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pg4Him

My testiomony

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To God be the glory!!!

The way you articulated yourself impress me. Are you, by any chance, a writer by profession?

Good luck on your spiritual journey! Jesus is always with us...trust Him and embrace His loving presence....

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1 hour ago, PersecutedOne88 said:

To God be the glory!!!

The way you articulated yourself impress me. Are you, by any chance, a writer by profession?

Good luck on your spiritual journey! Jesus is always with us...trust Him and embrace His loving presence....

Yes, He always is with us!

I’m a magazine writer by trade. 

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2 hours ago, pg4Him said:

My parents were dirt poor, living on welfare in a tiny run-down trailer, when my mother learned she was carrying me. My father was an abusive drug user. He hadn't kept a job in years. They had actually separated for a while before I came along. Neither could by without the other, and there were eight more mouths to feed, so they'd settled for staying together. Then I came along. Everyone told my mother that I was the last thing she needed. My existence was a drain on precious resources, a burden to society, and everything that's wrong with the welfare system. But my mother chose to keep me.

Life in our home growing up was difficult to say the least. My father suffered from severe mental illness. He was convinced that we children were plotting to kill him. He maneuvered to keep us divided: girls against boys, young against old, smart kids against stupid kids, etc. Everything was a competition. We never saw each other as friends.

Dinner (on the nights we got it) was usually a pot of pinto beans or maybe some fried wild dandelions. In the winter we often woke up to frozen pipes, and then we'd have to walk through snow to get water from a neighbor. My dad was too proud to do this of course, especially for bratty little children plotting his demise, so it fell on us. Every day we heard that children as bad as us did not deserve such luxury. Who did we think we were? He often smacked us, kicked us, called us vicious nicknames in front of each other, and justified it by calling us rebellious.

Looking back, I'm sure he was demoralized. Eventually he became desperate enough to go to church. He got saved when I was about five years old. Things slowly, slowly improved, but by the time we saw much tangible difference at home, we were old enough to be set in our ways.

School provided no relief. We were the laughing stock of the community. We often arrived at school in dirty, threadbare clothes, not even having bathed. Our small town was small enough for everyone to know our family's business. We were those kids. The welfare vampires. Good for nothing but a kick in the butt.

From morning to night, I was the bad guy. I made my father angry, I made my mother tired, I made my community struggle financially, I made my teachers impatient, and I made my classmates feel embarrassed. This was my whole life.

But, school had one good thing that home didn't have: books.

When you share a two-bedroom trailer with ten other people, there isn't much personal space. We girls slept on the floor in the living room. We didn't understand the concept of privacy. Books introduced me to privacy. One day I discovered the joyful sensation of seeing a world in my head that no one else could see. No matter what might be happening in my physical world, I could mentally go to outer space or the Alaskan frontier or King Arthur's court, and I would be there alone. It was a gloriously elitist feeling.

My intellect became my pride and joy. I decked it out like a marble palace. Philosophy, history, algebra, the works. By high school I was debating philosophy with my teachers.

Not religion, though. Anything but that. My parents were devout Christians by that point. To my thinking, a belief system which absolved them of their guilt was unfair. And not only that, but a belief system my father – the least intellectual person on the planet – understood! Christianity was firmly established in my mind as pedantic, anti-intellectual, and only useful to those with a guilty conscience.

My siblings and I dabbled in the occult. We experimented with magic. We considered all sorts of alternative worldviews. We searched for something real, something profound, and a social group where we could advance. All of it left me empty. Nothing worked.

My siblings soon succumbed to the effects of the occult. My brother completely lost his mind and had to spend time in an institution. My sister turned to drugs. I was young enough to slow down before I suffered the same fate.

I graduated high school at age 17. Instead of it being a happy time full of potential, I thought my life was over. I'd read about every philosophy and tried every wacky thing I could think of. There was nowhere else to look. I was losing my mind. For two weeks after graduation, I cried myself to sleep.

