Just sharing.

I Lived a Lie

My cheek pressed hard against the toilet seat, and I clung to the bowl desperately with both arms. I couldn't let myself pass out. I had to keep throwing up or I wasn't going to walk out of there.

My legs were stretched out behind me, too numb to support my body. Everything was going numb. I was terrified, but I kept silent. Calling for help would be too dangerous for a drunk girl in a dark New York City bathroom.

The pounding beat of techno music echoed from inside the club. It would be five more hours until the club closed—five more hours before my friends would search for me. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I imagined how someone would find me: lifeless, hair matted and sticky, my lavender dress soaked in orange vomit. And how my parents would sob, thinking how their little girl was eternally lost.

I closed my eyes. The noises around me faded, and through the darkness, I thought I heard a soft voice:

"How have you represented me?"

"Lord," I began weakly, "I … I tried … "

But that wasn't true. For the past four years of college, I'd partied and drank myself stupid almost every weekend, all the while telling everyone I was a Christian.

"Badly, Lord."

Events from my life zoomed through my mind. By junior high, I thought my spiritual roots were deep: I went to five church services a week. I had pictured myself as a Super Christian, able to leap over any sinful situation with a single bound. And I could do it all with my own strength.

As a Super Christian, my special powers and talents made me the best praiser and worshiper ever. I had a slew of awards from church district talent shows to prove it.

My memories turned to a talent show with one odd performance: A guy got up and sang, twangy and off-key, a song almost entirely made up of five words: "He's still workin' on me. He's still workin' on me …."

Every other note was flat. The notes in between those were sharp. I scowled at him. If he wasn't going to worship perfectly, why even try?

Some of the other performers began to snicker. I joined in. The boy heard us, but kept singing, his eyes focused heavenward, carefully articulating each word: "He's … still … workin' … on … me. … "

When awards were handed out, I proudly accepted yet another purple "Superior" ribbon, the highest honor. All in a day's work for a Super Christian. I tossed it in my purse. The guy who "needed some work" humbly held out his hands for the green "Good" ribbon. He pinned it to his shirt. My jaw dropped. Why would anyone want to show off a "Good" ribbon?

A light tap on the stall door snapped me back to reality. "Ah yoo oh-kay?" a female voice inquired in a nasally New York accent. Two feet in strappy magenta-colored platforms now occupied the space just outside the door.

"Yeah, I'm OK," I managed to weakly reply. I was too ashamed to admit the truth. I was in trouble. There was still too much alcohol in my system, and I couldn't force myself to throw up anymore.

"Drink this." I saw her hands and knees as she stooped to push a cup under the stall door. Letting go of the toilet with one arm, I grabbed it. It was water! She told me she would be back soon with more.

The click of her heels faded, then disappeared. I sipped the water, careful not to let one precious drop spill. Who knew if she'd really come back? Almost immediately, I started vomiting again.

My memories turned to high school, when my holier-than-thou attitude had worsened. I even managed to excuse the sips of beer I took at parties—convincing myself it was OK because I didn't get drunk like everybody else.

College life offered freedom—and choices. I went to church less because it made me feel guilty. I partied and drank more and more because it temporarily made me feel good. "It's what everyone does in college," I again convinced myself. "I'll make it right with the Lord … later."

Worst of all, I kept on telling people how great it was to be a Christian when I didn't live or even feel like one. It didn't seem wrong to hold a beer in one hand and a Bible in the other.

John* was one of those people. He was the first atheist I'd ever met. I didn't know anything about him, but immediately made it my personal mission to change him. So I told John about how great my life was, how God made the difference.

"If Christians are so different, why do they party and get drunk like everybody else?" John asked. "What's the difference?"

And somehow, I didn't make the connection. I gave up on John after that, believing he was a lost cause.

The magenta-shoed stranger had returned with water once every hour for the past three hours. A full cup was near my feet. But I was sick of throwing up, and I was emotionally drained. I couldn't find the strength to reach for it.

Reviewing my life had been awful. I had repeatedly blown it, even done damage, and I hadn't once asked God to forgive me. I wasn't a Super Christian at all. I had never truly trusted God, never given him control of my life, never walked with him.

My arms were giving out, numb from holding onto the toilet bowl for these last several hours. I pinched my chin against the rim of the toilet seat, hoping to stay coherent for a few more seconds.

There was no way I could change my past now. But there was one thing I could do.

"Forgive me, Father," I prayed. "Forgive me for all the mistakes I made. Forgive me for saying you made the difference in my life, then never allowing you to do it. Forgive me for ignoring the lessons you offered. It probably doesn't mean much now, Lord, but I really want you to be in control of my life. I've seen what I can do, and it isn't any good without you. You are the Lord of my life, Jesus."

I let go of the toilet bowl and slunk down to the floor. The tiles were cool and comforting. A wonderful peace flowed through my mind and heart. I closed my eyes and began to lose consciousness.

Loud voices flooded the bathroom. "She's in here." It was the girl in the magenta shoes. "She's been in there all night."

The stall door rattled. "It's locked." A male voice this time. "I'm coming in!

I opened my eyes and looked up. A light was shining down on me and voices surrounded me. I assumed this was death. But I wasn't afraid now.

A dark figure was scrambling over the side of the stall. He picked me up. I could make out the letters E-M-T on his shirt. He was a paramedic! I closed my eyes again and said a prayer of thanks.

Only God could lift me out of my own mess, clean me up and give me another day. I'm keeping my promise to let him take control of my life. It's been a long process to let faith in and push my own pride out. I can feel the difference: The superiority and disapproval I once felt have been replaced by God's love and acceptance.

And he's still working on me. I hum that young man's song sometimes, remembering how joyfully he sang it. To my ears back then, it was far from perfect. Now, I know the perfect love his heart felt. With God placed first in my life, I don't need to get the "Superior" for myself anymore. I just need the "Good" award from God: to be his good and faithful servant, who he will invite with open arms into his kingdom forever.

"You'll Never Make It"

Peter was told he'd never finish that 2,168-mile hike. But that didn't stop this college freshman from trying.

It's impossible! You'll never make it." John's words were not exactly comforting, but I wasn't surprised. I had just read a classmate's paper on the Appalachian Trail, and now, I really wanted to hike it. But I didn't have any hiking experience, and it took most people six months to hike the whole thing. I had three months during my upcoming summer break.

I knew my friend was probably right. John had hiked the Trail a couple years earlier, after his graduation from Wheaton College. Some highly skilled hikers could finish the 2,168-mile trek in four months, he said. But an inexperienced hiker like me? No way.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it. I loved physical challenges: The previous summer, after my high school graduation, I'd biked across the United States. I'd never done any cycling before that trip, either, but I'd kept up with experienced cyclists. I can do this hike, I told myself. My legs were in shape from years of playing soccer and basketball in high school. Plus, I had a whole semester to train.

I decided to go for it. Word about my trip spread fast around campus, and when Theron and Caleb heard about it, they decided to join me for the first 20 days. The two brothers had some serious hiking experience. If I could last those first few weeks with their encouragement, I could surely do the rest of it alone.

Day 1. Lord, I commit this trip to you.
As we approached our first hiker's shelter, I started having doubts. What if I can't finish? What if I get hurt? The shelter, with only three log walls and a thin tin roof, didn't offer much comfort or protection. I plopped down on the rough wood floor and felt the wind graze my cheek, and I noticed how exposed—and alone—we were. As the sunlight faded, I quickly pulled out my Bible and flipped through it, seeking reassurance. My fingers traced the page until I found 2 Timothy 4:18:

"The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom …."

Sensing God's presence, I tucked my Bible into my pack and scribbled a note in my journal. The stars were much brighter and clearer out here. I stared at the twinkling dots for a while before drifting peacefully to sleep.

After a good night's rest, I was ready to hit the trail. By the end of the second day, we'd completed 20 miles.

But I'd noticed Theron pressing his hand against his hip; it was obviously hurting him. With each mile, Theron's pain worsened. We were forced to find him a ride into the nearest town. Caleb decided to return home with his brother.

I wasn't prepared to be alone so soon. I anxiously thought of the three months ahead. Lord, I'm afraid, I prayed. Please be near me and protect me. I need you desperately.

Day 8. Father, as I continue my hike, make it a spiritual journey as well.
Day after day, I walked in silence. Occasional rustling from somewhere in the woods sent chills down my spine. Was it a rattlesnake? A bear? Or just the wind?

At first, I was happy whenever the trail crossed through a town because there were people there. More importantly, I could call home on a pay phone. But after I hung up, sadness and loneliness overwhelmed me.

Going into towns soon provided little comfort. I was surrounded by strangers who didn't talk to me, didn't love me or care about the loneliness I felt.

I prayed God would send a friendly hiker my way.

Day 39. Father, I need your healing. Comfort me.
After hiking a total of 60 miles in two days, my feet hurt so badly. With every step I took, I wanted to scream in pain.

Worse, I couldn't find a shelter. Somehow, I'd miscalculated the distance between the shelters, and the sun had set hours ago. I stumbled through the darkness, shining my flashlight in every direction.

In the distance, I thought I saw a light flashing back at me. I followed it.

It was a shelter—with a hiker inside! Breathing a quick hello, I dropped onto the grimy floor, exhausted. I unlaced my boots and carefully removed them. Grabbing my flashlight, I examined my hurting feet.

My right ankle looked like someone had been kicking it all day—red and badly swollen. A couple toenails had fallen off. I looked at my soles, and gasped. They were covered with bruises and open sores. Maybe this is it, I thought. Maybe it's time to give up.

"Looks like you've had a long day on the trail," the hiker commented, motioning to my feet. "My name's Rich."

Rich, it turned out, was a Christian. We hiked into town the next day, where he was getting off the trail, and had breakfast together. He encouraged me so much. I decided to relax in town for the rest of the day—which was encouraging for my feet, too.

Day 64. Father, thank you for the refreshing time in your Word today.
As time passed, my feet still ached, but I decided to bite my lip and put up with the pain. And I'd talk to God as I hiked. I thanked him each day for the friendly hikers he sent my way and for my friends back home. Some days, with tears slipping down my dirty cheeks, I'd tell God how tired I was, or how discouraged and lonely I felt. Some days, I admitted I just wanted this hike to end. But I was getting so much out of my long walk alone with God. That thought kept me going.

The quiet time also provided a great opportunity to memorize Scripture. As usual, I wanted something challenging, so I picked Psalm 119—the longest chapter in the Bible. When I repeated the verses, the words often fell into rhythm with the thud-thud-thud of my hiking boots against the dusty trail.

Day 88. Fifty-mile-per-hour winds and rain today—thank you, Lord, for rain gear!
After months of being alone on the trail, I found a partner! I met Ryan in a shelter. He had started his hike in the middle of the Trail and was hiking in memory of his brother, who had recently died in a car accident.

"My brother hiked half of the Trail last summer," Ryan explained. "He figured he'd finish the rest later. But he never got the chance. So I'm gonna finish it for him."

Since Ryan wasn't a Christian, I prayed for a chance to share my faith with him. I soon got one. When we stopped in the next town, I got some sad news from home: Zach, a college buddy, had been killed in a car accident. Just like Ryan's brother. I cried as I shared the news with Ryan. Then I realized—I had a huge opportunity to talk about eternity.

"Ryan, if you died in a car accident, where do you think you would go?" I asked.

"I … I don't know," he said.

He started asking lots of questions. This is why I'm here! I thought. My bruised feet, the months of being alone—it was all worth it to be able to share God's truth and love.

Day 103. thank you, Lord, for your promises and hard lessons.
At the base of the last mountain, Ryan and I met up with our families. My mom and I decided to hike to the summit together.

As we climbed, I heard many voices getting louder and louder the closer we got. Hundreds of people—day hikers, families, tourists—were at the top, toting video cameras and picnic baskets. Many were lined up in front of a huge sign that marked the end of the Trail, snapping photos. We stood in line, waiting for our turn to take a picture.

My mom shook her head. "None of these people have a clue of what you've just been through," she said.

Tuning out the voices and noise around me, I silently thanked God for the journey—for sticking with me, for teaching me, for changing me. I looked over at my mom and smiled.

"They may not know," I told her, "but I know where I've been."

Don't Let Me Die!

