 |
||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||
Testimony
Jesus would like for everyone to have their own unique life story that reflect how He came into their lives and changed them forever because they believed on Him.
2 Peter 3:9 tells us that God is not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance. Today I would like to tell my story of how Jesus came into my life.
Hello my name is j Tovar and I wanted to share how God became real to me about 15 yrs ago here at Grace Community Church. It was not at this building it was at the old building on Crescent Landing.
There were 3 simple things that any one of God’s people could to do that caused my life story to reflect the saving grace of Jesus Christ. Those 3 things are, laborer for the Lord, Pray for the lost and share the Good News.
Number 1, Be a willing laborer for the Lord. Matthew 9:37 says, “The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.”
Number 2, Pray the Lord open the hearts of the lost to receive the Gospel. In Acts 16:14 The Lord opened a woman named Lydia’s heart to heed the things spoken by Paul and as a result her and her house hold were baptized.
And number 3, Ask God for open doors to share the Word when ever and where ever He leads. Paul asked the Colossians in Colossians 4:3 to pray that God open doors for him share the Word.
As I share my story, listen for how the Lord used 3 people to accomplish these 3 simple but vital things to help my life story reflect the saving grace of Jesus Christ.
See I was working and a lady was coming out of the of the sanctuary doors and she stop in the foyer and asked if I wanted be to prayed over by the pastor that was coming down the ale to the door where we were standing at. I replied to her by saying I didn’t attend service so I had no idea what the service was about and that’s when she said just stand here and let him pray over you and I said ok.
When he came out of the sanctuary doors and put a hand on my fore head I didn’t feel anything so when he put his other hand on my heart I got weak at my knees and I went to the floor on my back and I had chills going down my body and I felt Jesus real peace in my heart. And when I open my eyes up my night supervisor was standing over and he helped me up and ask me do I know what just happen and I said no and he replied to me by saying the Holy Spirit had just touched my heart and God has big plans for my life.
It was not over yet because as I was fixing the cards in the pew another pastor came and laid his hand on my head and I went down again and thats when I felt the Peace in my heart again that’s when the Holy Spirit was whispering in my ear letting me know there is a real God just call and He will come to your rescue anytime in your life.
Thank you for letting me share how God reveal to me He is real.
Just call out His name and He will be there for you like He was there for me, and if your life story already reflect the saving grace of Jesus Christ, Labor for the Lord, Pray for the lost and ask God for open doors to share His Word
God Bless you
In the early morning hours of September 1st 2005, sleeping restlessly, I became aware of a warm red light filling the darkness of my bedroom. As I sensed the pulsing illumination, I listened intently for an accompanying noise. Still on the edge of sleep, I realized the glow in the room was coming from my husband’s alarm clock. I thought it was strange that there was no sound—the volume was obviously turned down. Why wasn’t he getting up, I wondered? For him to let the alarm go on for so long was unusual, and I started to worry that he would be late for work.
Then I remembered. Panic began to rise in my chest; quickly I calmed myself with the thought that I had surely been dreaming. In this disturbing dream my husband Phil was dead…many family members were at our home, the kids had all been told, friends had arrived to comfort us, tears had poured out uncontrollably, and somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear myself screaming. Yes, it must have been a dream. Still, I was afraid to open my eyes. What if he really was dead? Lying there, I imagined that if I stayed very still with eyes squeezed tightly shut, the horror of this dream would fade away with the beginning of the new day.
In the background of my rationalizations the light of the alarm continued to flash, each rhythmic glow a dare to verify my untested theory. Reluctantly, I slid my hand across to Phil’s side of the bed. To this day I can still feel the cool, crisp sheet in the place where his warm body should have been. The reality of his absence gripped my heart, as the unbelievable memories of the night before came flooding back. Tears flowed again as I repeatedly reached for him, eyes still defiantly closed, wishing desperately to wake up from what was rapidly becoming a nightmare. That morning I would begin my first day as a widow.
As time marched on and the initial shock of Phil’s death began to fade, I found being a widow to be both demanding and disconcerting. Not only was I abruptly left without a partner, but I felt the weight of unspoken expectations at every turn. All of a sudden every decision was mine to make at a time when I could hardly remember my name. As my whole being twisted in agony at the thought of life without my husband, the practical pull of daily life continued to demand my attention. Thrust into a fishbowl of well-meaning, sympathetic company, I wavered between the alarming temptation to allow the rising tidal wave of grief to consume me and the equally pressing need to prove that I would not crumble under the weight of despair. The tug-of-war between the desire to drown and the instinct to swim was exhausting. Suddenly my mind was paralyzed by previously inconsequential choices.