Someone invited me to a teen summer camp through church. I liked the idea of being out in the woods away from my family for a week. Sure they'd badger me with that Jesus stuff, but I'd heard all that enough to be immune to it. So I went to the camp.

Nothing happened for the first three nights. Each evening during altar call I sat in the back, retreating to the palace in my mind.

On the third night, while I daydreamed about some philosophical tangent, I suddenly found myself in a mental conversation. How it happened, I do not remember. The voice crept into my mind. The conversation started before I caught on. By the time I realized it, I was debating with a very separate voice inside me, and there was no way to bow out of the debate. He had me trapped.

He asked why I wouldn't try Jesus. I explained that Christianity was clearly beneath my intellect. He listed all of the other irrational things I'd tried (magic?!?) in my search. I said he couldn't blame me for wanting something real. He didn't blame me.

When he finished listing all of my failed experiments, he asked one simple question: "would it not be fair and democratic to give Jesus one equal chance?"

For the life of me, I could not think of a rebuttal. He had me trapped. My only logical option was to give Jesus one chance. So I stomped to the altar with a frown on my face, knelt down, pretended to pray, and secretly told Jesus that this was His one chance. He better not be a scam like all the others. I had no more patience for scam artists. He needed to prove to me – and prove it quick – that He was real.

The next morning when I awoke in my dorm room, I was not alone. I can't explain it. No physical, visible person was in my room. But there was someone in my room. He followed me to the bathroom. He followed me to breakfast. He came so close that I actually felt His weight. I felt Him breathing. He was as real as any flesh and blood person I'd ever met.

He followed me all day. He refused to back off. Finally, later that evening, I threw myself on my bed and admitted that Jesus was real.

This began a 15-year tumultuous relationship with Jesus. I was a believer. Ironclad, no room for debate, convinced to the end that Jesus is lord. I quickly caught on to theology, and my Bible studies were thrilling. But my emotional condition was essentially dead. I had no capability of loving. My father died without ever giving me a direct apology. We were never close.

The emotional vacuum eventually hindered my growth. I'd learned all I could without an emotional connection. Life returned to feeling gray and hopeless. I still believed in Jesus, but I knew I was losing Him.

One day I knew what I had to do. I fell on my knees and prayed the story of Lazarus over myself. If the Holy Spirit could raise a whole human body from the dead, He could resurrect a few mental health wires. I banged on heaven's door. When I finally ran out of steam, I collapsed in my room.

Something told me to grab my Bible and open it. Not expecting anything magical to happen, I flipped it open. It opened right to the page of Lazarus' resurrection. I spent the next week praying that story over and over.

After a week, He spoke to me very clearly. "You are not the Lazarus here. You're the Martha."

That breakthrough changed my life. I realized I was angry at Him for not saving my family. He knew it, and I knew it, but I'd thought I could keep it hidden. So I confessed. I told Him straight out that I was angry and I didn't really love Him.

For months, the only thing I could pray was "Save me from this world of gray." I prayed that sentence, over and over, morning, noon, and night. Every time I thought of it, I prayed those words. I felt cold and empty. It didn't feel spiritual at all. But I prayed those words again and again.

Slowly, an urgency developed in me. The words became real. I somehow became very aware of my own deficiency. The weight of my gray world pressed in on me. I prayed those words with more vigor. Weeks passed. Finally, one night in prayer, I felt a true glimmer of affection. 

That was the start of my real personal walk with Christ. Each day it gets a little better. I'm still a work in progress, but He has truly done wonders in me. There is so much more the story I can't include in here. This is just the basics. But now at least you know this much. 

To God be the glory.

I love your testimony! If you had never gone through this and overcame what satan intended you wouldn't be a testimony to His Glory....so your trials/test has become your testimony to others who are where you were. Share it often it may be what changes another persons life.

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4 hours ago, pg4Him said:

Yes, He always is with us!

I’m a magazine writer by trade. 