I got up earlier than usual that chilly Saturday morning in April. I had a fun weekend ahead, and I didn't want to miss any of it. My youth leader and several friends from my youth group were heading to the Wenatchee River to take part in a relay race. I wasn't going to be in the race—I'd never even been in a canoe before—but I did get to be involved as a volunteer. My job was to take the canoes and paddles from point to point along the river in the car.

"Now remember, you're to stay out of the river," my mom reminded me for about the hundredth time as I left that morning.

"Don't worry, Mom," I said, driving off to meet my friends in the church parking lot.

Off we went, singing songs and talking as we headed toward eastern Washington. Before long, we started talking about the next day's Ridge to River Relay, an annual competition in the Wenatchee Valley. The race starts with skiers zipping down from the top of Mission Ridge and ends with people paddling down the Wenatchee River.

A Dangerous Decision
Finally, we arrived at the river, and someone suggested we go canoeing. My friends weren't experienced whitewater canoeists, but I knew they had some canoeing experience. Besides, we'd only be floating for about two miles. So I called my mom and asked for permission. I told her we were going to put the canoes into the water right in front of a park. Reluctantly, she said OK.

My mom later told me that when I had described the water, she had figured it was a gentle, flat, lake-like area of the river. Actually, the rushing water was higher than usual because of heavy rains and melting snow from the surrounding mountains.

Carefully, I stepped into the aluminum canoe along with Ruben and Marya—two of my best friends. Excited, we pushed off from shore and began what was supposed to be a short—and safe—trip.

We didn't go very far before the canoe overturned, dumping us into the freezing waters. The swift current quickly pulled us downriver. We swam to a little sandy island and Ruben pushed the canoe to shore.

I was starting to realize that this ride would be far more difficult than I'd imagined. "I don't want to get back into that canoe," I protested, shivering. I was scared. But we still needed to get back to the other side of the river, where we'd started. And since we'd never be able to swim across the swift waters, the canoe was our only choice.

"Come on, Carly," Ruben insisted.

Reluctantly, I climbed back in. As we approached a bridge, we suddenly turned sideways. Ruben shouted to Marya to paddle harder, but we were sucked toward a pillar of the bridge. We hit it hard and the canoe capsized, throwing Ruben and Marya into the river. They were swept downriver and were able to struggle to shore.

But I got stuck under the overturned canoe. The force of the water had wrapped it around the pillar like tin foil. I was pinned about three feet underwater. I couldn't break free or raise my head above the water. My lungs ached for air. I was trapped.

"Please, God, Save Me"
As soon as they made it to safety, Ruben and Marya began screaming for help.

My body was pinned under the canoe, but I managed to lift my hand in a plea for help. Shocked bystanders on the bridge could barely see it above the rushing waters. Someone called 911.

It was 2:50 in the afternoon. A frantic race to save my life began.

Meanwhile, Everett Gahringer, a volunteer for the sheriff's department, was running his boat upriver. He saw people on the bridge frantically pointing at me and the submerged canoe. Someone in his boat reached out to me, but we couldn't touch.

I was drowning.

"Please, God, save me," I prayed. "Don't let me die."

Mr. Gahringer wrapped a rope around the canoe I was still trapped under and tugged, hoping to jar me free. But it was useless.

Another sheriff's boat arrived—one with a much more powerful motor. But the river was still too powerful. Mr. Gahringer went to shore, thinking it was over.

It was now 3:15, and I had been underwater for 25 minutes.

Everyone thought it was too late to save me. But one medic on shore had been praying that they could free me. That medic, Shawn Ballard, knew the icy waters would slow my body functions. That would extend my chances of surviving. He knew I might be able to go a little longer without air.

"Let's try again," Mr. Ballard yelled through cupped hands.

Then a fire truck with a winch and cable rolled onto the bridge. Volunteers wrapped the cable around the canoe. Slowly, the canoe rose, and my body was freed. My body was quickly swept downriver. Mr. Gahringer revved his motor and raced down to pull me in.

It had been 45 minutes since our canoe flipped and trapped me underwater. I still wasn't breathing, and my heart had stopped.

Praying for a Miracle
Inside the ambulance, Mr. Ballard used shock pads to restart my heart. Several times. It started. Stopped. Started. Stopped. "God, please save this girl," he prayed.

My body temperature was 72 degrees when I arrived at the hospital.

My parents drove four hours to the hospital, praying the whole way. When they walked into the intensive care room, I was still unconscious. The doctors told my parents I probably wouldn't live through the night. If I did, I'd be little more than a vegetable.

But four days later, I slowly raised my arm and waved to my mom, who was sitting by my hospital bed. Mom cried. It was a miracle. I was alive.

A Long Recovery
Whenever people hear my story, they talk about what a miracle it is that I'm alive. The governor of Washington named me the "Miracle of the Season." Larry King interviewed me on his television program, and my story has been on Dateline NBC, The Today Show and the It's a Miracle program.

And it's true: The fact that I am alive is a miracle.

But my recovery wasn't over. It's been a long journey. I was in the hospital for two-and-a-half months after the accident. I've had to learn almost everything again—how to speak, how to walk, how to read. After I left the hospital, I had to go to physical, occupational and speech therapy regularly

My short-term memory has suffered as a result of the accident, but I returned to school that fall for my senior year. I was able to graduate as salutatorian of my high school class, though, and that was a real victory for me. I attended a community college for a while, and recently transferred to a four-year school. My memory is improving, and I'm studying to become a doctor, which is what I wanted to be even before the accident.

I've always shared my faith in Jesus and invited people to come to church with me, and I've had a lot more opportunities to talk to others about him since the accident. My dad says God spared my life so I can tell others about his love. So I try to do that whenever I can.

Sometimes when somebody becomes a Christian, people say they got "saved." I like to think God has saved me not just once, but twice.

Aren't You Listening, God?

I got my first pair of glasses when I was 5. They weren't pretty. The frames were bulky and brown, and even my first lenses were as thick as hockey pucks. And they were heavy—they left marks on my nose and around my ears long after I took them off.

Over the years, I tried to get used to the teasing—being called "four-eyes" and "microscope face," and having kids grab my glasses right off my face and run away. Through junior-high and high school, my eyes got weaker and my glasses got stronger. My parents bought me an alarm clock with three-inch, glowing red numbers, but I still couldn't see what time it was without my glasses. Going to the beach was the worst. I had to take my glasses off before I got in the water. And every time I got out, I'd have to wander around, squinting at strangers, until one of my friends saw me and led me back to the group.

My eyesight wasn't bad—it was awful. I typically prayed for only one thing every night: that Jesus would give me new eyes.

And I believed he would. It did say in the Bible, "Ask, and it will be given to you …. For everyone who asks receives." I knew Jesus loved me, and I believed he would fix me … if I asked enough times.

Enough Faith?
By the time I started high school, my grandma was praying for my eyes every day. She even took me to her church for prayer sometimes. There, the church elders would put their hands on my head and over my eyes, and they would pray for a long time. In those prayers, someone always reminded God there were two or more gathered there, praying in agreement for my healing. Nothing ever happened. The adults would smile at me and tell me that if I had enough faith, my eyes would be healed.

So I started praying I'd have enough faith to be healed. Still, nothing happened.

Wasn't God listening to me?

Maybe poor eyesight wasn't important enough to God. I felt disappointed with him. Maybe he didn't care. Or, maybe my spiritual vision was fuzzier than my physical vision.

A Shortsighted View
I always thought of God as my daddy, someone who cared for me and wanted the very best for my life. A good father should give his kid everything, right?

But even my earthly dad didn't always grant my every wish: He had to say "no" sometimes. Every time we'd drive by a fast-food restaurant, Dad and I would start this argument:

Me (inhaling the glorious scent): "Dad, get me a burger."

Dad (considering the pound of grease contained in such a meal): "No."

Me (whining): "C'mon, Dad! I'm hungry!"

Dad (calm, but firm): "We'll eat something good as soon as we get home. You eat too much junk food."

Me (annoyed and whiny): "I do not!"

Dad (annoyed and very firm): "You had a donut for breakfast, pizza for lunch, and" (pointing at an empty bag on the floor) "an entire bag of kettle chips after school. No burger!"

I honestly was hungry. And I wanted to satisfy that hunger as soon as I saw a way to do it. But my dad knew my real need—nourishment—and saw a better way to meet it.

God knew my real need, too. I did need a repair—not on my eyes, but on my heart

A Closer Look
In my prayers, I never acknowledged the real reason I wanted to be glasses-free: My glasses made me feel bad. Between the teasing and my complete dependence on eyewear, I felt like my glasses defined me. I'd look in the mirror and wouldn't see my face—just those ugly, thick glasses staring back at me.

I felt so unattractive. I felt so out of place. And I felt so angry because God hadn't answered my prayers. But I didn't really talk to God about my feelings. I thought prayer was all about saying "please" and "thanks." Could I actually tell God what I really felt inside? Did he even care?

Now, I turn to the Bible and I'm amazed to see all of the emotions people expressed to God. Abraham doubted. Jeremiah complained. Jonah questioned. Mary and Joseph were afraid.

Even Jesus needed reassurance from God. Just before Jesus was betrayed and crucified, he was "overwhelmed with sorrow" (Matthew 26:36-44, NIV). He let God know—three times—that he didn't want to go through that physically and emotionally painful experience unless it was truly God's will.

The Big Picture
I'm sure God didn't want his Son to suffer, but he knew it was necessary. And because Jesus trusted God, he was willing to go along with the plan.

While I wasn't headed to the cross, God didn't want me to suffer, either. He wanted to show me I'm his precious, beautiful child—even with glasses.

But the big question is: Did God ever answer my prayer for new eyes? My answer: Yes, God healed me—in a way that was a million times better than a physical healing. He gave me a whole new way of seeing myself.

God used the teasing I experienced to help me become more sensitive to others' feelings. Then he opened my eyes to see I had real friends—friends who accepted me exactly the way I am. He used those glasses to help me see myself as a good student and to try harder in school.

And through English classes, poetry clubs and the student newspaper, he revealed his very special gift to me: writing. Through my "new eyes," I didn't see myself as worthless anymore. I was gifted, accepted and loved.

Honestly, I don't know all the reasons for my poor eyesight, and I probably never will. I have to trust that God—my everlasting, all-knowing heavenly Father, who is far above and beyond me—knows me better than I know myself.

A big part of my prayers these days is acknowledging God's will and purpose, his view of the big picture. I pray I will want what God wants for me, because he knows what I truly need. And every time I ask God for a better perspective, he helps me see things more clearly.

Bouncing Back

Rebecca Orrico wasn't planning on going anywhere, no matter what the doctors said. She was just 10 years old. She loved to laugh. She loved to dance. And boy, could she light up the room with that radiant smile.

It didn't matter that she was bald and skinny and growing weaker every day. Didn't matter that she'd been battling leukemia since infancy. Didn't matter that her calendar was defined by chemo treatments and radiation therapy and bone marrow transplants. And it certainly didn't matter that, just a week after her 10th birthday, doctors told Rebecca's family she probably wouldn't make it through the night.

As far as Rebecca was concerned, she still had a life to live. And a job to do.

So, that night, Rebecca called her 15-year-old cousin, Christian singer Stacie Orrico, and made some big plans.

"Did they tell you?" Rebecca asked Stacie on the phone.

"Tell me what?" said Stacie, pretending not to know.

"I know the doctors think I'm about to die, but I'm not going to."

Stacie swallowed, holding back the tears.

"You better save a spot for me on your next tour," Rebecca continued, "because I'm going to come out and dance with you."

It was more than Stacie could bear. The tears came. She knew Rebecca would never dance again.

Moments later, the conversation ended. And the next day, Stacie was making plans to attend a funeral—not just for a sweet, brown-eyed 10-year-old who never lost her zest for life, but for her favorite cousin.

"Out of all my cousins, Rebecca and I were definitely the closest," says Stacie, now 16. "I just loved that little girl."

Questions for God
Stacie was devastated by Rebecca's death.

"It was just too much," she says. "I asked God, 'Why did you choose to take a child who impacted every person she met?' The only conclusion I could come to was that Rebecca was so special that God just wanted her to be with him."

Stacie says she never got angry at God.

"No," she says, "but that's because Rebecca had been so joyful through it all, even though she was really sick. She was definitely in pain most of her life, and I think God wanted to get her out of that. If we had to choose between Rebecca living a long life of pain, or going home to be with God when she was 10, I think we all would say she deserved not to suffer anymore. I think overall everybody felt peace about it."

