My Testimony

disclaimer: Graphic in nature and may be disturbing for some readers

My TestimonyThe Foster Son

Chapter I – Birth Family
Based on what I’ve been told, I’ll start at the beginning. I lived with my mother in Detroit for six months, but my brother and sister lived with my father in Iowa. Mom eventually reunited with Dad but decided she could no longer care for a baby. She left me on the kitchen table, pushed me near a cracked-open window, and purchased a bus ticket. When she arrived in Iowa, they asked, “Where’s Billy?” “I just couldn’t take it anymore.” She was hoping they’d understand and forgive her.

Fortunately, a cousin had access to a small plane and took an emergency flight to Detroit. He found my diaper frozen to the table from the blustery Detroit winter air. I survived, only to face the coming years.
I grew up in Iowa with my parents, brother, and sister. Dad was a chronic drunk, and Mom was an apathetic woman with movie star dreams. She burned away her days lying on the couch and watching TV. She took little interest in us kids, so my brother and I frequently found trouble. My older sister, Bonnie, was tasked to supervise, but she was just a child and unable to control a couple of wayward boys. As a result, we subsisted on paltry, court-provided measures of oatmeal, rice, bologna, cheese, and Wonder Bread. Bonnie prepared most of our meals using a random assortment of inadequate cookware. I still remember getting glasses from Quaker Oatmeal containers. Our few household items and furniture were donated or scavenged from regular visits to the local dump.

Dad was usually gone. He worked during the day and at the bar at night. I loved him but rarely saw him sober. He was outlandish, but I admired him anyway. Once a fly landed on the ceiling, he grabbed his 12-gauge shotgun and blew it clean through the roof. That was his personality. Whatever. I loved him and enjoyed his company – when he was around. He occasionally gave us each a dollar but seldom spent time with us. He never hurt us kids, but he wouldn’t think twice about beating Mom. She had it coming in his twisted thinking, and it was his job to give it to her. He slapped, kicked, and even punched her in the face until she cried. We hated for them to fight but were too afraid to interfere. It wasn’t uncommon to be woken in the middle of the night by Mom’s screaming. He once came home and broke almost everything in the house, including the table, chairs, TV, and several windows. He even threw furniture out of the glassless openings. In turn, Mom beat all three of us kids. She shook us hard or banged our heads into the wall in the name of discipline.

During a particular rage, she knocked my head into a wall which bruised the front and back of my brain. I was paralyzed from the waist down for about three weeks. Since I couldn’t walk, the doctor made house calls. My body had shut down, trying to heal the brain damage. I later learned that Coup Contra Coup is common in heavy shaking or head-banging abuse.

“My brother Danny was my best friend. My rock. He meant the world to me. He protected me from pain and fear. I loved my brother Danny and followed him everywhere he went. If Big Brother Danny did something, I did too. I depended on him for everything. He was 18 months older, so I got into trouble when Danny got into trouble. Unfortunately, he often wet the bed. Mom taunted him by saying, “I love Billy, and Dad loves Bonnie, but nobody loves poor Danny.” It still angers me to this day.

Typically, the three of us kids were left alone. One of my earliest memories stretches back to my preschool years when my parents were partying at the local bar. The hour grew late, so they asked a stranger to take me home. We lived on a farm, which was pitch dark at night and spooky for a small child. The guy dropped me at the end of the lane and left. Terrified, I walked to the house alone and put myself to bed. Too little to reach the light, I half-expected monsters to get me. Eventually, I found my way upstairs, hid under the covers, and cried myself to sleep.

Around five years old, Danny and I got caught pushing tires down an opening in a garage ceiling onto a lady’s brand-new Cadillac, denting in the top. That lady was furious and wanted to beat us, but Mom stopped her. Not too long afterward, we moved into town. Until I was around seven, Danny and I were notorious troublemakers. One day we climbed to the top of the city water tower. We ran around the outer rim at the top until a helicopter circled, scaring us. Our parents were confronted, so ultimately, Bonnie was blamed for not watching us; however, she was barely nine years old.

