CROSSing Paths Again

Growing up in a southern home, I had this unbelievable pressure to be this perfect

Christian. The pressure came from both my dad and moms side of the family. My dads life

was a roller coaster ride, as most peoples lives are, and if it wasnt a heartbreak on my moms

side of the family, it was some sort of heartbreaking story. Somehow their families always found

peace and assurance in their faith, something I always envied.

My dad has 2 older sisters, one six years older than him and one six years older than her.

My dads parents grew up in the time of the Great Depression, so money was a prize possession

to them from the day they began understanding the concept of money. His parents worked

incredibly hard for their children, one working for Gerber and the other in missionary, to provide

them with the life they wished they lived when they grew up. Because of his busily working

parents, my dads sisters took a great part in raising him, forming an unbelievable bind between

them. Together the three of them faced most everything together, but with life came obstacles.

Presented to me in my freshman seminar class, I learned the term unfavorable

circumstance. This word spoke volumes to me, because everyone faces circumstances they did

not ask for or wish for; they were unfavorable. Through one financial instability to another, one

knee injury to another, and one heartbreak to another, my dad not only found himself relying on

his sisters, but also on God. My dad, the most compassionate man I know, became the rock in

my life, even through his unfavorable circumstances.

My mom grew up with an older brother, probably as pesky and irritating as mine, and

two parents who never consumed a drop of alcohol. My moms dad switched homes consistently

in his childhood after getting abused, both verbally and physically, by whatever intoxicated

aunt/uncle he resided with at that time. As a saving grace, both of my grandparents turned to
their church to get them through the rough times. Later, my grandpa was drafted to fight in

World War II which changed his life for the worst. After his years serving, he found himself

struggling with severe depression to the point where he could not take it anymore, and my mom

blamed herself. She lost faith, and she lost herself until the day she met my dad.

That is where their faith started. My mom grew up Baptist, and my dad grew up

Presbyterian. As a compromise, they decided to become Methodist when starting a family, but

their family would not start as planned. By 1997, my mom found herself with two heartbreaks,

two souls lost, but most importantly, two miscarriages. My parents went to many fertility clinics

and OBGYNs, until they lost hope and lost faith. It is Gods plan, they thought, so they

decided to adopt.

On February 6, 1998, my parents got a phone call saying their son was about to be

delivered in St. Petersburg, Florida, so my parents rushed down to Florida to meet their baby boy

with a head full of black hair. Their hearts filled with joy over their new baby. Two months later,

my mom found herself staring with tears filling her eyes as she looked at her pregnancy test with

a positive sign indicating her pregnancy. Unbeknownst to her, she would deliver her one, and

only, biological child nine months later.

January 22,1999 at 12:34 pm, my mom, brought me into the world. Instantly my mom

became my best friend, even through the ups and downs. I grew up with that pesky older brother

I mentioned earlier, an amazing puppy dog, and my two wonderful parents; I had the best

support system there was. I spent most of my full weekends sitting on the bleachers watching my

brother endlessly play baseball. Weekends filled with baseball meant weekends without church.

At such a young age, I adapted to not attending church every week, but I always envied my
cousins who were strong in their faith. Once baseball got reeled in under control, I finally took

opportunities to attend church again.

At this point in my life, I was in middle school. In the Methodist church, most teenagers

get confirmed in the seventh grade, but everyone knows middle school is the worst three years of

your life. I tried to make the most of my confirmation group with the wishy-washy girls, but it

got hard. Like most other middle schoolers, I put that fake face on , pretending I did not care.

DNOW, a weekend which the church devoted their time and energy into getting into the

heart and souls of middle and high schoolers, rolled around in February of my ninth-grade year.

Most of the girls who were in my confirmation class in seventh grade had planned on joining the

same DNOW group, even though we went our separate ways to rival high schools. We all stayed

in touch, but to my knowledge, we were becoming estranged.

It was a Sunday night in the beginning of January, and I anxiously waited for my church

to post the DNOW groups while sitting in my den. My den was an old-fashioned room filled

with beige walls and the standard Bible verses on many canvases offering a hint of southern

comfort. My dog, Abby, continuously walked by, and I would listen to the sound of her joints

cracking and popping, hinting at old age. Matt, my brother, hid in the newly finished basement

playing some shooting game Santa just brought him for his new Xbox. Behind me, the TV was

on a college football bowl game, and my dad slept on the dark teal recliner in the corner of the

room while my mom knitted away at her new project she just started. The countdown roared

through my head, 5 more minutes until the lists drop 4 more minutes until the lists drop.

The computer monitor illuminated on my face and echoed through my eyes. Eight oclock hit,

and the link on the website went live. Then, the room went silent, and I could no longer hear the

referees whistles echoing through the television or the clicking of my moms knitting needles.
Within seconds of opening the link, I found myself staring at a Microsoft Excel document with

my name estranged from the rest of my confirmation group. Loneliness and disappointment crept

through my veins and up my spine. I had officially been left out of a group where I was supposed

to be myself and feel at home. At that moment, gazing at the Excel spreadsheet on my

desktop computer in the family room, I realized if I could not trust the people I went to church

with, why was I trying so hard? That frigid January day left a scar on my faith for years to come.

A couple of years floated by, and I found myself entering the doors of high school for the

first time as an enrolled student. As a high school girl, school troubles, boy troubles, and friend

troubles, are bound to happen, and a girl needs a pal like Jesus to rely on, but my church

experience as a middle schooler ruined that relationship for me. For the next three and a half

years I attended church for sacred holidays and some rare Sundays when my parents felt most

inclined to go. My cousins, on the other hand, progressed in their faith as they became

YoungLife and Wesley leaders in their communities, leaving me behind.

Graduating high school felt like a new beginning and a fresh outlook on life. For my

entire eighteen and a half years of living, I have lived in the same three story house off Murdock

Road. I went through school with the same people, rarely coming across new faces. I took

college as a new opportunity to start over and make a name for who I am and what I stand for.

Little did I know out of 35,000 new people, I would find a small group to help get me back on

track.

Ever since moving to KSU, I have found some of the most genuine, wholeheartedly good

people. These are the people who helped me renew my faith and get back on the right path.

Every Tuesday I dedicate an hour and a half of my night to a student ministry, YoungLife.

Through YoungLife, I have met some unbelievable people to accompany on my walk in my faith
and who have encouraged me to become a leader in the local community. This new chapter of

my life at KSU has helped me find a new beginning on my journey with my faith.

The perfect ending to this story did not come over night, and I am still working on

myself. Through KSU I have gotten involved in YoungLife, The Living Room, and church most

every Sunday. While I am proud of myself now, I do live with regret of my decisions in the past.

I have made it back, and I am piecing myself together piece by piece. My testimony might not be

the greatest or most compelling, but I needed someone there for me in high school that I did not

have. In my hometown, even the girls who went to church and were religious were two-faced.

Im immensely proud of myself for finally coming back up to bat with my faith.