That's partly because of how Rebecca lived.

"She loved to make people happy," Stacie remembers. "She never would've said her life was hard. She lived better than any person I've ever seen."

Especially when it came to dancing.

"She loved to dance," Stacie says. "She was determined that as soon as she got a little older, she was going to come out on the road with me and be one of my dancers. Every time I saw her, she had made up dances to all my songs."

And she had a way of dancing right into your heart, Stacie says.

"The moment anybody met her, they knew she was special. Not because she was sick or because they felt sorry for her. But because she was so full of life. And she wasn't going to let anything get in her way.

Shortly before her 10th birthday, Rebecca called the local bowling alley to plan her own party—without telling her parents. When Mom and Dad found out, they went along with the plan, and Rebecca and 15 friends had the time of their lives.

They had ice cream and cake and sang songs, the whole works. A week later, they went to Rebecca's funeral.

Making Dreams Come True
After Rebecca died, Stacie wondered how she might redeem a life so well-lived. Christmas was approaching, and, feeling generous, she wanted to do some shows to benefit a charity. But which one?

Stacie's publicist at ForeFront Records had an idea: Why not the Make-A-Wish Foundation, which grants wishes to children with life-threatening illnesses.

It was perfect. After all, Make-A-Wish had made a couple of Rebecca's dreams come true: They had flown her to a Seattle Mariners baseball game, and, better yet, to a Backstreet Boys concert.

Stacie will never forget what that meant to Rebecca.

"At one of the lowest times of her illness, the Make-A-Wish Foundation gave Rebecca something to be excited about," she says. "I thought the organization was incredible, and I was really excited to help them in any way that we could."

Stacie did concerts in 10 cities, donating a $5,000 check to each local Make-A-Wish chapter, making a dream come true for one child in each city. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, Stacie's donation helped a 9-year-old girl take a family vacation to Hawaii. In Columbus, Ohio, she made it possible for a 3-year-old boy to visit Disney World. In Atlanta, she helped an 11-year-old boy buy a five-piece DW drum set.

Stacie says the Make-A-Wish tour "was the most satisfying thing I've ever been a part of."

Dancing for God
These days, when the Orrico family gets together for Easter—or Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever—it's always a gathering that's not quite complete. Not without Rebecca.

"As big as my family is," says Stacie, "when we all get together, you just feel her absence. She was the center of attention and the star of the show, and when we're all together, we look around and can tell she's missing. It's been really hard."

But whenever she thinks of Rebecca, Stacie is consoled by this thought: Rebecca always wanted to dance onstage, under the lights, in front of an audience. Stacie believes that wish has come true.

"Whenever I think of Rebecca now," she says, "I like to think she's dancing for God."

An Answer to Prayer?

The oxygen in my respirator clicked off. "Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!" Dr. Wessel screamed through the airtight glass box I sat in at Children's Memorial Hospital. God, please be with me, I prayed silently. I puffed my cheeks up, pursed my lips around the air tube, and exhaled until my lungs felt like a hot spear had punctured them. I panicked. There was no oxygen.

Dear Jesus, give me strength.

"She can't do it." Dr. Wessel gave up and released the lock on the oxygen tank. He was trying to measure the air capacity in my lungs. I was supposed to exhale through the tube with enough force to flip a switch on the respirator, which would do the measurement.

I stumbled out of the glass box and tried to sit down, but I was wearing cords that hooked up to a heart monitor. They weren't long enough to reach the swivel chair that was a short distance from me. So I stood and listened to Dr. Wessel talk to my dad as if I weren't in the room.

All along the click, click of the monitor made my beating heart sound like a bouncing ping-pong ball. "She just doesn't have it in her," Dr. Wessel said, scribbling down something on my chart, which looked thicker than a dictionary.

"So she can't run?" my dad asked.

Dr. Wessel shook his head. "Being on the track team seems important to her," he said, "but people with Transposition of the Great Arteries simply aren't athletes." Those five words—Transposition of the Great Arteries—had followed me around since the day I was born.

I was born with a conditions cardiologists describe as "an upside-down heart," and I had to have open heart surgery just a few weeks after I was born. My heart had to work extra hard.

Still, my parents and I didn't focus on my heart problems. I had plenty of doctor visits and an occasional hospital stay, but my parents and doctors always helped me think about things I could do instead of things I couldn't handle.

But now I wanted to be an athlete. That's why I had signed up for track at my high school. I had gone to the first few practices and thought I had a chance of competing in the mile. Not many girls wanted to run the mile on the track team, so it was the perfect opportunity for me, I thought. Less competition was good.

But before I could officially join the team, I had to pass a heart and lung stress test. I spent a lot of time praying with my parents that God would give me strength for the test.

Now my dad was asking Dr. Wessel if I could compete in any event at all.

"OK," Dr. Wessel sighed. "Amy's heart is very strong. So I will let her run the 100-yard dash."

"Thank you," my dad said.

"I want to warn you," Dr. Wessel continued, "she will probably always be last and it will wear her out. She'll give up long before I tell her it's not safe for her to run. If she wants to compete, she should take up golf. To be a fast runner you need to have the heart of a Porsche. Amy has the heart of a Ford."

Dr. Wessel unhooked the monitor wires. Then he connected me to a 24-hour heart monitor. He snapped a cassette tape in the purse-sized, five-pound heart monitor that hung at my side and told me to wear it so it could record my heart rate.

"Wow, this is an answer to prayer," my dad said, as we got in the car and headed to school. "And it looks like we can still get you to track practice."

I didn't think it was an answer to prayer. I knew I wouldn't be a fast sprinter. Plus, there were so many girls who wanted to run the 100-yard dash that I'd never get to compete in an actual track meet.

I stared at the scar etched on the side of my wrist. This scar, like most of the other ones on my body, was from intravenous tubes doctors had inserted during my open heart surgery.

Jesus, I know this doesn't seem important, but it is important to me.

I had prayed for so long about this. And it seemed like God wasn't really listening to me.

When I got to track practice, my teammates were already on the track, so I headed into the empty locker room to change while Dad went out to talk to Coach Hicks.

I stopped at the mirror and stared at the bulge of wires under my shirt. The eight sticky leads burned my skin and the constant hum of the tape winding echoed softly.

Dear God, this isn't going to work. I know I won't be able to do this. I need help.

I went to my locker and pulled out my green track warm-up. I carefully took off my shirt and taped the wires to my stomach with surgical tape. Then I put on an extra large T-shirt, slung the thick black monitor strap across my right shoulder so the heart monitor rested on my left hip, and covered it with my warm-up.

I grabbed my new purple and white spikes and checked myself in the mirror. I had successfully hidden all the wires.

Jesus, you know what I need. You know my wants. Just be with me, I prayed as I headed toward the track.

"Adair!" Coach Hicks bellowed. "You're late! Get in line with the sprinters." I hopped behind the others at the 100-yard mark.

This is not where I want to be, I thought. I want to run the mile. I don't want to sprint! "Only two of you can run the 100-yard dash," Coach yelled to the 16 sprinters, pacing in front of us like a drill sergeant. "First two fastest times in this time trial will run at the meet." When it was my turn, I climbed into the blocks and pushed my heart monitor to the back edge of my hip.

"Adair!" Hicks blew his shrill whistle at me. "Don't move! You'll fall right out of the blocks."

Give me strength.

"Get set!" I placed the tips of my feet in the blocks, stretched my fingers out on the white starting line, and braced my weight on my thumbs and index fingers.

"Bang!" I rocketed out of the blocks, lifted my knees up to my chest, and ran toward the finish line. Less than 13 seconds later, the race was over. I heaved over the finish line, gasping for breath. The other girls were barely panting.

"Diane Arnold was first," Hicks said. "Second place was Amy Adair." He peered at Diane and me over the rims of his glasses. "You'll both be running in the meet."

I looked up at Coach Hicks and he winked at me. "Adair, your speed is natural. But your start is awful. Everyone take a 10-minute water break, then we'll work on block starts."

Thank you, Jesus!

I walked over to the drinking fountain and saw a gray Honda parked on the side of the road. It was my dad watching me. I gave him a thumbs-up. He waved, then drove away.

I met Coach Hicks and the rest of the sprinters back at the starting line. "You won't get any special treatment," he whispered. I nodded at him. I didn't want special treatment. I just wanted to be part of the team. His eyes darted down to my side.

I patted my hip with the palm of my hand and realized some of the wires were hanging out of my warm-up. "Use this," Coach Hicks said, handing me some medical tape from his emergency box.

We each had to practice our starts 20 times. "Raise your knees! Keep your head down," he yelled. "Lower your shoulders!"

When it was time for our track meet, I was finally ready. "All we're asking you to do is your best," Dad reminded me when the 100-yard dash was announced.

I took my place on the track in lane four.

It was a small track meet—there were only seven runners in the event—not even enough to fill up all the lanes. But it was a monumental race for me.

"Get on your marks! Get set!" The runners' breathing around me sounded like six purring diesel engines.

"Go!" The racers peeled out of the blocks.

I bounded across the finish line 12.99 seconds later.

"Lane two is first place," the time keeper said, pointing at Diane. "Lane six is second," this time he pointed at a girl from the other team. "Lane four is third place," he said, pointing to me.

My lungs ached and my legs were quivering beneath me. I knelt on the asphalt track and tried to inhale as much air as my lungs could hold. It wasn't a miraculous time or finish. But I did finish.

"Diane," Coach Hicks yelled, "good job."

"Amy," he said to me, "we gotta work on that start of yours."

I nodded my head as he walked away. He turned around and said very quickly, "You're a real asset to this team. Keep working hard and you'll be at the head of the pack."

I knew that even a small track meet where I raced six other girls was important to God—because it was important to me. Sure, I probably wouldn't be a star athlete. But I knew that God heard my prayers, because he loved me. And it didn't mean that he loved me any less just because he didn't answer my prayer the way I had expected.

"Third place! Not bad," my dad said, patting my back. "You scored a point for the team."

My heart was beating like a war drum. Third place, I thought. Not bad at all.

I clenched the side of my desk and stared at the clock, wishing desperately I could move its hands and make the class end.

But the clock didn't move any faster, and the kid singing a made-up song about me didn't stop. His "lyrics" were full of cruel putdowns. I looked toward the teacher, but she acted as if she didn't hear a thing.

So I sat at my desk, trying to pretend that I couldn't hear him, either. But I heard every word. Heat rushed to my face. I was angry and afraid. I felt so powerless. It was the middle of my freshman year, and the bullies who chose me as their target hadn't let up since the first weeks of school. I dreaded each day of the week.

I'm not exactly sure why they decided to pick on me. Sometimes they chose to make fun of my multiracial heritage—my mom is African American and Native American, and my father is white. Other times their nasty comments didn't have anything to do with my race. But the bullying was always ugly, and it always hurt.

My teachers rarely intervened, and an assistant principal even told me that if I would act differently people wouldn't tease me so much. But nothing I did made the bullies stop. To avoid being teased, I even changed the way I dressed and the way I wore my hair. My parents also talked to the school's administration about everything I was going through. But the bullying continued.

"God, why me?" I'd prayed more than once. "If you're a loving God, why are you allowing me to go through this? Why aren't you making them stop? Why won't anyone defend me or help?" I couldn't understand why an all-powerful God wouldn't use his power to stop the bullying.

During this terrible time in my life, my parents constantly assured me of their love for me. They told me how valuable and beautiful I was. And I also knew that God valued me and considered me beautiful. While I couldn't understand why he didn't stop the bullying, I really believed he saw me as "fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139:14). God had put time and thought into crafting me! I knew that my self-worth shouldn't depend on what these bullies thought or said about me.

I decided to stop blaming God for every negative experience. I also came to realize that things at my school weren't going to get any better. I didn't want the cruelty of those students to wear down my spirit anymore, so my parents and I decided I needed to transfer to another school.

I liked my new high school, but I still struggled with bitterness toward the people who'd bullied me. I knew God wanted me to forgive them, but it seemed impossible.

"Forgive them?" I remember praying. "They made my life so hard! They threatened me. They spread rumors about me. And they're not sorry! How can you ask me to forgive them?"

But I didn't want to shut myself off from something I felt God wanted me to do. I searched my Bible for verses about forgiveness. I copied many of these verses onto sheets of paper, hoping they would somehow jump from that paper into my heart. But I still struggled.

In time, though, my heart began to soften. God helped me see that forgiving those bullies would free me from bitterness and resentment.