Overwhelmed and inexplicably unable to make decisions, I lost the self-confidence on which I had always relied. The moment I lost Phil, I was transformed from a poised, goal-oriented, content woman into a remote, indecisive, despondent ghost. I didn’t recognize myself, I didn’t recognize my life, and I saw no course that would lead me back to the person I used to be. Not only was I lost, but I didn’t care that I was lost. Anguish, fear, confusion and apathy became my constant companions.
Reading about the “stages of grief” frustrated me, because the broad concepts of denial, bargaining, anger, depression and acceptance were not reflective of my daily experiences. The information I sought about being a widow was more personal - I didn’t want to know if other widows had been in denial; I wanted to know if they had worn their husband’s clothes. The bargaining phase did not interest me, but I yearned to find out what widows did with their husbands’ wedding rings. Being angry about losing your life companion was logical, but where was the logic in believing your dead husband could walk through the door any day? Depression threatened to consume me daily, while hope escaped me. Acceptance was a state I couldn’t even consider, so how could I aspire to it? Maddeningly, the “stages of grief” presented a road map that was deceptively linear. Each time I entered what I thought was a new stage I would quickly find myself backtracking and re-visiting an old one. Grief began to seem like an endless maze. I wanted reassurance that I wasn’t going to be lost in this labyrinth forever—I wanted to meet some survivors.
Suddenly I was certain that other widows were the source of the elusive answers about widowhood that plagued me. If I could find women who survived this loss and were willing to talk about it, the compilation of their stories would be the kind of comfort and reassurance I craved. Led by my desire to find out exactly how other women lived through the crushing loss of a husband, I traveled the country spending over one hundred hours speaking to women about their day-to-day life as widows.
The women I met while walking the path God laid out before me changed my life. They told me their stories with courage and honesty. Each one of them allowed me into their sorrow without hesitation, unknowingly urging me to recognize that letting go of my sadness would not mean letting go of Phil. Welcomed into their homes, I met, through stories, pictures and personal treasures, the men they lost. The warmth and love evident in their remembrances demonstrated that it was possible to carry my husband within me, even as I began creating a new life for myself.
Slowly, it became obvious that there is no recipe for living through the loss of someone you love. I learned that grief is as individual as it is universal, and that healing happens one day at a time. Most of all, the intense despair these widows survived and the gratifying lives they lead now taught me to hope: hope for the day when I recognize myself again, hope that I can lead a life of purpose, and hope that love is not only a gift of the past.
The interesting thing was I didn’t feel like I knew anything about being a widow…except that it was thrust upon me, and it wasn’t optional. Sitting at my desk thinking of what to write, I finally settled on the truth—I was so sorry she lost her husband and the months ahead wouldn’t be easy, but I was available to talk anytime she wanted. That short message began a relationship that has changed my life.
Within weeks, the two of us felt an unmistakable kinship created by our loss experiences. We discussed all the things that we hated about widowhood…sometimes in pretty colorful language. It didn’t take long to figure out that speaking to each other could be done in half sentences—the other friend could always fill in the blanks. Some days we needed to cry, other days we needed to laugh, but with each passing day we discovered that we needed each other. Many mornings I woke up, with swollen eyes from an evening of wailing, and ran to my computer to see if I had mail. Her words became my lifeline, or perhaps more accurately, my hope line.
Miraculously, we took turns having break downs; we also took turns carrying the imaginary candle of hope. Each of us believed in the possibility of healing, but neither of us was sure how to go about it. Many days we weren’t sure we even wanted to try. What we didn’t realize at the time was that we were helping each other heal with our every interaction. Our spirits were slowly rebuilt with each tearful conversation, with the quiet acknowledgement of each other’s pain, with the certainty of a pat on the back for a forward step taken, and with the intuitive phone calls that came when the voice on the answering machine didn’t sound quite right.
Michelle was the only person who understood that I wanted to die, but that I would never kill myself. I could tell her that I missed being a wife, but I had no desire to have another husband. One day she would agree with me that neither of us would ever re-marry, and the next day we could jointly agree to the exact opposite course of action. The most telling part of our mutual understanding was that we verbally agreed that given the chance, we would immediately trade our wonderful friendship in for the opportunity to have our husbands back—without hesitation and without any hard feelings! The illogical, roller coaster of grief was much easier to ride with a partner who was willing to either clutch my arm during the frightening drops or encourage me to throw my hands in the air…depending on the day. Somehow Michelle always knew what kind of day it was.