Haha...I knew it!!! You have a knack with words. Kudos! The way you write reminds me of my Creative Writing subject back in college. I love writers :)

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7 hours ago, pg4Him said:

My parents were dirt poor, living on welfare in a tiny run-down trailer, when my mother learned she was carrying me. My father was an abusive drug user. He hadn't kept a job in years. They had actually separated for a while before I came along. Neither could by without the other, and there were eight more mouths to feed, so they'd settled for staying together. Then I came along. Everyone told my mother that I was the last thing she needed. My existence was a drain on precious resources, a burden to society, and everything that's wrong with the welfare system. But my mother chose to keep me.

Life in our home growing up was difficult to say the least. My father suffered from severe mental illness. He was convinced that we children were plotting to kill him. He maneuvered to keep us divided: girls against boys, young against old, smart kids against stupid kids, etc. Everything was a competition. We never saw each other as friends.

Dinner (on the nights we got it) was usually a pot of pinto beans or maybe some fried wild dandelions. In the winter we often woke up to frozen pipes, and then we'd have to walk through snow to get water from a neighbor. My dad was too proud to do this of course, especially for bratty little children plotting his demise, so it fell on us. Every day we heard that children as bad as us did not deserve such luxury. Who did we think we were? He often smacked us, kicked us, called us vicious nicknames in front of each other, and justified it by calling us rebellious.

Looking back, I'm sure he was demoralized. Eventually he became desperate enough to go to church. He got saved when I was about five years old. Things slowly, slowly improved, but by the time we saw much tangible difference at home, we were old enough to be set in our ways.

School provided no relief. We were the laughing stock of the community. We often arrived at school in dirty, threadbare clothes, not even having bathed. Our small town was small enough for everyone to know our family's business. We were those kids. The welfare vampires. Good for nothing but a kick in the butt.

From morning to night, I was the bad guy. I made my father angry, I made my mother tired, I made my community struggle financially, I made my teachers impatient, and I made my classmates feel embarrassed. This was my whole life.

But, school had one good thing that home didn't have: books.

When you share a two-bedroom trailer with ten other people, there isn't much personal space. We girls slept on the floor in the living room. We didn't understand the concept of privacy. Books introduced me to privacy. One day I discovered the joyful sensation of seeing a world in my head that no one else could see. No matter what might be happening in my physical world, I could mentally go to outer space or the Alaskan frontier or King Arthur's court, and I would be there alone. It was a gloriously elitist feeling.

My intellect became my pride and joy. I decked it out like a marble palace. Philosophy, history, algebra, the works. By high school I was debating philosophy with my teachers.

Not religion, though. Anything but that. My parents were devout Christians by that point. To my thinking, a belief system which absolved them of their guilt was unfair. And not only that, but a belief system my father – the least intellectual person on the planet – understood! Christianity was firmly established in my mind as pedantic, anti-intellectual, and only useful to those with a guilty conscience.

My siblings and I dabbled in the occult. We experimented with magic. We considered all sorts of alternative worldviews. We searched for something real, something profound, and a social group where we could advance. All of it left me empty. Nothing worked.

My siblings soon succumbed to the effects of the occult. My brother completely lost his mind and had to spend time in an institution. My sister turned to drugs. I was young enough to slow down before I suffered the same fate.

I graduated high school at age 17. Instead of it being a happy time full of potential, I thought my life was over. I'd read about every philosophy and tried every wacky thing I could think of. There was nowhere else to look. I was losing my mind. For two weeks after graduation, I cried myself to sleep.

Someone invited me to a teen summer camp through church. I liked the idea of being out in the woods away from my family for a week. Sure they'd badger me with that Jesus stuff, but I'd heard all that enough to be immune to it. So I went to the camp.

Nothing happened for the first three nights. Each evening during altar call I sat in the back, retreating to the palace in my mind.

On the third night, while I daydreamed about some philosophical tangent, I suddenly found myself in a mental conversation. How it happened, I do not remember. The voice crept into my mind. The conversation started before I caught on. By the time I realized it, I was debating with a very separate voice inside me, and there was no way to bow out of the debate. He had me trapped.