I can't pretend it was easy to forgive those who hurt me so badly. It took a lot of time. But God did help me move past those experiences and look more closely at all the good things he'd brought into my life. My wonderful family. The friends at my new school. The gifts and abilities he'd given me. As I focused on all I had to be grateful for, my hurt and pain began to fade.

Even though my experience was difficult, I believe God used it to help me gain more self-confidence. The strength that came from standing up for myself in school now helps me as I carry out my duties as Miss America, especially when I have to give speeches and sing in public. It also helps me stand up for my beliefs, even when they're unpopular (see "Miss America's Un-popular Stand"). And it helps me talk to people about ways to protect students from being bullied.

Now I have opportunities to reach out to students who are being bullied. Because of my experience, I can share with them that God believes they are "fearfully and wonderfully made," and that he will give them the strength to get through it.

I may never understand why my freshman year was so difficult. But I do know that God has used it to bring about a lot of good. That's what matters most.

I Turned My Back on God

One beautiful Saturday afternoon while I was still in high school, I was driving my car along some country roads. The radio was on, but I didn't notice. All I could hear were harsh voices of regret.

I pressed down on the gas pedal, trying to drive away from what had happened the night before. Yet no matter how fast I drove or how loud I played the radio, I couldn't escape the fact that last night had really happened.

I had lost my virginity.

And I was angry at myself, at others, and at the culture around me that said sex was no big deal. I had bought the lie. The guys in the locker room had made it sound so cool. They didn't tell me that the next morning—this morning—would be full of emptiness, pain, regret and sorrow. I felt stupid and dirty, like I'd traded the most precious diamond in the world for a cheap, dime-store trinket.

I drove for hours. I passed by my house and then by our church, where my dad is pastor. I thought of the lessons I'd learned in both places—lessons of morality, strength and godly character. I had been taught to live differently from the world, to resist temptation, and most important, to obey the Bible.

My failure the night before wasn't the result of one momentary lapse in judgment. I'd been headed that way for a long time, trying to see how far I could go without actually having sex. It was a dangerous game, but it was fun. What I didn't realize was that this game had no winners.

total rebellion
I'd always wanted to be just like everybody else, and most of the people I looked up to at school were sexually active.

I began to wonder why I was holding out. It's no fun feeling like an oddball, especially when your friends are telling you all about their sexual escapades. After awhile, I decided I could be like everybody else.

Once I lost my virginity, I told myself, "I've messed up big time, so I guess it doesn't matter what I do from now on. I might as well enjoy my rebellion as long as I'm here."

I should have run from my sin at that point; instead, I embraced it.

That was the beginning of a full-on rebellion. My heart hardened as the months went by. I struggled with thoughts of worthlessness. I felt like since I'd opened the forbidden door of premarital sex, there was no going back. I could never be pure again.

And though I felt guilty, I continued rebelling. A few months later, a friend asked me to a party where I knew there would be drinking. I said no at first, but then I thought, I've already fallen into sin, so I guess there's nothing left to lose.

So I went to the party and started drinking. I had never tasted alcohol before, but I acted like drinking was normal for me. I drank until I passed out.

The next morning, I couldn't remember anything, but my friends said I'd been the life of the party. I felt like I finally fit in.

Two days after the party, I was playing drums and singing in the choir at church—and still trying to get over my first hangover.

barely recognized myself
Over the next few months, I went to more parties and did more stupid things. Word was getting around that Jason Perry was going out and acting pretty wild. I thought it was cool.
On Friday and Saturday nights I was out living like the devil, then on Sunday mornings I would listen to my dad's sermons and not blink an eye. I lost all desire to sing, and went from leading worship every Sunday to singing only now and then.

One Saturday night I got home late after being out with friends. I walked in quietly, trying not to wake my mom. I tiptoed into the bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, and I barely recognized the unkempt person staring back at me.

"Jason, what are you doing?" I asked myself.

The next day, I went to church, and I was ready to make a change. My dad ended his sermon with an altar call, and I went down front to get right with God. I asked him to forgive me for the foolish way I'd been living.

Immediately I sensed his cleansing, forgiveness and peace. It felt so good to be home.

God still loved me
I stopped my rebellious lifestyle and started living for God again. Yet I was still overwhelmed by guilt, and it affected the way I thought about everything.

For example, I thought about my future wedding day—standing before my bride, my dad performing the ceremony. But instead of feeling happiness, I thought about the fact that I wasn't a virgin. I had robbed my future wife of something precious, and I struggled with the fact that someone besides my bride knew me in a way that should have been reserved only for her.

The guilt stayed with me even after I joined Plus One. I eventually told the other guys in the group about my past, and they were cool with how I'd changed. Still, I continued to carry guilt and shame.

About a year after Plus One formed, I met a pastor in Nashville who changed my life. Pastor Tim didn't care that I was some sort of "celebrity." I acted like I had it all together, but he had a way of seeing past the mask and looking right into my heart.

The first night we met, Pastor Tim led me in an intense prayer. And right away, I began to experience release from my guilt and shame.

That night, Pastor Tim challenged me to surrender everything to Jesus. And at that moment, when I thought of Christ on the cross, I knew he was there for me, for what I'd done. The amazing power of God's grace, love and forgiveness overwhelmed me, and tears burst out of me like a flood. I had denied God by my actions, and he still accepted me.

That evening was the beginning of a long journey to freedom. Through memorizing Scripture with Pastor Tim, I've come to realize some very important truths, like Romans 8:1: "Therefore, there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."

When I read that, I hear God telling me, "Jason, you are free."

I also like 2 Corinthians 5:17: "Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come."

I am no longer the old Jason Perry who made such a mess of his life. I am a new person.

Now I'm living a life of purity and hope. And in a very real sense, I am a virgin once again. Jesus Christ has made me new. God has set me free.

"Am I Going to Die Young?"

I sat in the doctor's office, cradling my pounding head in my hands. Piercing headaches had been hammering me for days, and I prayed that the doctor would be able to find the cause.

"These stupid headaches had better go away by Saturday," I told my mom. "I have to race in the regional meet. The team's counting on me."

"I know, honey," she replied softly. "Let's see what the doctor says."

I was irritated by Mom's casual response. These were the regional cross country championships! Even though I was only a college freshman, I'd had a great season, and I wanted to keep it going—for me, and for my team.

I sighed and began massaging my aching temples. I looked up when the door opened and the doctor stepped inside.

"We've determined what's causing your headaches," he said. He hesitated, then continued, "You've got a tumor in the parietal and occipital lobes of your brain."

My stomach dropped. What? A brain tumor?! Me? No way! I was a healthy All-American runner who had just led her team to a conference championship. I'd never had any serious health problem. Sure, I'd been having headaches, nausea and dizziness for a few days, but I thought it was just some horrible flu or something. But a brain tumor?

Mom didn't accept it, either. "No!" she insisted. "Johanna's 18 years old. You must be wrong."

"I wish I were," the doctor said. "It's not a huge mass—it's about the size of your thumb. But we must remove it immediately to find out if it's cancerous."

As if that news weren't bad enough, there was more. "This is not an aggressive tumor," the doctor said, "but there's a slim chance it could grow back."

I swallowed hard. I didn't know what to say or think. My head continued to pound ferociously as my mind went numb.

"I know this is a lot to take in," the doctor said. "But I'd like to discuss next steps … "

The doctor's words seemed muffled, distant, like when you're waking up from a dream. But this was no dream. This was my harsh reality. And no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't run away from this.

My PassionRunning Is Life: The Rest Is Just Details.
That's what my favorite T-shirt says. And ever since I ran my first race as a second grader, that's how I've felt. While my friends were jumping rope and playing kickball, I was running.

By the time I reached high school, running was my passion. God blessed me with the gift of speed, and I thrived in a competitive atmosphere. I always believed I could win, and that attitude helped me win five conference championships in cross country in high school.

My success continued during the fall cross country season in my freshman year at Luther College in Decorah, Iowa. But the shocking news of my brain tumor made me wonder if I'd tasted my last victory.

On the ride home from the doctor's office, I looked down at my jittery hands. They hadn't stopped shaking since I heard the diagnosis.

"I can't tell Coach Emerson and my teammates about the tumor," I told Mom, my voice quivering.

"Don't worry, sweetie," she said, reaching for my trembling hand. "I'll talk to them."

After Mom pulled in the driveway and shut off the car, I just sat there, paralyzed by shock … fear … dread. Mom reached over, cradling me in her arms.

I slouched down and laid my throbbing head in her lap. I couldn't handle these splitting headaches much longer. My operation was in three days. Will it work? I wondered. Will my headaches stop? I needed relief.

And I needed to process this horrific news, but I didn't know how. Competitive athletics had taught me to tackle any challenge head-on, no matter how difficult. But this challenge was unlike any I'd ever faced.

Although I wanted to be positive, I was worried how this tumor would affect me—and my running. After all, running defined me. I couldn't imagine living if I couldn't run. I wanted to know, After surgery, how long 'til I can run again?

I didn't have to wait long to start getting some answers. The surgery went well, and brought great news: The tumor wasn't cancerous! But since I'm so competitive, I didn't celebrate. Instead, I was frustrated by my exhaustion.

"I miss racing," I told my sister Marney a few days after surgery.

Marney smiled and said, "OK, Ms. Competition, back off, will ya? It'll be awhile before you're pounding the pavement."

That's what she thought. Exactly one month later, I went on a 10-minute run. It was brutal, but I slowly improved. And by the end of track season the following spring, I finished in the top five in the 5,000-meter run at the conference championship. I was thrilled to be back at the top of my game.

"I'm Really Scared"
The following September, as I was gearing up for my second cross country season at Luther, I returned to the doctor's office for a routine checkup. The doctor seemed distracted, and excused himself from the room. I sat alone, anxiously tapping my foot on the floor.

Why am I nervous? I'm fine! I told myself. I waited for what seemed like an eternity. When the doctor returned, he looked at me and began, "Johanna, I have some news … "

My heart skipped a beat.

"I'm afraid your tumor has returned," he said.

I felt like a vacuum had sucked all of the air out of my lungs. I fell back into the chair, horrified, terrified, and completely confused.

"This doesn't make sense," I cried. "At my checkup two months ago, you said I was fine."

"You were, and that's partly what concerns me. This tumor is growing fast."

I felt sick. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. How will I get through this?

Then my competitive instincts kicked in. Come on, you can do this! I told myself. You never wimp out when you run. Don't wimp out now! But this was harder than any race, because I knew I could win races. I wasn't so sure about this, though.

On the way home, I prayed, "Please help me, God. I'm really scared. Am I destined to die young? Please, Lord, give me strength."

"We're a Team"
The next day I nervously stepped into the locker room to talk to my teammates.

"How'd the appointment go?" asked Julie, all chipper and clearly expecting good news. My silence told her otherwise.

"What is it?" Julie asked, rushing to my side. Other girls gathered round, too.

I bit my quivering lower lip in an effort to keep from crying. "I … I got some bad news," I stammered.

Julie put her arm around me. "It's OK, Jo. Take your time."

"It's another tumor," I said, almost in a whisper.

I heard a collective gasp from everyone in the room.

"No!" Jane, another teammate, cried in horror.

Everyone remained silent and motionless. Some girls covered their mouths with their hands; others just stood with gaping mouths and tearful eyes.

Salty tears rolled down my face. "I have to do intense radiation treatments," I explained. "Five days a week for six weeks."

"Oh, Jo!" Julie said, pulling me close and hugging me tight. "I'm so sorry!"

A part of me wanted to just collapse in Julie's arms and let go of my burdens, my fears, my pain. But I didn't want to unload my problems on my teammates.

"When do treatments start?" Jane asked.

"Immediately," I replied. "Why?"

"You don't think we're gonna let you go to treatments alone, do ya?" Jane said.

"I dunno," I muttered.

"No way! We'll all take turns driving you," Julie chimed in.

I was shocked—but utterly touched—by their offer. "But it's 70 miles to the hospital in Rochester," I said.

"So what?" said Colleen. "We're a team. We stick together."

I couldn't believe it. I was floored by their generosity.

A sense of relief washed over me. "I love you guys. Thank you!" I cried.

I had a long road ahead, but I knew I could face it with friends like these to lean on.

