Story of 1000 Testimonies

From Satanic to Christian

I never was one who wore the palm-palms in school, cheered for the boy’s football teams, or worried about any of the trivial school events going on. I can’t say I was interested too much in those boys anyways. For whatever the girls saw in those jock-strap wearing, butt-slapping, touchdown-scoring, monster energy and protein shake pounding guys. The guys who partied hard and drank beer on the weekends and lied throughout the week about it boys, they aren’t my type. Most of the people who partied around them weren’t anything more than a bunch of want-to-be posers. Too cocky, too loud and too proud for my kind of party. Besides, none of them ever got me, anyway. The color of death’s too terrifying for the kings of the school to gather their tiny brains around. Whatever?! Not going to waste time telling my story on them. Not on a bunch of Bible-reading hypocrites. I mean, sure I read the Bible and I knew what it stood for, a bunch of hippie loving, Jesus-pleasing nonsense followed by America’s greatest hypocrites and phonies. They knew Jesus and yet followed none of his teachings: love, forgiveness, acceptance. Those words didn’t mean too much to them when they came face-to-face with the devil’s makeup.

That’s right, I’m what you call a gothic girl. I’m the girl that every mommy and daddy fear and dread their child becoming. I’m the one that every good little girl glare at with a judgmental stare of pity and horror. I’m the kid who worships Satan and the underworld, who goes to Hot Topic for her clothes and makeup. I don’t care what any of the posers who shopped at the American Eagle and Hollister’s of the world believes or thinks of me. Because I had someone who accepted me; I had friends and a group I belonged to, and I had a purpose and a meaning for my life. And that’s to worship God’s chosen enemy, God’s forbidden child. The Bible calls him Lucifer, and the Bible’s so-called follower’s like to pretend he doesn’t exist. Either way, I was a Satan worshipper.

Every night after school, I went into my room and slammed the door behind me. There’s no need for the sunlight to cast a shadow on my dark clothes or my pal-white face. No need for everyone downstairs to hear what I’m doing at the foot of my bed. So what I had a Satanic pentagram chalked in a bloodshed-red lying across the bedroom floor. There’s no need for anyone in the world to see what I’m up to. There’s no need for anyone to care. I would sit pretzel style facing the pentagram, chanting the forbidden chant of Jesus followers and God pleasers. Deliver me O Mighty Satan from all past error and delusion, fill me with truth, wisdom, and understanding, keep me strong in my faith and service, that I may abide always in Thee with Praise, Honor, and Glory be given Thee forever.

Sometimes, when my parents weren’t home, my friends stopped by after school to join me. They could only stay for a little while and they had a perfect escape hatch out my bedroom door down the lilac fence against the bricklayer chimney of smoke and death that filled the atmosphere. Together we would chant a forbidden chant: Deliver me O Mighty Satan from all past error and delusion, fill me with truth, wisdom, and understanding, keep me strong in my faith and service, that I may abide always in Thee with Praise, Honor, and Glory be given Thee forever. If my parents were home, then it would be just me, chanting the forbidden ritual of Christian Death and Hellfire to sweep me up and consume us all.

I coded my room in a pitch black. Darkness would terrify any who entered and dared to stay even for an hour of the night. And it’s all Glory to him: Not the one you call God, but the true anointed one: Satan himself.

For those that criticize me and call me crazy I ask you, is it any crazier than the lies you tell your children during their favorite vacations, only to break their hearts and wreck their dreams when they get older? Is it any creepier than to give worship to a church that steals your money, steals your kids, steals their innocence behind the lie of a loving God, and then covers it up behind the a white robe that we worship on Sundays for some guy we never met named Jesus? And is it so crazy to worship twenty-four seven when all you other girls do is wear a dress for a special Sunday occasion, only to break every inferior commandment you guy’s chanted on the way home from Church, in the Church parking lot?

Our Satan didn’t judge us for looking different or not conforming to such an evil society. Satan didn’t judge us for our sinful nature but rather accepted us and all our sins and imperfections. For the one we worship Satan doesn’t judge those of us who are gay, who are women, or who are sinners. Our Satan wraps and engulfs us all in his eternal flames and in his eternal hellfire.

