(Inspired by Phil Velez’s “God, I forgive you”)

You can call me blessed.

Why? Well let me tell you a bit about that. As a small child I was born to Puerto Rican parents (that’s the first reason!). My mother had been married just a few months before I came along. While I was adorable, my father was not necessarily the greatest family man. In my heart I believe he wanted me once but life took us in two very opposite directions. My father was long and slender. Handsome, to say the least. Unfortunately he would play just a small part in my life yet maybe that was exactly how it should be.

Life goes on.

By the age of four my mother was taking care of me on her own. She was doing her best but money was scarce. She worked long hours sometimes causing her to leave me overnight with my babysitter. Now mom, if you are reading this, I love you and it was never your fault.

I came hame one day complaining that my “privates” hurt. My mother immediately rushed me to the hospital to seek medical attention. To her heartbreak, the man staying in the baby sitter’s home had been abusing me sexually and had left physical evidence that would later lead to his arrest and conviction.

Innocence lost.

Though my mother’s intentions were honorable she became a victim of circumstance. Poverty led her to leave me in that home and in the very vicious cycle of the family court system it is that very reason they used to strip her of her rights as a parent. Sadly some of the people closest to her would make her feel responsible for something that was, in no way, her fault.

That very same year I was taken from my mother’s custody and given to a family as a ward of the state.

Odd man out.

Now I could tell you a lot about that family but the reality is, I loved them. It started out well. My foster mother was not a woman of warmth but she was a good mom. Her children did their best to welcome me and love me. I was not raised in a house of horrors. As I grew older I was regularly sent to Puerto Rico to visit my biological grandmother and learn about my culture. It was not until I was about eleven or twelve that things began to change.

I was a late bloomer and very much a tomboy. So when I developed even the most minimal features of a growing young woman someone took notice.

Daddy’s girl?

At this point I was very attached to my foster father. He taught me to do many things. Ride a bike, paint club houses, all the “boy” things I thought.

To be honest he was the only father figure I had really known and the attention he gave me felt as though I was loved me as his own daughter. I never thought that would change…until it did.

For the sake of this article I will not go into gory detail.

I will tell you that I remember. And what I remember. What I dreamed about for 15 years after. Well…

No little girl deserves that

By age fourteen, I was thrown out of my foster home and told (by my foster mother) that it was most likely attributed to my promiscuous, dishonest, and delusional nature. To set the record straight he was forty-seven. I was in no way interested or asked for what was done to me.

Girls, girls, girls…

The group home was meant to be a place of refuge but I must tell you I do not remember it fondly. Most of the girls had been beaten, molested or raped. Forgotten, abandoned and basically broken. Now I can tell you with no shame that I was quite angry with God at this point in my life. If He did exist, I thought “He hates me and I hate Him.”

It would be some time before I would truly seek Him or even get to know who He is.

It was not until late in my twenties that I would have a true relationship with God. It took some very dark and winding roads in life to bring me back to the very thing that would free me from those memories that plagued my youth. I found great people that showed me that my purpose reached further than I could have ever fathomed.

Ignite Revolution gave me the very thing God created me for…purpose.

I have decided…

God I forgive you.

It sounds crazy doesn’t it. Forgiving God?! Yet it is a very real thing. Now do not take this article as some self serving bit. I am not grand, self righteous or all knowing. It took years of real struggle to get it through my head that absolutely everything happens for a reason. (Romans 8:28)

All things worked for my good.

And I figured out some stuff:

  • I recognize that my suffering only gave me a real connection to others who have suffered.
  • I am not a victim. I am a survivor.
  • God was never angry. He held every tear that I have ever (and will ever) cry.

He’s not done with me yet…

Abused, abandoned, cracked but not crushed. It is all a choice. I choose to follow God. I choose to believe what I lived will only serve to glorify everything He can do in light of horrible circumstance and tragedy. I choose to be a survivor not a victim. I choose to tell my story and not be silent.

In 2015 I recorded a portion of this for my church. I pray that if there is just one young girl or boy that is in this situation. You would reach out. Forgive God. He is not done with you yet.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.