Sweet Victory
The next six weeks were horrible, as radiation treatments beat me worse than any opponent ever did. I was weak, tired, nauseated, and—once I started training—very slow. But several months later, in February, I was feeling tougher, faster and more energetic. I was psyched up for track season, and my friends welcomed me back with open arms and kind words.

I'll never forget a conversation I had with Julie one day before practice.

"Johanna, there's something I've been meaning to tell you," she said. "You're the strongest person I know. After watching you, I've learned that anything is possible. You've taught me to have faith."

I could feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment. "I have?"

"Yeah. No matter what life throws at me, I know I can overcome it and become a stronger person. I know that from watching you."

Julie's words humbled me.

"Don't be so impressed," I said as I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. "I used to take God for granted. It was like, I knew he was there, and that seemed like enough. But when I got sick, I prayed a lot more. As my body grew weaker, my spirit grew stronger."

"Were you ever angry with God?" Julie asked.

"I was at war with my illness, not with God," I said. "How could I be mad at him? He gave me the strength and stamina to fight. He also gave me a new perspective on life. Getting sick made me extra thankful for my family and friends."

"Aren't you scared that another tumor will grow?"

I leaned down to tie my shoe. "I don't want to waste my time worrying about something that may or may not happen," I said. "Besides, God wants me to live for today by appreciating and using the gifts I have now. And that's precisely what I'm going to do."

I finished tying my shoe and looked at Julie.

"C'mon," I said. "Let's go run."

Johanna graduated from Luther in May and is currently running with TEAM USA Minnesota, a group of elite runners who are training professionally. She's also pursuing a Master's degree in applied sports science and hopes to one day coach at the collegiate level. During a doctor's appointment this past August, Johanna was given a clean bill of health.

Make time to eat.


Olivia steadied herself on the counter. Why was the world spinning? She shook her head, trying to shake away the blurriness and focus again on the task before her.

It was no use. She couldn’t keep standing. Wearily, she sank into a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She just didn’t get it. A few days ago she had so much energy and felt like she could conquer the world. Now, she felt like a complete failure and could hardly keep standing. What was wrong with her?

Olivia’s sister Sophia came to her side, giving her a gentle side hug. “Oh, Sophi, what’s wrong with me?” Olivia cried, burying her head on her sister’s shoulder.

Sophia listened patiently as Olivia recounted the week’s adventures. “I just feel so tired out,” Olivia explained. “I want to complete the tasks before me well, but I don’t have any energy to do it. I can’t think straight at all.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Sophia’s gentle question was the last one Olivia expected, but one she needed to hear. When was the last time she ate? Come to think of it, her last real meal was several days ago now. Her only other food had been small, rushed snacks here and there, along with some junk food.

“I’ve had so much to do, I’ve not really had a good meal in days,” Olivia confessed.

Sophia nodded. “That’s what I thought. My dear sister, there’s no way you can complete what you need to do unless you nourish yourself! And I don’t mean just a quick snack here and there. You need a real meal. Your body simply wasn’t made to run without good food.”

Olivia was surprised that, after a good meal, she could suddenly think clearly again and walk without the world spinning. How different life looked when properly fed! No matter how busy life got, she needed to make time to eat.

“ But he [Jesus] answered and said, It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.” Matthew 4:4 (KJV)

"You Ain't No Better Than Me"

O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant …
It was a chilly December evening in downtown Chicago, and about a dozen of us from a suburban Christian college were Christmas caroling. My best friend, Uriel, stood next to me, his steady, strong voice carrying the group. A few people stopped to listen.

… O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem, Come and behold him …
A black man edged closer as we sang. He seemed to eye me, the only African American in our group. His head nodded in rhythm with the melody.

… O come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!
"Say, brother," he said, approaching me as the song ended, "would you please help my family? We ain't got no money and my baby needs formula."

He was probably in his 20s, but his tired and ragged appearance made him look much older. "Please, man. I need to get us some food."

I glanced at the others in my group. We knew the safest response was to politely refuse. Yet we were Christians. Weren't we supposed to help needy people?

"Would you please help me?" the plea came again. "Just a few dollars."

I looked at Uriel.

"We can't give you money," Uriel finally said, "but we can buy you what you need." If the guy was telling us the truth, it was something we had to do.

"My name is Jerome," he told us as we hiked toward a nearby convenience store. He lived in a city housing project with his wife and three kids. As we entered the store, I noticed that his eyes seemed to brighten. Maybe we'd brought a little hope into his life.

Soon we'd bought him baby formula, eggs and milk. This seemed a fitting conclusion to our evening of caroling.

As we handed Jerome the groceries and bus fare, I noticed his eyes had darkened into an angry stare. "You think you better than me, don't you?" he said. "You all think you somethin' 'cause you come out from the suburbs, buyin' food for the po' folks, but you ain't no better than me."

"No … " I struggled to find more words, but nothing came. I realized there was nothing I could say that would change his mind.

After a moment of awkward silence, Jerome grabbed his bag of groceries and walked away. Then he suddenly turned and said sharply, "Merry Christmas." It was not a warm wish, but a bitter statement filled with broken pride.

The December air blew colder. No one said a word.

There wasn't anything to say. Our holiday spirit had suddenly evaporated, and there was no way to bring it back.

We might have resented Jerome and felt justified. But was he wrong? We gave him a gift. He accepted it. Should there have been anything more?

That's sort of how it was at the first Christmas. Jesus wasn't born a helpless baby for applause. He didn't hang on the cross for the praise—those he died for made fun of him. Still, he gave selflessly and unconditionally. Why had we expected gratitude and appreciation for our gift to Jerome?

Strangely enough, Jerome gave us something far better than gratitude. He made us look hard at our selfish motives and gave us a sobering lesson on the real reason for giving.

We were expecting a pat on the back. Instead, Jerome gave us a glimpse into the true meaning of Christmas.

Facing My Fears On Reality TV

Three weeks. Twelve teens. TV cameras everywhere. And one amazing mountaintop experience.

Lord, I don't want to do this! Make something happen. Get me out of this!" As they strapped the climbing harness to my legs and securely fastened the rope, I thought I'd pass out. Staring up at the 130-foot cliff above me, my fear only worsened. Why did I commit myself to this?

A few months ago, I'd heard about a Christian reality TV series and decided to try out for it. The series was going to be called TruthQuest: California, and would follow 12 teenagers during a three-week ministry trip.

I filled out the application, wrote my testimony and made the required 10-minute video. I was excited when I was accepted!

Just like other reality shows, there were a lot of stressed-out times. We didn't get much sleep and were sometimes pretty irritable. There were many arguments, especially after a long day of riding on the bus.

We all came from different backgrounds, too—different parts of the country, different family incomes, and different experiences. Sometimes our opinions clashed. What made the TruthQuest show different was that we tried to resolve our conflicts by praying and trying to let our faith guide the way we related to each other.

We also faced many tough challenges during our ministry times. Once, we went to a community center in San Francisco to share a meal with people there. The show's producer told us that we'd meet heroin addicts and homeless people. I'd never been around people like that and I didn't have any idea how to act. I really let my nervousness get to me.

In fact, I didn't talk to anybody at my table the whole time. I felt like a failure—like I'd kept God from using me for ministry. I was angry with myself and sad for the people I saw. I left the center in tears.

Then there was that 130-foot cliff we'd been challenged to climb in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Earlier that day, we'd each put on climbing harnesses, scaled a 20-foot cliff and rappelled back down. Since I'm deathly afraid of heights, I'd wanted to say no. But because everyone else was doing it, I reluctantly agreed to give it a try. For someone who's absolutely terrified of heights, I thought that was pretty good.

Then the producers took us to the side of that mountain.

My arms were already tired and my back and calves were aching from the 20-foot climb. Oh, man. I'd do anything to get out of this, I thought, staring upward at the steep, rocky cliff.

I really don't like to take on big challenges. And this was a big obstacle I didn't think I could handle. I stayed toward the back of the line and watched as several of the other TruthQuesters climbed the cliff. I was relieved when we ran out of time before my turn came. At least, I thought we'd run out of time.

The producers still wanted me to do the climb. They said it would be a great opportunity to let my faith conquer my fear. I couldn't think of anything in the world I wanted to do less, but I still agreed to try. I strapped on a climbing vest and secured the ropes. And I prayed.

"God, I'm just going to have to depend on you to get me up this thing and back down, so please just be with me."


I braced my feet against the cliff, pulled my rope taut and took my first, halting steps. I slipped almost immediately, scraping my knuckles and banging my knee on the jagged rock.

Why are my shoes slipping on this rock? I wondered, with sweat trickling down my back and soaking my shirt. Is this climbing harness even strong enough to hold me?

I struggled to find cracks in the surface of the rock. I wedged my fingers into the tight spaces, struggling to keep my balance and hoping I could find strong footholds in the jagged rock.

"Don't look down!" I kept saying to myself, but sometimes I couldn't help it. Still, looking up wasn't much more encouraging. I couldn't believe how much higher I had to climb. My new friends were at the bottom, shouting, "You can do it, Chip! Keep going!"

But that was easier said than done. Sweat dripped down my forehead and stung my eyes, and the muscles in my legs threatened to give out. I had to move sideways at one point, crossing the face of the mountain. If I made one false move, I'd fall backward down the cliff. I was terrified.

"Lord, help me keep going," I prayed over and over. When I slipped, which was often, I wanted to yell, "I've had enough! I won't go any farther!" But I didn't give up. I groaned. I struggled. I kept edging slowly up the side of the cliff.

By now, I was saying Bible verses that would help me get past my fear and trust God.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me . …"

"God has not given us the spirit of fear . …"

Finally, I slipped my foot over the top of the cliff and stood up on top of the world! I couldn't believe it. I'd made it! I'd done what I'd earlier thought was impossible.

I'd never felt anything like this—like I was touching the sky and the earth at the same time. The air was crisp and the soft breeze swept gently over me, making me forget how worn out I was. Evergreen trees stretched as far as I could see.

Then, it was time to go down.

Going down was hard, too, because I had to lean back on the rope with my full weight, trusting it wouldn't snap and send me crashing to my death.

"Lord, it's a long drop," I prayed. "You helped me up; now, I've got to get down. Please be with me."

The entire climb took me 45 minutes. When I got to the bottom, my trembling legs collapsed from exhaustion. I chugged big gulps of water, trying to quench my parched throat. My friends crowded around, patting me on the back and congratulating me, but I barely heard what they said. I just prayed.

"Thank you, Lord!" I said, over and over. "Thank you! There's no way I could have done this without your help!"

My body ached all over. I wanted a hot shower and a soft bed. I'd never been so tired. But I felt so alive! All I could do was look up at that rock I'd conquered and just enjoy the feeling.

I'd accomplished the impossible! No, God accomplished the impossible through me. No way could I have made that climb without him by my side. I really believe that when I face problems or obstacles in the future, I'll look back and say, "If God could help me make it through that, I know he'll help me with this." I believe that climb—which I hadn't wanted to do—has given me confidence to face future trials and conquer them.

I'll never forget my whole reality TV experience. And I'll definitely never forget the day I conquered that mountain—and my fears along with it.

Where Are You, God?

It's been almost a year since terrorists flew passenger planes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, killing thousands and bringing chaos and fear to the world.

Though I was shaken up like everyone else, I never expected how deeply I would be affected. My family didn't know anyone who was killed, and the events occurred hundreds of miles from where we live.

But in the weeks after the attacks, I felt weighed down. I felt distant from God. I felt like he had abandoned me at a time when I needed him most.

I felt a lot like the bride in the Song of Solomon felt after her lover had left: "My heart sank at his departure. I looked for him but he did not answer" (Song 5:6).

That's exactly how I felt. Abandoned. It was overwhelming.

I wondered if I was guilty of some terrible sin, like I had somehow brought this on myself. All kinds of doubts crept in. I felt so alone.

Mom noticed something was wrong. She said, "Natalie, you're not yourself right now. What's going on?"

I told her everything, and she encouraged me to think of it as a time to grow. She pointed me to the Psalms and reminded me how David often grew closer to God in his times of desperation.

Mom was right. Time and again, David cried out for a God who didn't seem to answer. And that's what I had to do. I realized that my desperation wasn't because I'd done anything wrong. It was just a time to cry out to God to rescue me, to hold me.

I think I had reached a point where I was so comfortable in my walk with God that I needed a little shaking up. I'm not saying God allowed the terrorist attacks so my faith could be challenged. But once it happened, I think he used my fears to take a closer look at my own faith.