If you’re getting creeped out, don’t worry I’ve changed. I may still be a bit of a dark soul, but I am someone who has accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior. This whole horror story was a long time ago and just as the devils that swirled through my head, crept into my heart and nearly forever took away my soul, the satanic world is nothing but ancient history. I am no longer a slave to fear, I am no longer a slave to the devil’s works and I am no longer a slave to dispose of God in my life. I am a Bible carrying, Church Going and Lord serving Christian girl now, thank you, Jesus Christ, my Lord, and Savior!

It started with one summer night when my family and I were on a vacation in the middle of nowhere. They decided we take what they call family time and get to bond with each other a little more: sing songs by the campfire, eat s’mores, all the stuff that families love to do and that every Satanist dreads. While I wasn’t at all looking forward to the family time and the goody-two-shoes behavior that my family’s trying to get out of me for what seemed to be the millionth time, I didn’t have a choice to stay or go. My parents were hoping they still had controlled my life as a teenager. I went in the van with them on our way to camping world. My hell was just beginning.

As, we’re setting up for dinner, my goody-two-shoes sister asked if we could all say a prayer before we made the dinner. Forget eating dinner, forget the food being cooked, forget the meal even being decided on or if I get a voice in any of these discussions, we will say their prayer before we even get started. Besides, it’s not as if any of them would even consider for a moment whether we should say any of my prayers. My parents and my little sister ran the household and they thought we should say their prayers to their supposed God. We gathered around the plate less bench and gave thanks for nothing, my father lead the sermon Dear Lord, We give you thank, Almighty God, for all Thy benefits, and for the poor souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, may they rest in peace. And may we thank you for this meal, for this time we shall treasure. May we thank you for this day, and for each meal, drink, and the day may we give you thanks and praise. In your holy name. Amen. All that was circling in my teenage Satan-worshipping head was the devilish thought: Thanks a lot sis! Great, there’s two minutes of my life I’ll never get back."

While my mom, dad, and goody-two-shoes scurried around to see if we brought to find something edible by a campfire, I barricaded myself into the tent to get away from this conformity and hippie nonsense they dragged me into. I vanished into the tent to find the headphones, so I could just zone out from this fake world they dragged me into for a lame weekend.

Mom, where are my headphones? I shouted in anger and panic

We left them home honey,

Mom, why do you always do this. Oh my God! I retorted.

It’ll be healthy for you to get away from your headphones and your room for a weekend. Enjoy the sun, the lovely weather, the night skies, get out in the sun,. Mom replied.

I sighed in anger like any rebellious teenage brat would do. I went to grab my goth black lipstick to smear on my lips since I knew she hated it and I thought "she has a red. Then I could bring forth a satanic pentagram in the middle of the tent. I could do a chant of my own and bring forth the spirits of the darkness that the rest of them so rebelled. That would show her to think twice before taking my things. That would show her she should’ve just left me home to enjoy myself. As I went to look through her purse, I saw a picture of me as a happy little girl from a long time ago. I even recognized her. She was beautiful, full of energy, with a great big smile on her face. I saw her holding my dad’s hand while we were in the parking lot of the amusement park from the back since before the days I could remember. I can’t say a single wallet-sized picture from my childhood saved me, it didn’t change a thing about the girl that’s here now. It didn’t change a thing about the friends I had back home, about the ruler I worshipped, about the life I chose. Still, that girl looked so happy. And she was beautiful.

Anyway, so I put the lipstick back in the purse and came outside to sit on the wooden bench where we prayed. I put my hands up to my face and sat down and just stared across the lot to the other happy families enjoying happy times with their loved ones and creating lifelong memories together. I noticed even in my negative mind how they didn’t need money to make them happy. It wasn’t there desire or need to be the coolest campers on the lot. They didn’t need to recognize or worship. Not once in their fun did, they stop and pray. All that they had was each other, and that was all they needed to bring joyful smiles to their faces. It began to dawn on my clouded mind that maybe it was enough for them. That was enough for anyone. Maybe that could be enough for me.

As if living in my head wasn’t good enough, as if having any consciousness of any kind wasn’t enough of an existence, my sister runs up and bumps my elbow, knocking my head out of my hands.

Watch it! I yelled at her as she tried to scurry buy as if nothing happened.

Sorry, I was just playing,

Yeah, you’re just playing, you’re always just playing. You’re always just living such a fancy life and being a mom’s favorite. You’re always being a little brat. 

That’s enough my dad proclaimed as he was struggling to get a fire started over the fireplace.

