The Answer Found Me.

It was Saturday, July 23rd, 2011. I didn’t see it coming. It hit me like an avalanche to the face. It’s often like this, isn’t it? The least expected things are the ones that hit us the hardest. This one was no exception. I was left confused, angry, and desperate. Oh, but desperation can be a good thing, because it was desperation that drove me not to stay like that. I needed answers. And whether I liked it or not, deep down I knew where to find them. And I did.

I grew up in a “Christian” household, or so I thought. I mean, we used to go to church, had dusty Bibles at home, and prayed, usually before bed. That made us Christians, right? Ha, not really! It’s way deeper than that. It always is. The portrait seemed almost real, but it was far from it.

My mom was an abused wife, manipulated by society and the machista mindset of my father. But my mom thought to herself, “ We’re going to church, it’s going to get better.” I thought so too. Until my dad did it again.

My father met her at church. By the time my mom found out, it was too late. She was expecting. My dad was moving in with her. He had made up his mind, and we were not in his plan. The church folks told my mom she must have done something wrong. She needed to leave. So we did.

The problem was, we left and never went back to another place. We tasted one, and it tasted bitter. Too bitter. And when you get a bad flavor of something, it makes it too risky to try it again.

I was just a kid, so I followed wherever Mom said to go. Every now and then, lyrics from the songs we used to sing would pop into my head: “Alabaré, alabaré, Alabaré, alabaré, Alabaré a mi Señor.” I’d remember the old ladies with their cheap dresses and flags, dancing all over the place, people falling down and rejoicing, the person with the mic putting smelly oil on people’s heads.

Some people would take me to different churches from time to time, and they did feel different, better. Maybe not all of them are bad, I thought. What if we go to another one?

“No,” Mom said. “They’re all the same.” So I believed her.

You give what you have, and my mom wasn’t left with much to give. I get it now. I didn’t at the time, but looking back, I empathize with that version of her. She couldn’t give me what she didn’t receive. She turned her back on the very thing that could have held us together. Her decisions caught up with me. Hurt people hurt people. That’s so true. Her pain became my pain.

They say the first 18 years shape who a person becomes, and it’s true. My life was shaped around dysfunction, division, cussing, abuse of every kind, alcohol, and overperformance. The result? A defensive, lonely, insecure, agnostic 17-year-old who thought life was way too unfair. Everything I was living up to that day, July 23, 2011, had been chosen for me. I didn’t choose the pain, the dysfunction, the broken marriage, the hatred, or the verbal, physical, and sexual abuse. I didn’t choose any of it. For the longest time, it felt like it chose me.

I was mad at life. Mad at the idea that I had to deal with someone else’s decisions. I was confused and didn’t know what to do with my insecurities. I tried to find answers in books. I explored different religions on my own. I saw it affect my relationships. I always felt misunderstood, but if I’m honest, I didn’t even understand myself. I needed answers.

On Saturday, July 23rd, 2011, my mom shared one of the most monstrous things my dad could have done to her. I couldn’t deny it; he did it to me too. It was perhaps the hardest thing to hear at 17. The pain was too heavy to bear. It brought me to my knees. So I prayed. I prayed the prayer I always told myself I wouldn’t pray:

“God, if You are real, if You are even listening, I need answers.”

Have you ever cried so hard that you fell asleep? That night was one of those.

I said it before, sometimes desperation can be a good thing. I woke up the next day and texted one of my classmates, Lin. She always talked about this “church,” the Holy Spirit, and being “ministered to” by things I couldn’t comprehend. I remember the text, and I know she does too, because it was so unlike me, especially to admit I needed help:

“Hey, what time is the service at your church? I’m going.”

To my surprise, she replied, “Michelle, please stop making fun of us.”

Lol. Poor thing! I bullied them a lot. (I’ve repented for that.) Anyway, we exchanged a few texts, and I convinced her I wasn’t lying. She told me to be there by 11:15 a.m., so I showed up at 11:00, just to be punctual.

What I didn’t know was that this kind of church sometimes ran long, so I stood in the lobby full of people waiting for the earlier service to end. All these strangers were smiling at me, saying to each other, “¡Qué alegría saludarte!”, “What a joy to greet you!”

Weirdos, I thought. This is exactly why I don’t come to these places.

Just as I was about to leave, Lin and her friends showed up. The earlier service ended, and we headed inside.

Listen, I’m not an emotional person. Yet I couldn’t hold back my tears. Some of the kids from my high school were there, and I didn’t want them to see me as “weak.” I tried to hold it in, but suddenly, that sound you make when you try not to cry, the sobbing, escaped. It was electrifying.

I sat down for the service. They had a guest speaker, Perla Parker, a missionary. The room was packed! Yet it felt like it was just the two of us. She began to preach, and in the kindest, most grandmotherly voice, she said:

“There’s a young lady here who’s wondering if the Lord is real. She asked the Lord for answers. Honey, He sent me to tell you, you don’t need answers. He is your answer.”

I blacked out. My body started shaking. Am I having a heart attack? An epileptic seizure? What is happening? I thought. I looked around and saw the same students I used to make fun of, holding hands, asking God to touch my life and give me a real encounter with Him.

Perla kept preaching, and every word pierced my heart, yet somehow healed it at the same time. She made an altar call to give our lives to Jesus. I didn’t have the strength or humility to go alone. Hilary, one of the students (not even a friend), took my hand and said, “I’m taking you there.”

What a woman. I am so grateful. Because at that moment, my life was forever changed. Just like the Bible says: Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. That encounter changed my life.

And so began the journey of discovering who I really am. Was it easy? No. I had to relearn how to live, think, and behave. Remember when I said the first 18 years shape who a person becomes? That’s true, until time meets God. The One who redeems time. The One who can make the impossible possible in just a moment in His presence.

Friend, I don’t know where you are in life right now. I don’t know what your experience has been with Christianity. But I couldn’t help but share what I’ve experienced in this first blog. If you’re here for the journey, you need to know that everything I’ve overcome and become is because of Him.

Church hurt? I get it. I’m not here to convince you what to do, just to share another side of the story. I found one that tasted sweeter. Still full of imperfections, because it’s full of broken people, but that same place, full of imperfect people, has brought tremendous healing to my soul.

The first 17 years of my life, I let pain define who I was. Pain was a season, not my story. The same goes for you, too.

The Answer found me, and in that, I found far more than I ever needed.

Doing the Work:

• What pain or disappointment have you allowed to define you for too long?

• What would it look like for you to give God another chance, to “taste” something sweeter again?

• What’s one small step you can take this week towards healing or faith?