It's like I had been in a beautiful, wonderful valley. Everything was going well. But I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it didn't seem like God was in the valley any more. He was up in the mountains, and he challenged me to go up to a higher point in my relationship with him. It was like he said, "Come up to where I am. It's better up here. It's more beautiful up here. It's a better view. You'll have a better perspective."

And so I started climbing the mountain—through reading his Word, through prayer, through my desperate cries for help. He heard my cries, and he has helped me continue my trek up the mountain.

Things are much better now, but I'm still climbing. And I'm enjoying the journey.

Stressed Out!

I distinctly remember the signs of busyness: The caffeine-rich two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew I carried to class. Driving home after 11 o'clock on school nights, with still much to do once I got there. The stress I felt when my alarm woke me up each morning.

Missing lunch most of the time. When I did eat, doing it as I finished up homework, never in the lunchroom with my friends. Finding random places to catch a quick nap as I waited for the next item on my agenda to come. (Underneath desks was a great place for that.)

It was my senior year in high school, and my plate wasn't just full—it was overflowing. Football, student council, yearbook, theater, National Honor Society, Fellowship of Christian Athletes, friends, family, work, church and schoolwork all made for a very busy Ben.

It seemed like I still had a paper to finish every morning before school. Often, I'd begin typing a paper on my laptop before school, and finish it during lunch. Then I'd drag my computer down to the library to print out my work.

I'd proceed to unscrew the printer cord from the library computer, plug it into my computer, hope things would print, try a few times, print out a garbled mess, adjust some settings, pray things would print, and finally get what I needed. Then I'd head to class, with the bell having rung two or three minutes before. Late again.

That was my routine. When it comes to high school, some people remember their prom; I remember rushing around, being stressed, doing a million projects all at once. I fought weekly to stay on top of things.

Math class meant time to work on English homework, English class was a time for yearbook assignments, lunch was a time for last-minute cramming. Classes after lunch were often spent in a daze, with the sleepiness that comes from a warm room and late-night homework the night before.

Now, my stressed-out life didn't come about all at once—no, it was rather sneaky. Each year from junior high on, I just added one or two things until my life was a matrix of overlapping, no-resting activity. Simply being involved was never enough. I often felt I had to take on leadership positions. Whether I was an officer or not, I took the lead in a lot of activities, too, from blood drives to Christmas parties to class fund-raisers.

To rationalize my over-involvement, I told myself I worked better under pressure, that I was doing great things for my school, my church and myself, and that this was just the way things had to be.

A Fresh Start
As I look back on my junior and senior years, I now realize I really didn't accomplish all that much. The problem was,

I was spread so thin that I really didn't do anything all that well. Instead of throwing myself fully into FCA, for example, I just planned things on the fly. The FCA group I started and led only lasted another year after I left, partly because I didn't take the time to help build strong future leadership. Yearbook, student council, Honor Society—it was all the same. I never had a firm enough grasp on anything to really see all God wanted me to do with it.

It wasn't until I started college that I decided to let God "direct my steps," like it says in Jeremiah 10:23. God really used that verse to help me look for his plan for using my time wisely. Eventually, I learned that I didn't have to sign up for every worthwhile activity on campus. And I asked God to direct me so that I'd stay in line with his awesome plans for me (Jeremiah 29:11).

As I think about high school, I can't help but wonder what might have happened if I'd let God lead me in just one or two big things throughout my time there. What kind of impact could I have had then? I could have concentrated more on my relationships, instead of just my next job, meeting or assignment. I could have lightened up and just enjoyed life a little more.

I'm doing better these days. And when that gotta-do-alotta attitude starts sneaking up on me again, I do my best to ignore it, and then keep going all-out in the few amazing things God's called me to do

I Just Couldn't Say No

When I glanced at my watch—6:55 p.m.—I couldn't believe there were only five minutes left of youth group … ever. Tears stung my eyes as flashbacks of retreats, church lock-ins, pizza parties, and progressive dinners filled my head.

As we bowed our heads and grasped hands for the closing prayer, I found myself tightening my grip. Both physically and emotionally, I didn't want to let go.

The clock struck 7, and everyone began hugging and saying goodbye. My friends were excited about leaving Tallahassee and heading off to different colleges, but I didn't share in their excitement. I was staying in my hometown to attend Florida State University. I wasn't moving anywhere—not even out of my parents' house.

As my friends exited the room, I stood there frozen, feeling alone, afraid and abandoned.

Out of Place
That fall, my pastor suggested I attend InterVarsity Christian Fellowship meetings on campus. I took his advice, but from the beginning, I felt out of place. After talking to several members, it became clear why. Most everyone was talking about their wives, husbands and dissertations—almost all of them were graduate students.

Where are all the undergrads? I wondered.

Desperate for Christian fellowship, I continued attending meetings, but I didn't enjoy them. So after a semester, I quit going. Mom suggested I try another Christian organization, but I vetoed that idea. Why risk feeling misplaced or rejected?

With no friends, no girlfriend—not even a college roommate—I felt lonely and depressed. So I started building a stronger relationship with two guys, Rick and Brian,* whom I'd known since middle school but had never hung out with.

One day, I was complaining to them about how miserable freshman year was. I was not at all prepared for Rick's response.

"Pot will chase your blues away," he promised as he pulled out some marijuana and lit a joint.

My eyes widened. "Nn-nn-noooo, thanks," I stammered nervously. As the smell of marijuana permeated the room, I grew tense. I considered leaving but didn't want to look like a dork.

"We're hitting a club tonight," Brian said. "Come with us."

"Yeah, come on," Rick urged.

Forget it! I thought, then wondered, If I say no, will they reject me?

"You'll have fun," Brian promised.

I was still skeptical, but since I knew I could resist drugs, I figured there was no harm in tagging along.

For the next month, I went to a bunch of parties. The drill always seemed the same: People offered me drugs. I declined. And then they'd look at me funny. Some even asked why I came if I wasn't getting high. After awhile, I started asking myself the same question.

Maybe I should say yes just once, I thought. After all, it seemed safe enough—no one was vomiting, blacking out, or being carried out on a stretcher.

One night I sat down next to a girl with long, red hair and deep green eyes. She offered me her joint.

"One time won't hurt you," she said simply.

I caved. I reached for the joint, placed it between my lips, and inhaled.

This isn't right, I thought. I should stop. But as I scanned the room, I suddenly realized I wasn't the out-cast anymore. As I continued inhaling and the drug took effect, my guilt faded. Rick was right; pot was chasing my blues away. For the first time in a long while, I was happy, relaxed and accepted.

Party On
Within weeks, I was smoking pot daily. Concentrating on school became more and more of a struggle. Since I lived at home, my parents soon noticed their son was a doped-up mess. When they begged me to stop and I refused, they adopted the "tough love" mentality and kicked me out, hoping I'd seek help. But I didn't want help. I just wanted to get high.

A sober friend felt sorry for me and let me move in with him, but because I spent all my money on drugs, I couldn't afford rent. He soon booted me out.

I quickly learned the fine art of mooching and began hopping from place to place, crashing on different friends' floors. Most of those friends were junkies, and they exposed me to more drugs, including acid (LSD), cocaine, crack, crystal meth, heroin and Ecstasy.

Although I didn't have any living expenses, I was still broke—and desperate for drugs.

One Friday night, I asked a dealer what I could trade for cocaine.

"I like your pants," he told me. "Hand 'em over, and I'll set you up."

Without hesitation, I stripped down to my underwear and gave him my pants. My pride had vanished. So had my morals. Without so much as a glimmer of guilt, I began stealing from the fast-food restaurant where I worked in order to support my addiction.

Dancing with Death
One night at a party I tried magic mushrooms. Initially, I was impressed by the euphoric effect. But soon I began hallucinating. My paranoid eyes darted around the room as I watched my friends with heightened suspicion; I was sure they were trying to kill me. Dizziness overwhelmed me. As sweat rolled down my forehead, I glanced at my chest and saw my heart pounding hard and fast through my shirt.

Am I dying? Petrified and confused, I pleaded with a friend to take me to my parents' house.

When Mom opened the door, her face turned white.

"What's wrong with you?" she gasped.

"I'm dying, Mom! I'm going crazy. I'm dying," I kept repeating as my trembling hands reached out to her.

Scared for my life, Mom frantically called 911.

The paramedics and police arrived to a chaotic scene. Mom was hysterical, and my younger brother and sister watched in horror as the police handcuffed me, put me in the ambulance, and rushed me to the hospital. There, doctors pumped my stomach to empty the drugs from my system.

My near-death experience scared me enough to abandon drugs for a few weeks. But I was miserable and lonely, so one night when my friend, Danielle, told me about a party she was going to, I went along.

I arrived at the party and immediately felt at home. "Here—have some Ecstasy," Danielle offered. I considered saying no, but I couldn't resist. Soon I was flying.

Why did I ever stop? I wondered. This is awesome! Then a shriek from the bathroom shattered my hypnotic state. I rushed to see what was wrong.

"They won't move!" Danielle cried, referring to two guys lying on the floor motionless, staring into space.

I kneeled down and studied their hollow, lifeless eyes.

"What are they on?" I asked a guy who'd been partying with them.

"Ecstasy," he said. "They must've gotten a bad batch."

Shivers shot through my spine. I was also high on Ecstasy.

Will I end up in a coma, too? Or worse? I panicked. I've beaten the odds before, but how many times can I dance with death before it claims me?

I knew then that things needed to change. If I survive this, I promised myself, I'm gonna stop.

I left the party and crashed at a junkie's trashed apartment. I sat down in the kitchen and cradled my head in my hands. Haunted by the vision of the two guys from the party, I thought, That could've been me! My life is so messed up! Wallowing in self-pity, I asked, Why has this happened to me?

Then I realized this hadn't happened to me. I did it to myself. It suddenly made perfect sense. I'm at this dead end because I've cut God out of my life. It was the most profound, yet simple, revelation I'd ever had.

I fell to my knees sobbing, "Please forgive me, Lord! I've been sinning, and I'm so sorry. Help me!" I pleaded. For hours, I continued pouring out my heart to him. Then, drawing from his strength, I picked up the phone, called my parents, and asked for help.

Road to Freedom
Mom had a friend who told her about a Bible-based organization called Teen Challenge. Through a yearlong residential program, they help adolescents deal with life-controlling problems and focus on total rehabilitation—including emotional, social, educational and spiritual growth. When Mom told me about it and explained it was in Athens, West Virginia, I hesitated.

I'll be cut off from drugs, my friends, from everything I know. How will I survive? But despite my fear, I was determined to get straight.

As my parents drove me to West Virginia, I stared out the car window and watched the scenery whiz by. That's what my life had felt like lately—fast, blurry, disoriented. I prayed my time at Teen Challenge would bring me peace and stability.

When we arrived at the center, I felt rattled. What've I done? Dozens of worried thoughts went through my head. But then Jim, the director of the program, put me at ease.

"Don't be nervous," he said. "I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to help."

I looked closely at his friendly, sincere eyes and felt safe. I knew the road ahead would be hard, but his warm reassurance told me I wouldn't walk it alone.

Living Through Christ
During group sessions, we confessed our sins and discussed our addictions. When I saw the frustration and hurt in their eyes, I knew exactly how they felt. Over the next few months, as we shared our stories and prayed together, their support helped me move toward freedom.

One day at group, Jim asked me, "How have you changed since you stopped doing drugs?"

"When I was using, my heart was empty and bitter," I explained. "But now I'm filled with Christ's love."

"What's that like?" Jim asked.

I closed my eyes and thought. "It's like for 15 months, I stopped breathing," I said. "But when I turned to Jesus, he brought me back to life."

"I Killed My Baby!"

It was a small, stark room, typical for a doctor's office. Jars of cotton balls and Band-Aids sat on the counter. The faded blue and pink striped wallpaper was overpowered by the bright light. The doctor walked in and asked me if I was ready. I nodded as my whole body began to quiver with fear. He flipped a switch and the loud roar of a vacuum filled the room.

It was over in a matter of minutes. The doctor threw his gloves away, brushed past me and quietly shut the door. I was left alone, in that glaring white room. I wanted to cry, but the tears just wouldn't come. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel. I had just killed my baby.

Losing My Innocence
When I went off to college, I was pretty naïve. I had never had a boyfriend; I'd never even been kissed.