He asked why I wouldn't try Jesus. I explained that Christianity was clearly beneath my intellect. He listed all of the other irrational things I'd tried (magic?!?) in my search. I said he couldn't blame me for wanting something real. He didn't blame me.

When he finished listing all of my failed experiments, he asked one simple question: "would it not be fair and democratic to give Jesus one equal chance?"

For the life of me, I could not think of a rebuttal. He had me trapped. My only logical option was to give Jesus one chance. So I stomped to the altar with a frown on my face, knelt down, pretended to pray, and secretly told Jesus that this was His one chance. He better not be a scam like all the others. I had no more patience for scam artists. He needed to prove to me – and prove it quick – that He was real.

The next morning when I awoke in my dorm room, I was not alone. I can't explain it. No physical, visible person was in my room. But there was someone in my room. He followed me to the bathroom. He followed me to breakfast. He came so close that I actually felt His weight. I felt Him breathing. He was as real as any flesh and blood person I'd ever met.

He followed me all day. He refused to back off. Finally, later that evening, I threw myself on my bed and admitted that Jesus was real.

This began a 15-year tumultuous relationship with Jesus. I was a believer. Ironclad, no room for debate, convinced to the end that Jesus is lord. I quickly caught on to theology, and my Bible studies were thrilling. But my emotional condition was essentially dead. I had no capability of loving. My father died without ever giving me a direct apology. We were never close.

The emotional vacuum eventually hindered my growth. I'd learned all I could without an emotional connection. Life returned to feeling gray and hopeless. I still believed in Jesus, but I knew I was losing Him.

One day I knew what I had to do. I fell on my knees and prayed the story of Lazarus over myself. If the Holy Spirit could raise a whole human body from the dead, He could resurrect a few mental health wires. I banged on heaven's door. When I finally ran out of steam, I collapsed in my room.

Something told me to grab my Bible and open it. Not expecting anything magical to happen, I flipped it open. It opened right to the page of Lazarus' resurrection. I spent the next week praying that story over and over.

After a week, He spoke to me very clearly. "You are not the Lazarus here. You're the Martha."

That breakthrough changed my life. I realized I was angry at Him for not saving my family. He knew it, and I knew it, but I'd thought I could keep it hidden. So I confessed. I told Him straight out that I was angry and I didn't really love Him.

For months, the only thing I could pray was "Save me from this world of gray." I prayed that sentence, over and over, morning, noon, and night. Every time I thought of it, I prayed those words. I felt cold and empty. It didn't feel spiritual at all. But I prayed those words again and again.

Slowly, an urgency developed in me. The words became real. I somehow became very aware of my own deficiency. The weight of my gray world pressed in on me. I prayed those words with more vigor. Weeks passed. Finally, one night in prayer, I felt a true glimmer of affection. 

That was the start of my real personal walk with Christ. Each day it gets a little better. I'm still a work in progress, but He has truly done wonders in me. There is so much more the story I can't include in here. This is just the basics. But now at least you know this much. 

To God be the glory.

 

Thanks for sharing, God bless you.

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Praise God, and thank you. Thank you for sharing  such personal detail of His calling you to your own repentance and submission to Jesusas lord God and savior. May your testimony be encouragement as well as some preparation for others as they too hear the specific call to repentance  of sin against God from the Holy Spirit.

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Hello pg4Him

Testimonies like yours always make me cry.  But then, we come to the best part of the story.  Jesus saves, and saves completely!  He is King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and knows each one of us so well.  He knows what we need, when we need it, and gently with His Shepherd's staff, finds us lost in a lost place and brings us home.  So glad you are here, sis, and so happy to read your story.  Thank you.  Glory to God in the Highest!

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Thank you for sharing your testimony!! Gbu

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This is an amazing testimony and encouraged me so so much. Praise the Lord for all He has done for you, and thank you for sharing it! <3

 

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