Enough! I’ll show you enough. I’ve had enough. That was my exclamation and exile from the camping grounds. From there, I ran down away from the tents and into the woods. I didn’t care if I would get eaten by a coyote. I didn’t care if I was lost and never found by my loser parent’s again. I wanted to get away from everybody and all their perfect worlds with all their perfect lives.

As I wandered through the woods I stumbled upon a gruesome scene. It was something no one should ever see in their lifetime. What I had then witnessed was one of the most horrific scenes in the history of all camping grounds. In my direct line of sight was a squirrel with its back leg crushed in a fur trap. The squirrel was scurrying to get away. The poor squirrel was bustling as hard as he could with his three good legs as he tried to escape his inevitable fate. Next to the squirrel was a giant rock. Okay, not a giant rock, but one that was big enough. One that was big enough to hurt somebody and hurt somebody bad. There I was, staring at that rock and thought of my miss-know-it-all mom, my-happy-go-lucky dad, and my goody-two-shoes sister. I thought about how I was never good enough for them or good enough for their God or any of the God’s up in the camping grounds above me. I then thought about my mother’s red-lipstick, and how I needed a red-lipstick right time. The next thought running through my mind was how only one or two good whacks would be all it would take for the red-lipstick to no longer be a problem here in the middle of the woods. Besides, if I stayed out in the middle of the woods for any length of time, I would need food. And I was getting hungry. And I can’t go back now, not after goody-two-shoes got her way again. I was getting angry. That anger was accelerating to rage. And I was getting hungry. And I didn’t have my family, or any headphones, or any lipstick. 

I picked up that rock, and I did what only cavemen and psychopaths have done before me. I solved my problem. One, maybe two, whacks was all it would take, but I didn’t stop there. I kept whacking. I hadn’t worked out that much in such a long time. And when it was over, when I had seen all the world done, I was no longer hungry. The next sensation that poured over me was an unspeakable illness. I vomited in the vicinity of where the squirrel was, of where that squirrel used to be. 

My fit of rage was complete. It was time to cast myself to Satan’s hand’s again. This time, I had real blood to use. I haven’t done a blood ritual ever before, so this one was going to be special. All they had up there was a Bible and phony hearts. I had the real deal. I had real blood, and soon to be a real pentagram, and soon to be a true calling for my spirits to overwhelm me. Grabbing a loose stick from the ground of the woodland beside me, I dabbled that stick until it was near a finger-tip deep in blood. I kept going for second and third helpings and I kept tracing the circles and the triangles. I kept finishing the puzzle piece until the masterpiece was complete.  And when the art formed, I sat pretzel style in the center of the blood-soaked pentagram. I chanted forth each of the evil spirits to fill me, to worship me. My vengeance was near complete. All I needed now was the spirits to overcome me, fill me with acceptance, bring me power, let the darkness consume me and let me bring forth a new world to these people and God-forsaken woodland. Here goes my chant: Deliver me O Mighty Satan from all past error and delusion, fill me with truth, wisdom, and understanding, keep me strong in my faith and service, that I may abide always in Thee with Praise, Honor, and Glory be given Thee forever.

Again I chanted, this time louder and with force and vengeance Deliver me O Mighty Satan from all past error and delusion, fill me with truth, wisdom and understanding, keep me strong in my faith and service, that I may abide always in Thee with Praise, Honor, and Glory be given Thee forever.

I said it once more, this time shouting, but with a louder purpose. Like a general commanding his officers on the battlefield, I commanded these spirits to join me, to become one, to start a new age. With my final cry aloud I cried the chant. Deliver me O Mighty Satan from all past error and delusion, fill me with truth, wisdom and understanding, keep me strong in my faith and service, that I may abide always in Thee with Praise, Honor, and Glory be given Thee forever. And that’s where they flew. And that’s where I met the devil for the first and the last time. That was when I saw him in the face of pure evil, in all his spirits, in all his form.

They swarmed from every angle above the night sky, they engulfed the air, making it hard to breathe even a breath of life. They entered me. It lit a fire inside of my skin, I thought I was going to rot from the inside out, that my flesh was going to peel from the skin that I was wearing. The fire inside me was unbearable. My chants went from acceptance to fear in a noticeable moment. My Screams of welcoming turned into screams of fear, into screams of panic and chaos. Demons from all angles were tearing at my skin, punching at my bones, trying to swing me from side to side until my body would drop.