Reflecting on the phrase, “When the Lord closes a door he always opens a window”—I realize that my friendship with Michelle is a window that opened for me after the death of my husband slammed shut a door, with unnerving finality. Through the window of our friendship I am able to see the good that still exists in my life and in the world. The frame of our friendship window was forged by the fire of grief and reinforced by the power of shared experience. Our window is draped in mutual love and unwavering support. Unless you have lived the loss experience you might not notice that our friendship window has a unique style of glass—it allows us to view the world as it could be if we dare to believe in the power of hope. The deafening crack of the door that death closed for me reverberates in my heart and in my daily experience, but when the noise threatens to alter my life view—I just look out the window.
God has been so good to me, as I have walked the journey of grief. From the ashes of Phil’s loss the Widowsbond community, the Widow Match program, and the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation have been born. Through this process I have learned to trust the Lord even when I can’t see where the path he has put me on is leading. I have learned to value every moment, instead of constantly planning for the next one, and I have become more certain than any other time in my life that there are only one set of footprints in the sand—because God is indeed carrying me.
~Michele Neff Hernandez
|
|
|
|
God's Favored Child, THE FOLLOWING IS A STORY OF MY JOURNEY FROM "CRACK TO CHRIST" (C 2 C). IT WAS WRITTEN AS A WAY OF EXPRESSING MY DESIRE TO COUNSEL THOSE IN NEED OF DELIVERANCE FROM DRUGS, ALCHOHOL OR ANY OTHER CHAINS THAT MAY BE BONDING THEM. IT TELLS MY STORY OF A LIFE OF SUBSTANCE ABUSE. IT IS EXPLICIT, AND TRUE. I KNOW THAT THERE WILL BE MIXED OPINIONS AND FEELINGS ABOUT THE THINGS THAT ARE DISCLOSED HERE, BUT I HAVE NO REGRETS ABOUT MY PAST. I AM SECURE IN WHO I AM AS A CHILD OF GOD NOW. I THOUGHT I WOULD SHARE IT WITH YOU IN A MEANS OF EXPLAINING HOW I GOT FROM THERE TO WHERE I AM TODAY. I HOPE YOU TAKE FROM IT WHAT WAS INTENDED...
STORY OF SURVIVAL For those of you who may not have seen me in the past six or seven years, probably have a vivid picture of me as weighing about 98 pounds, sunken in face, very sick looking. You may have crossed my path since then and not recognized me. I now weigh almost double that! My face is full and plump. Yes, my physical appearance has changed quite a bit, but the thing that has changed the most is my inner self. You can say that I have been restored.
Looking back, I see flashes of a life full of pain and sorrow. I think back to the incidences that took me down that dark and lonely road of destruction. There are many things that got me there. My story goes like this: I remember my first encounter with alcohol. I was 16 years old. I was pregnant with my first child. Somehow or another, I got my first taste of alcohol-a beer. Why I decided to drink at that point is beyond me. I only drank tht one beer. I also remember my first encounter with marijuana. I was about 18 then. I can remember almost having an outer body experience. I never knew I could feel so "free". I continued this lifestyle for many years. I became an alcoholic, but cease to smoke marijuana regularly. It just wasn?t my cup of tea. But, I drank almost every day. I remember my Mom telling me, " You can quit if you want to". At that time, I didn't want to. I couldn't. Then later on, I would have my first encounter with pills. Black Beauties were my drug of choice at that time. I almost overdosed one Christmas Eve. After that, I quit doing them.
Then, there was the biggest factor that lead to my total destruction--.crack cocaine. I remember when I smoked my first joint. The person who gave me the joint fail to tell me it was laced with cocaine. After I smoked it, I remember feeling so pleasant. I felt jubilant. Wow, this was great!! Later on, I would start freebasing it. For the next 14 years, crack became my best friend. During that time, I begged, stole, tricked and traded to get my high. I did whatever it took to keep myself supplied. It was during that time that I lost all self respect. My life was pure hell. There was no satisfying the urges I had for crack. It controlled me. It beckoned me. It destroyed me. It almost killed me.
