Eighteen years ago or so, I don’t remember the year exactly, I had a desire and dream in my heart to reach out to people with the story of my testimony and how I came to Christ and was born-again. My ‘vision’ of how I would share this testimony involved my love for music, singing and storytelling. I pictured in my head combining the three on stage through the dramatic arts to make my story more tangible to the hearers of the trials and torments I’d endured and how God miraculously delivered me from the trauma, depression and mental anguish, but it never happened as I imagined it would. It never happened at all in fact, this ministry, and so the dream of sharing didn’t come to fruition. I think maybe I will start my story here on this blog.
The title of my testimony and the ministry was going to be called Prodigirl. The name came about in the beginning as a play on words as the female version of the Prodigal Son. The only thing that exists today was the name and making an email address out of it for myself. It’s really interesting to me now when I look back at that time in my life and see that God was still really working out of me so much deep hurt, rejection, self-hatred and sanctification in my life. As it goes, around twenty-five years ago I ended up backsliding and living in much more torment, demonic oppression than I could ever imagine that a load of deep error from bad church doctrine and secret sin was revealed in me when I came to the end of myself, literally, that the story really begins. It all was indeed a miracle that I even survived, but God is a God of miracles, hope and redemption.
Beginning is always the hardest when you’re not giving the ‘Readers Digest’ version, so a brief about me. I am fourth of five girls, Hispanic and the adult child of an alcoholic angry mother. Dad too was an alcoholic and that’s what growing up was all about. Mom however was the mean and angry drunk while dad was always happy and wanting to enjoy singing to the Mariachi music on the record player. Consumption of alcohol was the norm and so were the fights, yelling, verbal and emotional abuse. The hiding under the thin blankets atop of my bed that could never filter out the loud roars of anger, sarcasm and flying objects. I don’t ever recall a moment of love or affection, hugs or kisses, ‘I love you’s’ or any such endearments in our home. Much more regular was the mocking and facial expressions of what seemed like hatred toward me. There was nothing that could bring peace in my heart, ‘peace’ what was that? I wouldn’t know it until Christ came to me again after years of nearly losing my life shortly before I met my husband Matthew.