I apprehensively dressed for the day, carefully choosing all black to project the most intimidating image that I could. Black nails and lipstick, eyeliner, shirt and pants. It was the day my little sister and I were being taken from the orphanage where we’d been for the past three years to a private children’s home. As the child services vehicle wound its way through the mountains of Costa Rica, I fought dismay at the thought of living in the jungle. I remember praying as a child that God would save me from the cycles of witchcraft, parties, drugs, and violence that had filled my childhood, having no idea how that prayer was about to be answered. We pulled up to the gate, and I apprehensively stepped out of the truck and right into the arms of the home’s founder. Shock engulfed me. I had never been greeted with a warm welcome. Not in the prior home and never, ever by my own family. Over the next few months, I tried to keep my guard up, but this strange place made me curious. They talked about Jesus, hugged all the kids and even when we were disciplined, there was a difference. There was no intention to harm, only of loving correction. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. Since that day six years ago, my journey of healing has continued. I find it funny how I used to say I couldn’t stand to be around children. I look back now and realize that they reminded me of the suffering of my own… Read More
