him and sharing His love through servanthood. People like Billy Graham and Martin Luther King Jr. radically impacted the world through ministry. Then there were people like C. S. Lewis and Corrie ten Boom who obeyed God’s calling and were able to bring countless people to Christ. But what was my calling? Who was He calling me, an average girl from Missouri, to be?

Everyone I knew seemed to have their lives planned out. One classmate wanted to be a veterinarian and another was going to head into the military. My brother was going to be an actuary and his friend was going to be a police officer. But me? I loved to write, and I had been told on more than one occasion that writing was simply a hobby and could never become anything more than that.

“Lord,” I prayed quietly. “Who do you want me to be? What purpose did you create me for?”

Oh, how the Lord revealed His faithfulness in that moment. As the final service of camp concluded, the pastor prayed a final prayer over the upcoming generation—that we would be on fire for the Lord and that He would direct our paths. He began listing off careers that God could use, and my heartbeat slowed to little more than a hum.

“Lawyers. Doctors. Policemen.”

All I wanted to be was an author, but that wasn’t possible. My writing certainly wasn’t good enough nor could the “hobby” ever become an occupation. Besides, how could God use an author to further His kingdom?

“Firefighters. Mothers. Construction workers.”

The speaker continued to rattle off careers as my doubts tore through my dreams. Surely God couldn’t use me to write books. He hadn’t done it in the past, so why would He start now? But the battle came to an abrupt ceasefire as one word rang through the air.

“Authors.”

My head spun and my vision darkened at the edges. Had I just heard correctly? But an overwhelming peace overtook me, and I knew—deeply in my soul—that being an author was exactly what God wanted of me. And as that knowledge settled in my skin, authors began flashing through my mind. C. S. Lewis. J. R. R. Tolkien. Dante Alighieri. Jerry B. Jenkins. Francine Rivers. Karen Kingsbury.

God had used authors in mighty ways, so why would I be an exception?

Armed with what I knew God wanted me to be, I headed home the next day with determination driving my pencil as I sat down to write for God’s glory.

Though I pursued His calling on my life and continued to write fictional stories with the good news of the Gospel weaved into them, my faith was far from perfect.

In 2019, my family and I had no choice but to leave our church of four years. Scripture was being unfairly exploited, spiritual gifts were being abused, and the church was divided against itself. We tried making amends, but it only led to gaslighting and emotional manipulation. Devastatingly, I again lost all my friends and the people I had grown to think of as family. I lost relationships I’d hoped to nurture.

Finding a new church was easy, though. My best friend of five years was the pastor’s daughter at a nearby church, and my family and I decided to try it out. We all immediately fit in—I had my bestie, my brother had friends from school, and my parents knew many other adults there. There was an active youth group that I adored, and my parents were both able to dive into men’s and women’s ministries. It became home in the blink of an eye, and I quickly regained my trust in Christians after having lost it because of what happened at our previous church.

Shortly after joining this new church and having a home again, my pastor sat down with the youth group on a Sunday night. He smiled and his eyes shimmered with optimism.

“I’m planning a mission trip to Vietnam,” he said. “Who’s in?”

I kept my hand down as my mind began spinning. Vietnam was a communist country, wasn’t it? And Christianity wasn’t treated very kindly, right? And the food…?

But I also didn’t have an excuse.

I slowly lifted my hand with hesitance, still not entirely sold on the decision. When I got home that night, I prayed fervently for wisdom and understanding. Just before I went to bed, I flipped my Bible open to the book of Isaiah, which I had been studying. When I got to chapter six, my heart nearly stopped.

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’” (New International Version).

Send me.

Those two words bounced off the walls of my mind until it was all I could hear. Send me. I sighed, ran a hand through my hair, and leaned back in my seat at my desk.

“Send me, Lord,” I whispered, surrendering my fears to God. “Send me.”

On December 30th, 2019, I found myself sitting in the middle seat of a Delta airplane headed to Vietnam. After over thirty hours of travel time and an overabundance of jetlag, I breathed in the thick, muggy air of Southeast Asia on December 31st—which just so happened to be my seventeenth birthday—with nothing but my worn Converse and a small carryon suitcase. Though I was nothing short of exhausted, I was ready to be the hands and feet of Christ.