That same year we broke into the grade school and knocked a bunch of bookshelves over, making a complete mess of the library. Later, the cops picked us up for throwing rocks on top of cars from an overpass. On several occasions, we were caught stealing candy from different stores. We often dug through neighbors’ trash, searching for food. One neighbor periodically invited us in for a snack. As we passed his house, he would yell, “What’s cooking, kids?” and we would reply, “I don’t know, what is cooking?” We thought we were outsmarting him. There, indeed, are some “good” people in this world.

I remember going to court with Mom one afternoon. The judge threatened foster care if the police found us kids unsupervised again. I clearly remember Danny and me chasing each other while the judge was trying to instruct my mother. We were out of control.

Roughly a month later, Danny and I skipped school and went into the unlocked Methodist church. We found some candles and decided to light them. There were flags on either side of the altar, which seemed to lend themselves to mischief. Danny suggested, “Let’s light the flags on fire!” He lit the first one, and following his lead, I lit the other. The flags burned surprisingly quickly, and we pushed them away. Unfortunately, they ignited the carpet and some other fabrics. Frightened, we ran across the street to the Dairy Queen. We begged a stranger for two ice cream cones (dilly bars lol), then sat down on the sidewalk to enjoy our free treats. Moments later, we watched smoke billow out of the church as the fire trucks arrived. Within a few extra minutes, a police officer picked us up and took us home. We enjoyed riding in the police car, as we didn’t understand the gravity of what we had done.

Within a couple of weeks, my parents were arrested for disorderly conduct after dancing drunk on a bar table. Making good on the judge’s promise, the police removed Bonnie and me from our home. I will never forget waving goodbye to Danny and Mom as they stood at the door of our little house.

Eventually, Bonnie and I were delivered to separate homes about a mile apart. Our new parents explained that Danny was admitted into an orphanage because no one wanted him, and sadly, I never saw him again.

Update on Danny
Looking forward about 11 years, Danny was 19 when he listed an article in Family Circle Magazine looking for missing persons. Someone from church gave me the ad, so I called as soon as I got home. Talking to him again was the happiest day of my life! He said his aunt would reunite us the following Saturday. Danny said he was excited and couldn’t wait to see us. The following day, his aunt called us to say that she was so sorry, but “Danny died last night” after having been poisoned. We later discovered someone had drugged his beer, which stopped his heart. Some said he was murdered, while others say he died of alcohol poisoning. Either way, I saw him in his casket for the first time after 11 years. It was indeed the saddest day of my life. I was 17.

Later that same year, I reunited briefly with my birth mother. Shortly thereafter, she mailed a letter saying she was disowning me for not correctly thanking her for a gift. She neglected me, abandoned me, then disowned me. I’m done. I also reunited briefly with my birth father. I was able to see him a few times before he passed away.

Chapter II – Foster Family

At age seven, I went to “the foster home,” gaining two foster parents and two foster sisters for the next 11 years. They had a beautiful farmhouse, bigger than I’d ever seen! The kitchen was easily the size of my entire former house. They also had an abundance of food, all I wanted. My new mom seemed nice, especially after buying new clothes for me. I met my new dad a few hours later, but he just said “Hi” and walked into the other room. As we advanced, he rarely spoke to me, but that may have just been his personality. He seemed to have time for kids, as he was typically busy working and tending to more important matters. He was generally pleasant, but I sensed he viewed me as his wife’s project, so he didn’t exert much effort.

Before going to the foster home, my mother promised I would only be gone “a little while, then coming back.” I was excited and thought it sounded fun. To my dismay, I realized months later my foster mother said, “I would never return home.” I cried that night. I missed my real family and felt alone. I didn’t know how to express myself, nor did anyone ask how I was doing.

