My story’s unique as I have already gone to be with the Lord.
My parents are believers, bringing me up since day one in the church. As a young boy, I was diagnosed with autism and later in life, bipolar disorder. School never came easy and my parents were strong advocates for my education.
In my early teens, my father and I attended a youth retreat with our youth group. To see so many young people spend the weekend together worshipping our Lord was a true wonder.
During the retreat, the speaker held an altar call, stating that God had the power to heal it all, take away the pain, the depression, the anxiety. I believed it, but when the speaker asked us to raise our hands if we had been healed, I felt no different, as though God hadn’t answered my prayer.
I expected the pain and mental health struggles to dissipate instantly. When they didn’t, I thought God forgot me. In pain, I turned to my dad and asked to leave.
To ease the hurt, I rebelled. My parents struggled to get me to go to church. I didn’t feel that someone who forgot me should get praise.
But the seed was always there. I knew who God was, and I didn’t forget. My parents still raised me right, teaching me to be a kind and caring young man. And that is what I became: a man with a special place in my heart for people experiencing homelessness and poverty. I always did what I could to help those in need.
I continued to mature and began to understand God’s word. I went to my mom and I shared my internal battle with God, a feeling of conviction.
She asked me if I wanted to be saved, held my hands, and sat with me while I prayed. It was beautiful to finally surrender years of pain and struggle.
God never left me, patiently giving me time to work through it, proving His word true (1 Corinthians 13:4).
I am forever grateful for my parents, always my advocates, who believed in me and prayed for my salvation. I know they mourn, but thanks to them and their determination to teach me about God, I am dancing in heaven, singing praise to the King of Kings.
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