While much of my trip must remain confidential due to safety concerns and privacy, one moment stood out to me the most: the underground church.

Ironically, the underground church wasn’t underground at all. In fact, it was on the top floor of a home. Though it was January at this point, it was a cozy seventy degrees that night. I slipped off my shoes and was welcomed into the home by a warm smile and a bowl of Vietnamese bananas, which are strangely small yet incredibly sweet. We made our way to the very top floor to find a room filled with rows of chairs and a small TV with Vietnamese song lyrics on it.

As music filled the air, I closed my eyes. I didn’t know what song the church was singing or what the lyrics were, but there was still a connection—all language barriers had been supernaturally removed, and we were united in the spirit, both American and Vietnamese believers.

When one song shifted to another, a familiar tune made my breath hitch. My heart nearly stopped as I began putting lyrics to the melody, and the words began flowing from the English speakers in the room.

Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee… How great Thou art.

Half the room sang in Vietnamese, and the other half sang in English, both languages crying out to God and praising Him for His goodness. I lifted my hands, letting the history of Babel momentarily be forgotten. We sang together in the freedom of Christ, united as children of God.

When I opened my tear-filled eyes, I noticed one thing and one thing alone: The windows were open.

In a country where Christianity isn’t encouraged, we were singing loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear without shame or fear. Our voices surely echoed through the buildings around us, filling the silence of night with the praise of Christ. Filling the deadness of atheism and Buddhism with hope of the living God.

We very easily could have been removed from the home if any police officers found us that night. Yet we continued to sing with the windows open, not fearing the possibilities of what might happen. We lifted our voices to God, trusting in His protection and timing.

I left a small piece of my heart in the church that day, and returning to my home church in Missouri was a rude awakening. After seeing the body of Christ meet in secret, I realized how spoiled I am in America—I get to go to church freely, talk about my faith, and listen to the word of God be spoken a couple of times per week. And yet, I still would hide my faith from my coworkers and friends.

The Lord convicted me of that, and He taught me to sing with the windows open—to praise God even in uncomfortable situations without any reservations or hesitations. My job was to proclaim His name, even when it wasn’t safe or comfortable to do so.

While I didn’t take as much home from the trip as I would have liked, that night in the hidden church is a memory I still carry with me as I continue my journey of faith.

But again, my faith wavered when I had to leave my church in 2022—the one I had loved for three years. All the people there had become closer than family, and I was fully convinced I would spend the rest of my life there. I imagined myself getting married there with my pastor as the officiant, dedicating my children there, and growing old there. But that entire fantasy was demolished when the community I once had fell apart. When I made the difficult decision to leave, I was immediately treated with scorn and was told some awful things that I still struggle with today. I lost most of my trust in Christians due to those, and in a way, I had to completely restart my faith journey.

It took me months to rediscover who God is and separate His image from the image His people created for me. I had to learn that even if Christians can be cruel and inflict pain deeper than I had ever come to know, God is still good. He is not defined by man nor by the pain I felt. God is God, even when His children don’t reflect that.

Since leaving that church in July of 2022, God has revealed Himself to me in countless ways. From proving Himself to be the comfort I want to the healing I need, He has shown Himself faithful. He never once left me in my despair or pain. He never left me wandering. He never left me in silence. He brought joy from my deepest depression and hope from my shattered soul. He gave me a new church family—one that seeks holiness in everything and strives to be a people pleasing to God. He has given me new friends—ones who support me and my calling and do everything in their power to push me closer to Jesus. I have two jobs that I love and enjoy, and I have my family who has never left my side.

My journey hasn’t been an easy one. It’s been filled with depression and seasons darker than I could have ever imagined, but God is always so faithful to meet me where I am and pick up the pieces of my heart. I know seeking Christ will never be easy and many more trials will come, but I have hope in my redeemer, the author and perfecter of my faith. I have hope in the living God who promises never to leave or forsake me.

I have hope.