Father I screamed.

My body began to become me again if only for a moment. Then the spirits came right back and attacked again with fire and fury. My body started sinking, I started buckling under the intense attacks of the demons that engulfed my very being. I began to panic, I began to think of my sister and all the times she was right to pray. I began to think of every wrong decision I ever made and every time I doubted my parents. What I wouldn’t give to start over. What I wouldn’t give to have another chance, another shot at life, another shot at love with my parents.

As my body was losing control, from my knees I looked up and began to shout to the heavens above me, my final cry for help, my desperate plea. Father, if you are up there, deliver me from evil and spare me this pain.

The demons were starting to flee furiously, I folded my hands together, a clasp unlike any I had ever felt. A clasp beyond my own force of will. Again, I prayed:

Lord, Jesus, I am so sorry. I will never doubt you again. I am sorry for who I am, for what I have done, for turning my back on your blessings. If you let me live, for so long as I live and breathe, I will pray and follow you from now on. Deliver me oh Lord of Abraham. Deliver me from evil. May your will be done. And in the breath of my last word, it was all gone. The spirits had dissolved. There was no more evil prescience around me. The skies now complete in bright stars and covered in the moonlight. The air now breathable again. The pain, inside my body and trenching my skin, now completely gone. The next touch of my skin was almost of a cooling sensation. It was a sense of freedom, liberation, and fulfillment. 

That feeling never left that night. That safe, warm emotion guided me home to my tent, even though I was miles away and directionless to where I had gone. He had guided me to my goody-two-shoes sister. She met my eyes with a look of grief on her face, and I wrapped my arms around her and told her how I was so sorry for everything. We cried together, and I had never received love that enrich me like it had that night before. Now, I feel that love every single day.

At night fall, I Look up at the night sky like I did that night with my family, after eating campfire s’mores that tasted so good and singing songs of which I didn’t know the words. Every time I see the stars, I see the Savior of the night skies. I see the family he has given me and what a blessing they are. That night shaped the rest of my life. When I got home, I threw my hot topic clothes away, I painted my room a new lighter shade of blue, and I put starts up on the ceiling, so I can now see the night sky every single night of my life. Now when my new friends come over, old and new, they pray to the God that we believe in. God the father, God the son, and God the Holy Spirit.  Now, when I look up at night, I see my younger self up there, looking down at me and smiling. Now every time I pray, every time I look up at the night sky, I feel loved, and I take solace in knowing that in all my sins, in the name of Jesus Christ I’m forgiven.

List of Former Satanist’s turned Christians: True Stories.....

David Arias: Turned Catholic Pastor in Southern California

Benedict Atkins: Satanist at 15. Met wife at 20. Now Pastor in London

David Berkowitz: Son of Sam Killer

Betty Brennan: Audio of Christian Conversion

Jesus Gonzales: CG Former Satanic Priests now on Mission to Save Souls

Zachry King: Abortion Clinic Ritual Turned Pastor saved by miraculous medal

Michael Leehan: How Satan’s Soldier became God’s Warrior

Henry Lewis: Warns Christians of Popularity of Occultism

Deborah Lipsky: Massachusetts Autism turned Christian Church of her Youth in 2009

Bartolo Longo: Italian Lawyer former Satanist turned Christian saved by a Rosary

Kirk Martin: Former Rocker Turned to Christ

Danny Mcilhiney: Confessions of a Former Satanist, born atheist turned to Christ after Research of Historicity of Jesus Christ

Jacob McKelvey: Started Satanic Church on Halloween, but was Radically Saved

Jon Ramirez: Former Satanist and evildoer Turned Pastor

William (Bill) Schnoebelen: Former Satan Priest turned Christian Priest, written over 25 Books

Mike Warnke: Once known for selling Satan Christian Evangelist and Comedian

Fred Wolff: Freed from the Occult

Christian from Childhood

The only part of my entire Christian faith I don’t remember was the Baptism. From what was told to me by my beloved mom and dad, I was crying as loud as loud could be and wiggling as much as a child could squirm in the hands of a Father. My mom held my head steady, despite my constant squirms and cries for escape there was no end to the bath I had coming. A man with a cross was being held in one hand and a book covered in solid black with the brim of a golden book-holder draped from the end toward my wide eyes. As the man chanted his ritual spell over my squirming-worming head, my cries intensified and my weariness of the spell that was being drawn upon me shaped my soul. Despite my maximum effort, the infant struggle grew futile as the water was being dowsed from the white bowl beside my mother over the top of my newborn head, with the chanting being continued by the man dressed in black with the book of black in his right hand. I Baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen! That was it! That was my last great struggle with God and that was my last great struggle with my life. From that moment through the rest of my life, I would be a Bible carrying, church-going, church delivering Christian in the name of God the father, God the son, and in the Holy Spirit. Guess the man in black must’ve been a bigger fan of Matthew than Paul.