During my life of alcoholism and drug abuse, I was physically beaten, raped, demoralized, and shamed. I know now, that it was by God's grace that I am still here to tell this story. There are so many instances in my life in which I knew I should be dead. Such as a time when I got drunk and played Russian roulette. I had a gun that belonged to my boyfriend at that time. I was pointing it at a dresser and then at my head and clicking it. I didn't think there were any bullets in the gun until I shot a hole in the dresser. There are other times like when I got in a car with a bunch of guys. They took me out to some lake and raped me-all but one. He later told me that what they had planned was to rape me, slit my throat and throw me in the river, but he had talked them out of it.
I also experienced something which I did not understand at the time, but now have come to understand as being a condition which labeled me as a "cutter". I would cut myself over and over again. I wear these scars now and they are a constant reminder of a life full of pain. I would cut myself to punish myself for the things I would do wrong. It was a way of coping. There are other instances also. I could go on and on, but I think I painted a good enough picture for you to understand just how bad things were. It was fourteen years of forgotten dreams. I was an A student in school. I was an Honor student. I had lots of hope for the future. I was robbed of all my ambitions. I remember my sister taking me in to dry out on many occasions. Each time, I pledged not to do anymore drugs. Each time, I would go back to doing them as soon as I left her house. Seven years ago, after a period of drugging and drinking, I became really tired. I was tired of being high. I was tired of being hung over everyday. I was tired of living the way I was living. I was just plain tired. So, I asked my sister if I could come to her house to dry out. This time she said no. I begged her and begged her. She kept saying no. I don't know what made her change her mind, but eventually she said yes. That night, I got on my knees and asked God to forgive me and to help me. I said," Lord if you make the first step for me, I will continue to make the rest". At that moment, my life changed. I did a complete turn around. My happiness, joy and peace were restored. I had a new life. I never knew I could feel so good.
I enrolled in a program called HOPES. It was there I was able to obtain my GED. I was so proud. My mother was there to see me graduate from adult school. From that point on, there was no stopping me. I craved education. I enrolled in college at Hillsborough Community College. I must admit, it was intimidating at first. I ended up graduating from there with High Honors!! Imagine me, after being out of school for 20 years. I received Associates in Arts degree in Business Management. That was not enough for me. I then enrolled in the University of South Florida. I am currently there working on my Bachelors in Management and Marketing. I will be graduating in December 2007.(Update:Mission accomplished..I finished).
All praises go to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I could not even phantom doing this without him. There is no way. All the time I was out there in the street, he had his hand on me. He never let me go. He had a plan for my life. I am not sure where this road leads to, but I know the future looks bright. I have been feeling a calling, if you will, to tell others about my endeavors. I feel that God brought me through all this so I would have first hand knowledge of what it's like to be on drugs and to be an alcoholic. I now can help others who may be going down the same road. Even though there are rehabilitation centers for addicts, sometimes it is more beneficial to seek help from someone who has been there and can relate to what you are going through. Not taking anything away from these centers. It wasn't until I gave my life over to Christ that I was able to loose the chains that had me bound for fourteen years. I am telling my story in hopes of reaching someone who may be going through what I have survived. There is hope in all the despair, there is a light in the darkness, there is salvation to all those who are lost. |
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Helvetica; panose-1:2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:536902279 -2147483648 8 0 511 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Comic Sans MS"; panose-1:3 15 7 2 3 3 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:script; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Albertus Extra Bold"; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} h3 {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0cm; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; mso-outline-level:3; font-size:13.5pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; font-weight:bold;} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} p {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0cm; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} span.ar01401010112regular {mso-style-name:ar01401010112regular;} span.EmailStyle18 {mso-style-type:personal; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-ascii-font-family:Arial; mso-hansi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; color:navy;} @page Section1 {size:595.3pt 841.9pt; margin:21.3pt 90.0pt 21.3pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} -->
What Will I Do To Bring Hope?
JULIUS IRUNGU`S PROFILE
Introduction
I was born in 1985. My mother and father hailed from Murang`a District. My mother had six children (four sons and two daughters). I was the fourth and last born in my family at that time. We were all attending a nearby primary school until one fateful morning; when, my mother went and never returned. I never comprehended what had occurred since I was a toddler; but, since I lacked her warmth around me, I knew she was no longer with us. It is until when I was twelve years that I knew my parents had divorced.
Divorce rocked our family in 1989 and we all dropped from school. I dropped from class one first term and I spent my time looking after my maternal grandmother's flocks. After a while, my sister came to pick me and later joined my mother.