The first night at the new foster home, I got a bath. I recalled only one bath in the last seven years, and I was getting a bath my first night. My foster mother spent less than 5 minutes washing my body but 15 minutes washing my privates, emphasizing the importance of keeping it clean. She told me rubbing makes it hard. The next night, the same thing happened: another bath and another 15 minutes of washing my privates. I realized nothing except the long time needed to clean down there. I assumed that’s what moms do. Such baths became regular occurrences.

I learned quickly that she was the boss. A knick-knack fell, and when she asked who knocked it down, I laughed because I thought she was kidding. Then she bent me over and slapped me in the face. I was in shock and never laughed at her again. From then on, I was afraid of her. I was shocked by the hardness of the correction, yet I had done nothing to deserve it and didn’t understand the correction.

On weekdays, only the girls could use the front door. I could only enter/exit the basement door. I never dared question her. If she said things were a certain way, then that’s the way they were.
She often pulled down my pants and spanked me in front of my sisters. She said I was a bad kid who needed discipline, and they believed her. They assumed something was wrong with me, and I deserved increasingly frequent punishments. Those first few months were tough as I was ill-mannered, profane, and incapable of proper behavior in a sophisticated environment – or so I was told.

Shortly after moving in, I asked if I could have a friend. I missed Danny desperately and needed someone. She allowed a friendship with a neighbor’s older son, several years my senior. He was super cool and had a cool haircut. He lived only a half mile away, so I could easily walk to his house. We lived on a farm, so he was the next farm over. He had a box of Playboys given by his dad and was anxious to show me how he could “do things” to himself while I turned the pages. I felt awkward, but he was older, so I did whatever he wanted. In time, he took me to a secluded area in a little guesthouse on the farm. He wanted to simulate being with a woman by raping and sodomizing me. “Please stop!” I screamed and begged. “It hurts! You’re hurting me!” He continued until he was satisfied. I never went back. What had I done? I was hurting and bleeding, yet I couldn’t tell anyone what a horrible thing had happened. My foster mom would have been furious with me. I’m no good. I went too far; I’m disgusting and evil. I was only seven, yet I never told a soul until I reached my 40s.

As time passed, my new mom seemed to dislike me more and more, and her fuse seemed to get shorter and shorter. They commonly took family pictures without me, took several vacations without me, and introduced me as their “foster son.” Whenever I heard those words, I thought, Why wasn’t I adopted? Do they not want me? What is wrong with me? Why did my real sister Bonnie get adopted, but I didn’t? What did I do wrong? Will I ever see my brother ever again? How about my parents? So many questions but so few answers. My birth mother wrote periodic letters, but I cried when I read them, so my foster mother never allowed me to read them again.

My foster mother became increasingly abusive and seemed to enjoy her power over me. Repeated face slaps became expected for even the slightest infraction. If I angered her for any reason, I braced for a beating. I would have to stand at attention and take it. I was not allowed to protect my face or turn away. She would ask a question, and if I answered incorrectly, she would hit me repeatedly until she got the desired answer. After she got the correct answer, she hit me again for not giving the correct answer the first time. I learned to answer correctly, not necessarily the truth, just the correct answer. When she entered one of her tirades, she would stop only when her hand hurt or I was bleeding. I remember often having blood on the front of my shirt from the nose bleeds. These sessions seemed like they lasted an hour or more of standing at attention and getting slapped or beaten. I dare not move or try to protect my face. No one ever came to my rescue or questioned her, neither my sisters nor my foster father. It was mostly done out of sight in the basement or an upstairs room. She seemed to enjoy it as she did it to me repeatedly, and the more I begged for forgiveness, the harder she hit. It was as though it was her entertainment; she seemed to enjoy the power she had over me. The more stressful look I gave, the happier she seemed to be. It was as though she took pride in completely humiliating me. She was determined to make me into the person she wanted me to be. As time went on, I became even more terrified of her. At the same time, I tried so hard to make her happy. I remember telling her she was pretty or the best mom in the world, but she didn’t seem to accept that. I think she thought I was lying as I could not outsmart her.