One day, I ran into an old high school crush. We exchanged numbers and met one night at a friend's house. Her parents were out of town, so it was just the three of us watching a movie. After my friend went to bed, my crush and I started kissing. I liked it. Finally, a guy was paying attention to me! I'd never really felt pretty before, but he made me feel that way. I enjoyed it so much, I invited him into the bedroom.

I didn't want to do anything but kiss; I was a virgin, and wanted to stay that way. But he had a different idea. I told him I didn't want to have sex, and I begged him to stop. He just told me to "relax and enjoy it." I was too embarrassed to call out to my friend. So I gave in.

After it was over, I was sad and a little scared. And I was angry.

I can't believe this guy, I thought. I really liked him and he did this to me!

He stayed the night and left the next morning. I never heard from him again.

The next few days I kept thinking, How could I let him do this to me? Why didn't I scream? Why did I ask him into the bedroom? Even though I didn't mean for it to happen, I couldn't let go of the guilt. I felt like it was all my fault.

I was saving myself for my husband, but that gift is gone, I thought. And there's nothing I can do to get it back.

Out of Control
Since I couldn't change the past, I decided I didn't really care about my future either. I shoved all the feelings of guilt deep inside, and I decided it was time to have some fun.

A couple of weeks later, I met a guy one afternoon and had sex with him that night. I never saw him again, but I just didn't care about that—or about my old standards. My life was spinning out of control.

I started partying all the time. I never went to class. I drank to get drunk. I had a party about every other weekend, and I slept with a bunch of different guys. Since I wasn't a virgin, it didn't seem to matter how often I had sex or who I had it with.

All I know is that I felt like I could do anything. I had become popular, and I was having such a great time. I never thought anything bad would happen to me. Not AIDS. Not STDs. Not pregnancy.

After awhile, I started dating Rob (not his real name), a supervisor at the grocery store where I worked. Soon, we were having sex. I really liked him, so I didn't date anyone else for about three months.

One night, when Rob wasn't around, I got really drunk at a party and slept with a guy. I usually used protection when I had sex, but not this time. I guess I figured it'd be OK this once.
I never told Rob about that one-night stand. Especially when I was two weeks late for my period. But three pregnancy tests later, there was no denying the truth.

I was pregnant.

I didn't want the baby. I didn't even know who the father was! If it was Rob's baby, I would have considered keeping it. But I didn't want a child from a guy I didn't even know. So I figured I only had one option: Abortion.

I decided to tell Rob. When he asked me if it was his baby, I lied and said yes.

"But you don't have to worry about a thing," I said. "I'll take care of it."

Everybody assured me that an abortion was the right thing to do—especially Rob. He said there was no way we could be parents because we were "too young and irresponsible."

The Day I Want To Forget
The earliest I could get into the abortion clinic was two weeks from the day I called. Those were the hardest two weeks of my life. At night, I'd lie in bed and through my tears, ask my baby to forgive me. I told her she'd be better off in heaven because God could take care of her a lot better than I could. I wrestled with the idea of keeping my baby.

But I just couldn't do it. My parents would've been so ashamed of me. And I hadn't even graduated from college yet. I knew I couldn't take care of her.

So I aborted my baby on April 17, 1998. I was eight weeks pregnant.

I was numb for days. Something inside me told me to cry, but I couldn't. I couldn't feel anything. I just kept thinking, Who have I become? I tried not to think about it too much, and a few days later, I was back in bed with Rob.

My baby would have been due that November—something I couldn't get out of my mind during the Thanksgiving holidays. It was all I could think about. I cried a lot. Especially when I saw pregnant women, strollers, baby toys.

The hardest part was that no one knew I was in so much pain. I was angry at Rob because he didn't seem to care. I was mad at my friends who didn't talk me out of having the abortion. I was upset with the doctor who didn't tell me this would be so hard.

I didn't want to go back to school that winter, but I did anyway. In one class, we were discussing a baby's development in the womb. As I looked through pictures, I was overwhelmed with grief and guilt. I realized I needed help.

Flipping through the yellow pages, I found a church that offered Christian counseling. I didn't care who I went to, just as long as they were free. Little did I know my life was about to change.

During one session, my counselor told me about Jesus and his love for me. I didn't understand. I was convinced I had to suffer for the rest of my life for my decision. I didn't think this Jesus, no matter how great he was, could forgive me for killing my baby.

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Learning To Forgive
The counselor connected me with a support group for women who'd had abortions. Heidi, the support group's leader, called me a few days later. She told me she'd had an abortion in college.

And now, several years after her experience, she was married and had two kids. She told me how God had changed her life, giving her peace and joy. That's what I wanted more than anything.

She invited me to a Bible study with her and some other girls. I was hesitant. I didn't understand the Bible. I didn't want to make a fool of myself. And I didn't want to think about my pregnancy and abortion. It was too hard. But Heidi finally convinced me this would help me heal. So I went, and everyone was so kind, even though most of us were still grieving.

I went back the next week, and the week after that. We talked about forgiveness, shame and guilt. We talked about confessing our sins, accepting God's forgiveness and forgiving ourselves. They told me it was OK to grieve for my baby, even though other people might not think it's normal. Just because it was my choice to have an abortion, didn't change the fact that I'd still lost my baby, and I still had to deal with that loss.

When we met for the last time, we had a memorial service for my baby. Heidi had asked me to name my child. Before I went to counseling, I had a dream that I was walking to my parents' house, holding a little girl in my arms. Because of this dream, I knew my baby was a girl. I named her Chastity Soleil.

The memorial service helped in the healing process, but I still hadn't made the big decision about what I was going to do with Jesus. I wasn't ready to give anyone control of my life. So shortly after I stopped meeting with the Bible study group, I went right back to Rob and my old lifestyle. But it was different this time, because I felt guilty about it.

After struggling with guilt for about six months, I finally broke up with Rob. I started going to church. And I decided I wanted Christ's love in my life, so I asked Jesus into my heart. That was almost two years ago, and I've been walking with God ever since.

Amazed By His Grace
I now lead a Bible study and am actively involved with college students at my church. I haven't dated anyone since Rob. I'm waiting on God's timing. Best of all, I don't deal with overwhelming guilt anymore.

Jesus has forgiven me, and I've finally forgiven myself. There are still times that I cry. Especially in April, on the anniversary of my abortion. But I don't cry out of guilt or shame. I just miss the baby I didn't have.

I'll have to live with my decision for the rest of my life. Yes, God forgave me, and because of that, I forgave myself. But some days, I wonder what my life would've been like if I had Chastity Soleil. If I think about it too much, I get sad. So instead, I look forward to God's plans for me. I thank him for his forgiveness, his grace, his healing.

But most of all, I thank him for my daughter. After all, if not for her, I probably would've never met the God who calls me his own precious child.

What Am I Doing Here?

There I was, in a tiny camp kitchen somewhere in Belgium, chopping ham, onions and mushrooms. So, I thought, this is what it means to be a missionary?

I was helping make 60 pizzas for a big open house the mission organization was having that weekend. As I swatted at the flies buzzing around my head, I wanted to complain. I wanted to get out of the stuffy kitchen that was getting hotter by the second. But there was nowhere to go and no one to talk to. Reuben, the Belgian I was working with, didn't speak a word of English. So even if I started whining, he wouldn't have understood me anyway.

Missionaries are supposed to serve, I kept telling myself. With a joyful heart, a tiny voice inside my head added. So I tried to do just that—for 12 hours. I chopped, mixed, rolled and prepared pizzas with as joyful an attitude as I could muster. But the day couldn't end fast enough.

Are we ever going to be done? I wondered. Reuben smiled at me. I felt guilty. It wasn't his fault I couldn't speak French.

When we finally finished making the pizzas, we climbed into the car. I dropped Reuben at his house first, but then I realized I didn't know how to get home from there. I tried to tell him. In English. We both hoped one of us would miraculously understand the other. It didn't happen.

How am I going to get home? Tears threatened to spill after several minutes of talking louder and using our hands didn't get me any closer to home. This isn't fun. Being a missionary is hard.

And then that nagging thought, the one that kept coming back to me all summer long, surfaced once again:

What am I doing here?
A dream come true?
My adventure began a couple months earlier when I boarded a plane for Brussels, Belgium, for a summer-long missions trip. I was going to work as a photographer at the Editeur de Literature Biblique (ELB), a French publishing mission near Brussels. They wanted to use my pictures in their publications.

For me, it was a dream come true. I had prayed for years that God would give me an opportunity to serve him on the mission field.

I had wanted to be a missionary since I was a kid. I thought God must really love missionaries to call them to such an important job. And who wouldn't want to serve God in a new and exciting place?

I even thought God would love me more if I was a missionary. After all, missionaries are "God's servants," sent out into the world to spread the Good News. I wanted God to see me like that. I wanted to be worthy of his love—and I thought being a missionary would do just that.

So when I was given an opportunity to spend three months in Belgium, I jumped at the chance. God provided the needed funds in less than two months. And with my prayer team in place and my bags packed, I boarded the plane with a life's worth of dreams waiting to be fulfilled.

I had big expectations for what God would do in my life. But I didn't get what I expected.

God seemed silent
I lived in the village of Braine le Chateau, about 30 miles from Brussels. It was a quaint village with cobblestone streets, a town bakery and a flower shop where all the locals hung out.

Very few people spoke English, so I got used to smiling and nodding a lot. Luckily, grocery shopping wasn't too difficult because the labels had pictures.

Despite the language barrier, I slipped into Belgian life pretty easily. I traveled the Belgian countryside. I saw parts of France, Switzerland, Germany, Italy and Luxembourg. I took pictures of everything and spent hours cataloguing the photos into a library. What else could I ask for? I was seeing a different part of the world, taking pictures, meeting people—everything I loved to do. Everything I thought would fulfill me. But it didn't.

I had expected more. I thought missionaries were almost perfect—certainly closer to God than I ever could be. So I was surprised to learn missionaries are people just like me, doing their best to follow God. They have their own battles to fight, they have bad days, and they have their own unanswered questions—about pain, about God, about life.

I had also thought going halfway around the world would help me sort things out—like my place and purpose in this world and in God's kingdom. I prayed and prayed, but I just got more confused. What had happened to my lifelong dream of being a missionary? In Belgium, I began to doubt if that's what I really wanted. Being a missionary is a tough road to take.

So many questions. But God wasn't giving me any answers. I just wanted to know where I fit into his plan.

Days turned into weeks. I continued to pray. But God seemed to remain silent.

Finding hope
I was beginning to lose hope that God even heard my prayers. Then one evening, I shared my testimony—and my confusion—with a team of American volunteers who had come to help our mission. After I was finished, one woman offered me a lot of encouragement—and her favorite Bible passage.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior" (Isaiah 43:1-3).
Those words hit my heart. I felt like God was speaking directly to me, reaffirming that he was with me, no matter what. And even though he had been silent, he had never left me.

There were a few moments like that during my summer in Belgium, when God sent someone to encourage me just when I needed it most. God had come before me on my adventure and prepared the way for me.

I still find it hard to comprehend how much God cares about me and my time in Belgium. But he does. The people he sent my way are evidence enough.

So, whenever I ask whether I accomplished what God sent me to do, I'm tempted to say I don't know the answer. It's just another of many questions I may never have answers for. But I do know this: God loves me not for what I might have been or what I could be, but for who I am.

Coming home
Leaving Belgium was hard. The missionaries I worked with had become like family. I knew returning to my life back in the States would bring more questions and confusion. I knew I'd have to start looking for a job and a place to live, all over again.

But I take comfort in knowing that God cares about those details, because he completely cares about me. I learned at least that much during my summer in Belgium. I didn't get closer to God because I was a missionary. I felt close to him because I was seeking him and his will for me. And I can do that anywhere.

I don't need the official job title of "missionary" to serve God and spread his Word. As long as I seek to honor him and I reach out to those around me, I am God's missionary, wherever I am.

Still, I'm glad I went on this trip. Despite my struggles and confusion, I realize now that God did teach me a lot, especially about how much he loves me.

I might never have learned that so fully had I not spent that summer in Belgium

About stress.

Admit you're stressed.
Is your life so packed with things to do that you can't get anything done? Does that gnawing feeling in your stomach never go away? Do you often forget what you're supposed to do? Are you tired, short-tempered, discouraged? If you answer yes to most of these questions, you're probably too stressed. So admit it, then . …

Make a list.
Write down every single activity you're involved in, including time spent at a part-time job. Estimate how much time each week you spend in these activities, as well as how many hours you spend on homework, helping around the house, building friendships and anything else requiring a significant chunk of time.