My maternal grandfather sold his piece of land in Murang`a and we moved to Nyahururu, Ng`arua. We later moved with mother to Naivasha, where she was working as a packer in Oserian Flowers Ltd. Since her income was not enough, to take us back to school during that time, we used to fetch water using donkeys and sell it to feed ourselves.
The Street Life
My mother later moved to Nairobi in Dandora, where she became a bar attendant in a nearby night club. She would work during the night and during the day when she was resting, we were busy loitering the streets; and in the huge Dandora Dumping Site, where my street life begun. Here I started collecting waste paper, plastics, scrap metal, and bones for sale to earn a living. Indulged in sniffing of glue and the cruelty of street life, my future seemed to have no hope
Later, we moved to Soweto Slums and she secured the same job in a nearby night club while my brothers and I continued to go deep into the streets to even sleeping in the streets. My father died in 1993. The last time I saw him was when I was four years old, before his and my mother's divorce. My mother shifted her career and went to Nairobi streets (Nyamakima and Mfangano Streets) where she became a hawker, selling vegetables and fruits to-date.
Joined Imani Children’s Home, Nairobi
I was in my usual business one rainy evening of collecting papers and bones in January 1993, when Mother (Ms. Faith Wanjiru, Director of Imani) noticed me while she was coming from work as I was crossing the Road around Komarocks Estate, carrying a heavy black sack full of bones and papers.
Four kilometres ahead, I found her in Soweto Market as I was finding my way to a nearby dumping site and she approached me. In appearance, I was unapproachable but she did it. She marched towards me and asked me why I was collecting waste paper and bones. I narrated to her the whole ordeal that surrounded my life. She asked if I would like to go back to school but I resisted because I thought I was too old to go back to school.
However, she insisted and told me I could make it irrespective of my age. I accepted to go back to school and she invited me the following morning to go to Imani Children’s Home. Finding my way to Imani, I was bathed and dressed with new clothes and I was taken through an induction course and informal school within the Home.
Education
In 1993 I joined Thawabu Primary School in class two where I acquired my primary education up to 1999. I joined Njega Secondary School in Kirinyaga District, Central Province in 2000. In Njega, I became a library prefect and later in 2002-2003, I became the chairman of the Christian Union (CU). In the same period, I became the Chairman of the Peer Counsellors Association (PCA) at the school. I successfully did the Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education (KCSE) examinations in 2003.
In the year August 2004, I was admitted at Kampala International University (KIU), Uganda, where I pursued Bachelors of Business Administration until December 2007. While at KIU, I joined a congregation of believers (United Faith Chapel) a student ministry and became assistant Sunday school leader. I also spearheaded various mission works in high schools around Uganda.
Through God’s grace, I finished my undergraduate studies in December 2007 and attained a Second Class, Upper Division Degree with a 4.07 GPA. (See attached document)
My Mission
To be a contributor to the society that has so much invested in me and brought me blissfully to a changed future, through developing myself into the capacity of an all-rounded individual with the acumen of being a business leader who natures integrity and Supports developmental projects for the betterment of the community.
How
Having achieved a 2nd Class Upper Division undergraduate degree in Business Administration, I have resolved to pursue MBA with Strategic Management as a specialty.
The course will go along in developing me into becoming a world class business leader and be able to link the business world with the community and promote transformative projects with the amiable faith of transforming lives.
My Hope, My Dream!
I am passionate to achieve the dream, and although not able to fully sponsor myself in pursuing my MBA, I am determined and passionate that someday this dream will come true. I will never let go of hope. Hope begins in the dark; the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: You don't give up; in all things it is better to hope than to despair.
Partners of hope
I really want people to know that I’ve worked hard, very hard, to get to where I am today. This didn’t just happen overnight. There are people who accepted to be the channel of hope and I greatly respect and adore them for every small or greater thing that they have done to improve me and make sure I live a dignified life and contribute the same to the society.
I want to assure each and every one that, we are in this together and it’s through your prayer and support that I am and I will become what God has ordained me to become.
The greatest contribution you can do to me and to the kingdom of God, is sharing this testimony with everyone you know. God bless you as we partner to be a beacon of light, a bridge of understanding, a tower of integrity, and a castle of realized dreams.
We are both partners!!!
Yours in community service,
Irungu Julius
The Street Stitchers
P.O.Box: 4944-00200
Nairobi, Kenya