‘When she would start hitting and slapping, I would ask, ”What did I do” and she would say, ”Ididn’t like the way you looked at me.’ I learned not to question her authority, or she would hit me again. I had no rights, no escape, and no forgiveness.

Her punishments never seemed to fit the alleged crime. On one occasion, I called my sister a pig, and my punishment was that my sister had to pick a booger, and I had to eat it. She never punished or hit her daughters and certainly never stripped them naked to shame them like she had done to me many times. But then, they were good, and I was bad. Apparently, bad people must be treated differently than good people, even at seven years old. Maybe I was sent there to become a better kid since I was so bad that I had to be removed from my home by the police. Perhaps I deserved everything I got. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. I tried hard to be good, but rarely could I make her happy. I was born a bad kid, a broken machine, and nothing seemed to change that. I was broken and unfixable, or at least that’s what I believed.

When around others in public, I was her “little helper,” but I needed to stay out of her way at home. Being her “little secret” and how I was treated behind closed doors was safe with me. Despite the abuse, I felt a deep affection for my foster mother and wanted her approval. I would surprise her by cleaning a room, mowing without being told, or anything to make her happy. But as time went on, it seemed more and more challenging. Sometimes, she seemed nice and maybe even sorry for what she had done, but I never knew when she would blow her top and start hitting me, grounding me for a week, two weeks, a month, or the entire summer…or worse. I became two people, “momma’s little helper” in public and “boy toy” at home, and a “show off” at school, seeking someone’s attention, anyone to care.

I always knew I would receive a beating when my foster mother went to parent-teacher conferences because I had a habit of seeking attention in school. I struggled to concentrate and often received low grades, usually a D or an F in grade school. Whenever I handed over my report card, I anticipated the beating that would follow. My foster mother would instruct me to go upstairs and wait for her. Once she arrived, she would shut the door and hit me repeatedly, usually in the face. I felt like she hated me and that I was an embarrassment to her. Sometimes, she would demand that I undress before she beat me. The beatings were so severe that on a few occasions, I felt like my spirit had left my body only to come back again. Twice, I distinctly remember feeling like I had stepped outside my body, always to the right side and then stepped back in. My foster mother would interrogate me about my grades and behavior, but I had no answers to satisfy her. I would respond, “I don’t know why I’m like this,” or “I don’t know why I can’t do better,” which only made her angrier. She often told me that I was a mistake and that I was the worst kid to have ever lived. It seemed like her duty to remind me of this.

I remember the last day of school in the 6th grade like it was yesterday. The final bell rang, and all the kids ran out of school, screaming with happiness. I sat at my desk and cried because I knew I had to go home for the whole summer and be with my mother. The teacher asked me, “What’s wrong, Bill?” All I could say was, “Nothing, I’ll be OK.” I did not dare tell her the truth, for if I had and it got back to my foster mother, I’d be in a lot more trouble. I just had to buckle up for the long summer ahead. I had some good times and fun times, but mostly when I was away from home, whether by myself looking for bugs or with some kids playing. The good times were always with mixed emotions, knowing I would be in trouble anytime.

Sometimes, she would lock me in my room for a week or more and bring me nothing but bread and water because “that is what you will eat when you end up in prison one day.” During these times, she would come into my room, push my face into the mirror, and tell me, “Look how ugly you are. You are disgusting. You make me sick. You will never amount to anything. You will never be a real man. We all hate you.” If I cried, it only proved what a big baby I was. During these times, I knew the meaning of loneliness and despair because it seemed like I was in my room for a hundred years as I was just eight years old. I believe she didn’t want to have to look at me. After all, she had her precious daughters. And again, I ponder the question: What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why can’t I do anything right? They all hate me, and I deserve it because I’m terrible. I’m ugly, and I’m a very bad boy.

During those times, I had a lot of time to think. I couldn’t help but wonder why my foster dad never came to see me when I was locked in my room for a week. Why didn’t he ask how I was doing? How could he not see me for a whole week or even two weeks and not be curious enough to check if I was okay? Maybe my foster mom told him I was being punished, and that was enough for him.