At the crack of dawn every Sunday morning, the most important hour of every single week begins. My Sunday begins with me rolling out of bed to get myself dressed into my Sunday best. I put on the cute white shoes with the slight little bow on the end of the toes. I put on the silk-white dress that shines in the light of day that goes to my ankles. After I am dressed, I then get into the bathroom, look in the mirror to see my father’s creation while my mother would curl my hair in how all the good little Catholic girls would do. I wouldn’t stop staring into the reflection until my hair was perfect enough to enter God’s church. In God’s house, my hair was always in its most beautiful form. All of God’s children are beautiful and made in his image.  As I would look in the mirror, I would see the best of me come into fruition through my mother’s work. I would see her hands work magic with the curling iron, the blow drier and the sparkle blue and a pink hairbrush she would use to get me into my greatest form. As I would sit there and marvel at my mothers work, I would look into my eyes every Sunday and think to myself: the same God that made Jacob, the Same God that made David and Joseph and Mary and Moses, the same God that made Jesus a man and brought him from the dead, the same God that made the heavens and the earth is the same God that thought this world needed one of me. This world by the same God also needed one of my beautiful mothers, needed one of my amazing fathers, and thought each of my twelve siblings needed to be here too. The sound of the Church bell meant the best hour of my family’s life would soon take place. It meant that my life would have meaning that my family would be together and whole. It meant that they would gather the entire community and welcome into one building for one beautiful hour in one magnificent place that only the Father of us all would allow manifesting in such perfect glory.

We would always sit in the third row, left the side of the pew so we could see the Pastor speaking close yet see our friends and community gathered together singing and praising in his holy name. If anyone looked like they could use a prayer, we could see it. If anybody would need prayer and be within a reaching arm or a short distance away from me or any of my family, whoever was sitting on the edge would be the first one to slide over and stretch out with a hand help wide and an arm around their shoulders, so they didn’t need to pray, suffer, or cry alone. Even in God’s house with God’s prescience, everybody can use a shoulder to cry on now and then. And whenever that arm is the arm of a child, it's just a little cuter, which makes the moment just a little more bearable for the person who’s suffering.

There was one day I will never forget so long as I live. On Sunday, we were all gathered in the church and I gathered us in our usual seats for the church service. Right across from us, sitting in the middle of the front row in the church was a man sobbing. There was nothing unusual with someone crying in the front, we had seen that kind of trouble before, but this man was very different. This man was two arms to his head, his elbows rubbing deep within his thighs, almost stabbing them. It covered his eyes through the entire service as he smashed his hands deep into his eyeballs. Through the prayer, through the Gospel, through the joyous songs celebrating the Lord our God, nothing seemed to satisfy his tremendous grief. My parents told us to stay there in our seats while they hugged him, one on each shoulder, through the entire service. The side of the man’s face did not stop the bright red that covered it throughout the service. We even stopped the entire service for the man sobbing in his hands to offer him a prayer of comfort. A prayer for mercy to his tremendous suffering. Nothing seemed to be working. Even though it all the man was weeping and there seemed to be nothing that could console the man, at least nothing on earth.  I wanted to walk over and give the man a hug, but my parents put their hands up forbidding us to leave our seats. To this day, I do not understand why the man was sobbing. I suppose that there are certain things in the world that children aren’t supposed to know, even if God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are always in control. I had thought before that day that God didn’t let people suffer so much because Jesus took the suffering for him. 