Take your list to someone you trust.
This person could be a parent, your Bible study leader, youth pastor, adult mentor, or a mature Christian friend. Have this person go over the list with you. Talk about why each item is important to you. Discuss your priorities—those things that are (or should be) most important to you.

Prioritize your list.
Order your list from most important to least important. Determine what you need to cut out of your life, then cross those things off the list. Circle the things you want to keep no matter what. Evaluate the in-between items and resolve not to feel guilty if you don't do all of them.

Practice saying no.
You simply can't say yes to everything. If you want to cut down on stress, you must learn to say no.

Think about your use of time.
If you tend to procrastinate or are poorly organized, ask your guidance counselor or an organized friend for tips on how to use your time better. Also, go to the bookstore and check out some time planners and calendars. But remember: A time-management tool is only as good as your commitment to use it.

Keep God first.
Place your hope and trust in God and make your relationship with him your top priority. As you do, you'll discover you really do have time for what's most important in life.

Could Life Get any Worse?

Not long ago, I pulled out some boxes of my sister's old toys. I picked up one of the dolls and showed my mom.

"Look at these ugly dolls we used to play with," I said, laughing and crying at the same time.

Laughing, because Amy and I had so much fun playing together. Even though we were sisters, we were best friends and we hardly ever fought.

We were in marching band together, and each week we'd go out with our friends after youth group. And I remember family vacations and making up silly songs along the way— especially when we were going to Hocking Hills, a state park in Ohio. There's just something about that name—Hocking Hills—that's begging to be made fun of.

Yes, lots of laughs.

But I was crying too, because Amy was gone. Five years ago, Amy died of a rare infection. She was 18, and I was 16.

Even now, five years later, I still grieve. I remember the good times we had together. But I wish they could have lasted forever …

The sad journey begins
"Something terrible has happened."

My parents had just returned from taking Amy, who was 15 at the time, to the doctor. Dad called us all into the living room to tell us the news.

"What's wrong?" asked my oldest sister Christy, then 17.

"The doctor found something," Dad continued. "He thinks it's cancer."

Mom was crying next to me on the couch, but I didn't fully grasp how serious it was. Cancer? I thought. All my 13-year-old brain could think was that Amy was going to lose her hair. Other than that I didn't have a clue.

Over the next three years I would get a better idea, as Amy went through many rounds of chemotherapy and several surgeries—including a hip replacement that forced her to use a wheelchair for a while. I sort of became her "personal assistant." I'd ride the bus with her and sometimes push her around school in her wheelchair. And when she couldn't make it to school, I would pick up her assignments.

It didn't seem fair for this to happen to Amy. She had been a good athlete, and she was so young.

Still, I dealt with it the best I could. I had always been strong, and people always expected me to be the jokester and help lighten things up. So when Amy got cancer, I decided I wouldn't mope around. It would be easier for my family that way.

But behind closed doors, I cried all the time. I never let anybody see it, though—especially Mom. I figured she had enough to deal with. I didn't want my crying to add to her agony.

The cancer's gone, but …

After battling the cancer for three years, we got some great news from the doctor: The cancer was gone!

But Amy had to go in for one more test. Incredibly, they found something else: Amy had pre-leukemia.

In order to stop it from becoming leukemia, Amy needed a bone marrow transplant. But first, doctors needed to find a match—a donor with the same blood type. They said siblings were the best possibility, so Christy and I were tested.

We waited at the hospital with my family for the results. They told my father first. Dad came into the waiting room and told me, "Laura, you're a match." He paused and added, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"What are you talking about?" I said. I didn't even take a moment to question it. "Of course I have to do it. Don't be silly."

So into the hospital I went. I was nervous about the procedure, but I comforted myself by remembering it would help Amy. I wanted to do anything I could for her sake.

They hooked me up to a machine, and over the next five hours, recycled all of my blood through the machine and back into my body. Through this process, they took out all of my extra stem cells that produce bone marrow. It wasn't very painful.

Amy's bone marrow transplant was a success, and I felt really good to know I had helped out. I thanked God that another obstacle was out of our way, and I prayed that we would have smooth sailing from then on.

Maybe things would finally return to normal.

Tragedy strikes—twice
And things did pretty much return to normal … for a while. But six months later, something totally unexpected happened: Amy developed a rare pancreas infection, totally unrelated to her cancer or pre-leukemia. Unfortunately, it was too much for Amy. She died on March 9, 1997.

The possibility of Amy dying had never really crossed my mind. I was in high school. I felt like I was invincible, and I thought everyone else was too.

I handled Amy's death pretty much the same way I'd handled her illness—by trying to be strong for everyone. But inside, I hurt a lot. I wished life were like it was back in elementary school, when my only worries were forgetting my lunch or getting my name written on the board for talking.

After Amy's death, I felt guilty for how I'd treated her at times. For instance, after one surgery, Amy's leg would sometimes cramp up and hurt her. She would ask me to massage it, and I would respond like a bratty little sister with "No."

Thinking about it now really rips me up, because Amy couldn't do anything about her cramps. And there I was; my hands were capable. I mean, we'd just be sitting there watching TV and I'd be like, "I'm not massaging your stupid leg." It makes me so sad to think about it now.

My family was still reeling from Amy's death when, six months later, tragedy struck again.

We went to a Sunday night service at church, and afterward, Dad stayed for an elders' meeting. On the way home, Mom and I picked up some fast food. When we got home, another elder's wife was waiting in the driveway.

"Just leave your food in the house and come with me," she said as we got out of the car, a worried tone to her voice. "We need to go to the hospital."

I remember that drive so well—a short drive that seemed to take forever. I sat in the back seat praying my heart out. My mom was asking a million questions about what was going on.

When we got to the hospital, it seemed as if our whole church family was in the waiting room. Our minister ushered us into the conference room. "Your dad had a heart attack," he said. "We tried everything we could."

This couldn't be happening, I thought to myself. The doctor confirmed our minister's words. Dad was gone.

Mom began bawling her eyes out. It was the saddest thing I've ever seen. When we walked outside the conference room, our church family just embraced us and we had a big prayer time right there.

Completely dead inside
I think sometimes your heart and your brain go at different rates. The whole month after Dad died, I didn't really feel anything. It was like I was completely dead inside. With Amy we had three years to prepare. But with my dad, it was so sudden.

Christmas came a month after Dad died. I hated life at the time. Lying in bed the night before Christmas Eve, I wrote in my journal about the previous Christmas, when I had five members in my family and not just three. My biggest concern at that time was that I wouldn't get everything I wanted. Now my biggest concern was how I would survive the terrible nightmares that haunted me.

I furiously wrote in my journal: "I miss every minute I was too selfish to spend with my sister or dad. I want all of this back so bad I can barely take it anymore. What I wouldn't give for my life four years ago on this night—before I knew what chemotherapy or heart attacks were."

But I couldn't go back four years. And things didn't change. Every day I had to face the fact that I'd lost two people I loved dearly.

But life went on and I graduated from high school that year. That fall I enrolled at Cincinnati Bible College—the same college where Christy went, and where Amy had intended to go. I'm now a junior at CBC.

God gives me strength
Amy's death and my father's death still affect me, usually when I least expect it. Like when I was driving back to college on Halloween day. I passed a dad with three young girls walking down the road, and I just lost it. It reminded me of when Dad took us three girls out trick-or-treating while Mom stayed home, handing out candy. I cried the whole way to school, and then sat in the parking lot crying after that.

And there are still reminders. As I sat on the floor at my mom's house looking through those boxes of Amy's old toys, I laughed and cried as the memories flooded my mind. But I realize it was one more small step toward healing. Reminiscing about the good times can do that.

I don't feel as invincible as I used to anymore. Losing your sister and your dad in six months will do that to you. But those things have also helped me mature. Tragedy will do that to you too. A lot of people have told me, "You know, you've already been through more than many people go through in their entire life."

I don't know why I've been given these tremendous losses in my life.

Still, I know God loves me. And I know he's preparing me for something, though I don't yet know what. And through it all, I know God will never give me more than I can handle.

Amy handled it for several years, and now she's with him. And Dad handled it before joining his daughter in heaven.

And until the day I join them on the other side of eternity, I'll handle it too.

"Good Enough 'Cause God Said So"

Not long ago, sisters Erica and Tina Atkins—better known as the R&B duo Mary Mary—had such low self-esteem, you never would've guessed they were headed for the big time.

Neither would they.

Erica was so self-conscious she went four years without singing a solo. She'd botched a song in front of a large group at church, and was so embarrassed she vowed never to sing solo again.

"I was devastated," Erica says. "I sang in the church choir, but I would not sing solo. My mom tried to get me to, but I would just cry."

And it wasn't just her singing. Erica says she was "insecure all around. I never thought I was cute enough. I never thought my clothes were nice enough. I never felt like I was really in the in-crowd. I didn't like anything about myself, and I carried those insecurities all through high school and beyond."

Tina's self-confidence wasn't much better.

"I was a chubby kid," she says. "And when you're a fat kid, everybody talks about you, and they don't realize how much it bruises you inside."

Tina found that out the hard way—after making some critical remarks herself. In middle school, she says "a really chubby guy" had a crush on her. "He just annoyed me to death," Tina says, "but I didn't want him to like me."

So she made a crack about his weight. Some girls nearby—"cool girls, the kind you look up to," says Tina—heard the remark, and one said, "I don't know why you're talking, because you're fat yourself!"

"She broke me down so bad," says Tina, the memory still painful. "When she said that, I was like, Well, I am scum. That stuck with me. A hundred years later, I'll still remember that."

Lotsa love at home
Despite those painful experiences, Erica and Tina found lots of love and affirmation at home, where Dad was a pastor and Mom a real woman of God. Their parents encouraged them through those difficult years, and the girls kept growing in their faith and, gradually, in their confidence. Erica started singing solos again, and both girls' voices got better and better.

Eventually, they did back-up vocals for major R&B artists—Erica for Brian McKnight and Brandy, Tina for Kenny Latimore and Eric Benet. It wasn't long before a record producer decided Erica and Tina should sing together, and so Mary Mary was born.

They named the duo after the Bible's Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Jesus—both of whom were "very instrumental in Jesus' ministry," says Erica. "The whole purpose behind Mary Mary is telling people about Jesus and his love."

That purpose and message reached millions around the world through their first CD, Thankful, especially their smash hit, "Shackles."

Thankful not only reached the whole planet—one of Tina's greatest thrills was seeing 72,000 people at a Christian festival in Holland singing along to "Shackles"—but it's also reached across color lines.

"We wanted to make music everybody could understand," Tina says. "We've seen blacks, whites, Asians, Latinos and others in our audience. I love that because music should unify people, and Christ is all about unity."

'Little girls' grown up
And what about those struggles with self-confidence? Erica and Tina wrote a song about it, "Little Girl," for their upcoming CD, Happy (Word/Columbia), due soon.

"The song just lets girls know God made them beautiful inside and out, and they don't have to be anybody else," says Erica. "So many women and girls deal with issues of feeling good about who they are, all kinds of insecurity issues. We just want to help girls keep their spirits up."

A lyric sampling:

Little girl, little girl,
… wonder are you listenin'?
Little girl, little girl,
… strugglin' with your confidence.
Little girl, little girl,
… God made you beautiful.
Little girl, little girl,
… I just thought that you should know.

"It's my favorite song on the album," says Tina. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you look. God made you beautiful and you're good enough because God said so."

And what about the title of that new CD?

"Happy is the theme of our lives right now," says Tina. "If you're sure about your relationship with Christ and you really understand all that you have as a child of God, you can't help but be happy."

Sisters, Sisters Everywhere!
Mary Mary isn't the only Christian R&B sister act out there.

The three sisters in Out of Eden—Lisa Kimmey Bragg, Andrea Kimmey Baca, and Danielle Kimmey—have been making CDs for almost a decade. Their fourth, This Is Your Life (Gotee), will hit the stores on January 22. And the three sisters in Virtue—Ebony and Heather Trotter and Karima Kibble—recently released their second CD, Virtuosity! (Verity).

If you dig the urban grooves and great vocals of Mary Mary—or, on the secular side, the sounds of groups like Destiny's Child—you'll definitely like these trios too.