I also wondered why my birth parents never came to take me away from there. And why didn’t my foster sisters try to visit me? Were they not allowed? Did they not question why I was locked in my room for two weeks?

“Whenever I heard my foster mom coming with my bread and water, I would pray, “Please, God, don’t let her hurt me.” But most of the time, she would leave the tray and walk away. Perhaps being in solitary confinement was punishment enough for her, and that was fine by me.

Other times, wanting to touch and see me naked, she would devise new schemes. Several times, she told my sisters I was acting like a baby and treated me like one. She would send me to my room and say, “Take your clothes off and wait for me.” She would come up and put diapers on me. I was about ten then, so I was ashamed and embarrassed but did not dare say anything. I had to walk around the house dressed like that in front of my sisters for several days so they could get a good laugh, too. It was funny to everyone but me. I had to act like everything was normal, like I enjoyed it. I had to come to dinner like that, watch TV like that, and pretend it was all normal. In truth, I was humiliated, unloved, and so ashamed, even though I knew I had done nothing wrong. The whole baby thing was made up, and I couldn’t understand it, yet I did not dare complain. On one of these occurrences, my uncle came over and saw me in the living room with those diapers on. After seeing me, He asked me why I was wearing diapers; in shame and complete humiliation, I simply said, “I don’t know.” He went back into the kitchen where my foster mother was, asked that she go to the back bedroom, yelled at her, and told her if he ever saw that again, he would tell the police. That was the last time she did that.”

She was careful to be more secretive after that. From then on, she would use the basement for my beatings unless she couldn’t control herself and flew off the handle. In her anger, she would grab dish soap, Comet, or whatever she had under the sink to wash my mouth for something I said. It could be for any infraction; asking a “stupid” question was enough if she didn’t like it. She hated men, and even more, she hated black men and Mexicans. All men were dogs. If she were making dinner, she would say, “Wash those potatoes well because a Mexican might have picked them.” I never understood that, but again, I didn’t question it. Secretly, I thought Mexicans and blacks must be great if she hated them so much. I got pretty good at doing and saying the right things to keep her from getting mad at me and mostly getting out of her way. And nothing, I mean nothing, was ever clean enough. So, we were constantly cleaning the house, the rooms, floors, attic, basement… everything had to be spotless all the time.

Again, in her never-ending pursuit to see me naked, she would find new ways to see me so I wouldn’t know her intentions. Late one night, she came into my room while I was in bed and told me she needed to clean me out, so she stuck a hot water bottle tube up me; she pushed the hot water into me until I screamed and ran in pain to the bathroom. I could do nothing to stop her when she wanted to do something like that to me. I was afraid of her, terrified. I was waiting for her to kill me, as I felt like she would eventually. Yet, I never told a soul. I was too ashamed, too embarrassed for the evil person that I had become. I had somehow brought all this upon myself.

One time, she told me to go to the basement for my punishment; halfway down the steps, she took her foot and kicked me in the back so that I flew down the steps. When I fell on the basement floor, she kicked me across the floor. I don’t remember what I did wrong this time; perhaps I said something wrong or looked at her disrespectfully.

At about 13 or 14, we got a dog named Benjamin. I loved that dog. He followed me everywhere I went. We were best friends, and he loved me. As far as I was concerned, he was my dog because he understood me, and I understood him. One day after catechism class, I told my foster mom that I loved Benjamin and that he was the best friend anyone could ever have. I told her he followed me to church and back and sat at the church basement window, watching me in class. A few days later, I came home from school, and Benjamin was dead. In tears, I asked,

“What happened to Benjamin?” She said, “He had to be put down because he was a bad dog. I couldn’t understand why…why did he have to die? What did he do that was so bad? Again, I dared not question her authority.

