I was born into a Muslim home, yet the Lord wrote a different story over my life.
The name I bear is not from my bloodline. It is the name of the missionary who brought the light of Christ to my parents. Even my name is a testimony. A ttestimony that came with a cross.
While I was still a teenager, my parents were taken from me. Killed by their own family because they chose Jesus. In one day, I lost home, covering, and the sound of a mother’s voice.
After that, I knocked on doors that never opened.
No one wanted me. No family claimed me.
I have no brothers. I have no sisters.
In their eyes, I was a curse child.
The one to be avoided. The one to be forgotten.
The years since have not been easy.
Worse things have happened. Worse things are still happening. There are nights I have wept until my body is wet and my prayers are only groans. There are mornings I woke up wondering if anyone in this world sees me.
In all of it, God has been faithful. When people turned away, He stayed. When I was hungry, He keeps me alive. When i am alone, He whispers, “I am with you.”
The Lord has been on my side through every closed door and every broken place. I do not understand all of this but I know the time is not right yet. I am still in the waiting room of God.
But I know who holds tomorrow.Jehovah liveth.
And I believe with everything in me that one day, His mercy will break through for me.
To you who is reading this with tears in your own eyes. Do not give up. God is taking us through life courses we never asked for, but He is in every lesson. He is refining us, teaching us how to trust Him when nothing makes sense.
One day, when the battle is finally over, when the last tear is wiped and the last wound is healed, we will stand. We will wear the crown He promised to those who endured.
We are not forgotten. We are not a curse. We are seen. We are loved. We are held by the Father.
Love and prayers