There are over 200 different prayers that anyone can use which come from the Bible. Each prayer carries with it a specific purpose meant to help specific people who are in need. All of them are acceptable and every single one of them make Jesus and God pleased. While not a single thing we can do on God’s green earth can satisfy God, we can all do things good in a rapport of God’s word and God’s magnificent ways for us.  One of the many thing’s I learned from the weeping man is that there needs to be a way that every broken heart can possibly be soothed so it is made whole in his righteousness again. I didn’t have all the answers then and I don’t have all the answers now. At the time, I was a little girl who completely depended on her parents. And I am still a little girl in my heart who’s completely dependent, but that comes now to a higher father and that always will be.

These are two of the most common and most resourceful players in the most general situations:

Hail Mary, full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit Of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners now, And at the hour of death. Amen

"7 But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.

8 Be not ye, therefore, like unto them: for your, Father knoweth what things ye have need of before ye ask him.

9 After this manner, therefore, pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

10 Thy kingdom comes, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

11 Give us this day our daily bread.

12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

13 And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

14 For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you:

15 But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."

(Matthew 6:12-15). For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever. Amen.

These are two of the greatest prayers for two of the greatest trials that anyone can face. Jesus himself commands his followers with his first prayer to pray to the father in such a way. The Hail Mary is a perfect prayer for the devout Catholic who needs a mother to pray to. Though that one’s not for all Christians.

We all would gather at the dinner table after every single day at school. And yes, it was quite a big dinner table. Dad handcrafted it to be a perfect circle just big enough to fit us all around with room to spare and yet not too big, so we could see each other or reach the middle by leaning over or having to yell across the house every time we wanted something the other side had. We were not to argue at the kitchen table. Dinner was a time for peace, for gathering, for love and for the company of one another. We would start out each dinner meal by saying grace, led by my mom and dad.  They would always thank God for each other, they would thank God for each of us at the table as one big thank you for us kids, and they would say grace for getting them through the day alive and well again and for getting them to enjoy such a delicious meal with such a beautiful family. 

Each one of us would get to share what had gone on through our school day. We each had time to share, without judgment from others, good, what had happened to us at school that day. For those of us siblings who had a good day, we would thank God for the goodness that was there, for the blessings bestowed, and for many more good days like it going forward. We would pray for the good days to escalate beyond our wildest comprehension according to his will and his magnificent ways. For those of us siblings who had a bad day, we would pray for healing of the heart, mind and soul. We would pray for better days ahead and we would each be reminded of our dependence on God throughout this troubling-trialed life.

One day at church, the pastor shared a sermon. He shared a story of how his beloved wife once upon a time was in the hospital dying and she held his hand and called him by his biblical name. She called him Joseph. She called him that whenever she was in her most desperate trials and feelings of doubt. He reached out getting ready to pray, and he froze. It was the first time in his life he had frozen in prayer. He talked about how he thought through the Biblical library that they had accumulated in all his years in seminary and all his years studying in his early years before. And none of those moments prepared him for the moment he would say goodbye to his wife. Before he could even speak again, before he could start a prayer, his wife uttered the words I see a bright light. He paused as if time stood still as if all sounds around were silent all at once. I see angels Samson. I see angels. They wheeled her away into the operating room. Later that day, hours after the surgery had concluded, the doctor walked down the long hallway, but, step by step, and gave him the news, his wife did not make it. It broke the pastor down to his knees, forcing him to pray a tearful goodbye to his wife. Those were the last words she had ever said to him. He prayed every night to gain clarity of what God had meant when he showed his wife the angels. Every prayer he gave went unanswered to his satisfaction. And yet, not a single prayer went to waste. Every single prayer offered a new nugget of gold, of clarity to make the picture a little clearer why his wife called his name in the Biblical sense and what she meant when she sang of the angels she saw. If God had given him all the answers in one prayer, there would be no need to continue to conversation, to continue the prayers going forward. If God had not answered them at all, then the preacher would have given up. And what a shame that would have been to lose a good preacher over the loss of his beloved wife. God answered his prayers, and he did so in his perfect way. 

That moment changed my life. It changed many of the lives in that church forever. It helped us realize that even in the greatest of trials, God is granting us a blessing. It was the beginning of my answer to the crying man’s prayer’s. It helped us realize that our perspective on God’s plan and our perspective on our own lives carried power far greater than any situation could manifest. This was the spark. This was the beginning of the rest of my life. I wanted to inspire a crowd much like the pastor did that day with his own tearful testimony. I wanted to comfort and help those in need like my parents did every Sunday at church. I wanted to be both an inspiring voice and a