I Once Was Lost...

I realized a little while ago that I talk about my faith a lot on this blog. I suppose it is because it is at the very center of who I am. I sincerely don't know where I would be if HE hadn't found me. It took awhile for God to get my attention, but when he did he changed my world forever.

A couple weeks ago my friend Denise wrote the sweetest post about sharing her testimony. Like her, I was beginning to wonder if maybe my testimony had become an old, over told story. She shared about how a friend of hers referred to our testimonies as 'birth stories.'
And that God wanted us to share those stories for him, just as much as we mommas love to share our own children's birth stories.
And we DO love to share those stories, don't we?!
Whenever women are together and someone starts talking about their child's birth, all the other women around her immediately want to share their experiences too. Whether they just had their little babies or they are great-grandmas, every mother loves to share her baby's birth story.

This idea just makes my heart smile. So even thought I used to think that my 'birth story' had grown old, I now remind myself that my Father never tries of hearing it.
Thanks Denise ;-)

So I decided it was time to share mine with you all. The story of how I came to be a part of God's family. I tend to write the way I would talk and am terrible at editing so this ended up being a pretty long post. So I decided to break it up into a couple parts.
:)

My Birth Story: Part 1

I was raised in a Catholic home. We went to church every Sunday and our family was very involved with the church. I remember sitting in the front pew every Sunday in awe of what I saw before me. I loved the feeling I had in church. I believed in God and all that jazz, but never really knew Him personally. He was this huge amazing thing that I couldn't fully grasp. Still, I love him and prayed to him everyday both with my family and on my own.
Then something happened that made me question the very existence of the one who 'supposedly' created me and loved me.

My mom died of cancer.

I hate writing those words.

I can remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a horrible day in April when I was 10 years old. I felt like my whole world had fallen apart and wished that the ground would just swallow me up so that I wouldn't have to feel like I was dying too.

It was in the moments just after her death as I sat in the hospital waiting room that I declared in the deepest parts of my heart that there was NO God. How could a loving God take her away? Why would he? It didn't make any sense, and so I consequently concluded that He didn't exist.

I spent the next few years avoiding the grieving process. Denial baby.
Sure I cried. In fact many times I would lock myself in my room and cry until I had no more tears. I remember seeing a grief counsellor, who suggested that my dad buy punching bags for each of us kids to have in our rooms. I also remember not long after I got mine, I punched it so hard I punched a huge hole into it. I was mad. No. I was furious. I couldn't wrap my head around losing her.

I suppose I grieved like a child. Sometimes I even let my mind convince myself that it was all just a bad dream. I almost convinced myself that maybe everyone was lying to me and she didn't really die, but was somewhere out there looking for me. Now, I realize that that's completely insane, it's not like she was in an accident and had amnesia. She died of leukemia. Even still, the thought of her being gone forever was just to much for my 10 year old heart to bear.

Growing up without her was hard (as I'm sure you can imagine.) I was confused, lonely, and angry. Now, don't get me wrong, I wasn't theses things all the time, sometimes I was genuinely happy. I do have a lot of great memories and my dad did an amazing job at raising us by himself. For the most part, though, I was just very good at burying what I didn't want to feel.
Because truly deep down inside I was broken........

To be continued.......