Eventually, I reached puberty, my voice lowered, and I was a young man. My mother was no longer interested in me physically, yet I felt she liked me less and less. For the most part, we stayed out of each other’s way. She would call me names and say, “Hey sneak, why are you sneaking around all the time.” Only one time during my teen years did she sexually make an advance; by reaching into my pants and pulling my penis as hard as she could, she said, “Don’t act like you are a man. You will never be a real man like your dad.”

From about 15-17, I ran away from home about ten times until finally, at 17, I left for good. I was about to go into my senior year in High School. I tried to take my car and some clothes, but she told me you are leaving with what you came with…the clothes on your back. I said F– k you to her and walked the 8 miles to the nearest town. It was the best walk of my life as years of pent-up anger poured out. And this time, I wasn’t going back. She’d have to kill or arrest me because I was determined never to return. I couldn’t believe I said “F-U” to her, and she just stood there with that “stupid” look on her face. When I said “F-U” to her, she pulled her hand back to slap me. My foster sister grabbed her hand when she did and said, “NO, You will never hit him again and have to slap me too.” That was the first and only time someone in my family stood up to her in my defense. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I was mad and wouldn’t take any more of her BS. I left… I was gone… I was free.

I already had a part-time job in town, so getting a cheap apartment was easy. My senior year of high school was the best year of my life. I was the cool guy and the only high school senior with an apartment. My apartment became the official party house, and it was great.

For many years, I dealt with very low self-esteem. I was a broken machine, a mistake, a bastard, and worse… a foster kid. If anyone said one negative thing to me, it destroyed me because it reminded me of what a horrible person I was. I was utterly convinced that I was unlovable. If the cops take you away from your first parents because you are so bad, and your second parents tell you how disgusting you are, it must be true. Being sexually abused by my foster mother on countless occasions and raped and sodomized by my neighbor only added to my complete disdain for myself.

Chapter III – Adopted by God

Going back to when I was 16, my friend David Arns told me about Jesus. He asked me, “Are you saved?” I said, “Yes, I’m saved, believe in God, and was baptized.” I asked him, “What do you think… don’t you think I’m saved?” He looked at me with the most sincere and honest look. Yet, lovingly, he said, “Bill, I think you are going to hell.” I immediately thought, even if God doesn’t love me, I’m going to hell, and I deserve it. “I’ve been too bad; done too many bad things.” Then David said, “But Bill, God Loves you and doesn’t want you to go to hell.” Ask God to show you your sins, and when He does, ask for forgiveness and then ask Jesus into your heart.” He wants to be your Lord and Savior.” I went into the next room and cried like a baby; years of pent-up bitterness, despair, and insecurity poured out. I was ashamed of my sins and was sorry, but in that hour, I got saved.

For the first time in my life, I felt free. I was saved. Jesus Loved Me. God Loved Me. I was wholly saved… made new… a new creation. I was new inside, but God had to do a lot of work to undo the damage of the first 16 years of my life. God has been so good to me, patient, kind, loving, and completely non-judgmental. Still, I spent many years with my thoughts, believing many lies. The devil is a liar; he worked hard to destroy me, lying to me, and I let him. I was saved but still broken, a foster kid, and unwanted.

I spent the next 20 years doing the best I could—serving God with all that was in me. I was determined to serve God but believed I had to earn His love and my salvation. I was so afraid that He would get sick of me and throw me away, believing that God would tire of my ways and no longer want me. The following 20 years were wonderful in many ways. I got married, had two kids, and went to Bible school alone without a cent from anyone else. I was a self-made man but still believed many of the lies.

My foster mother died when I was in my mid-40s, but I didn’t shed a tear. I felt like a huge burden was lifted. I feel guilty for saying bad things about her, but everything said here is true. She did good things, too, which still leaves me feeling guilty. Shortly after she died, my foster sister found my foster mom’s diary. It was a 10-year diary that included the time that I lived there. She wrote weekly in that diary about her wonderful daughters and even wrote about the dog, yet she never wrote a single word about me. Hearing this confirmed that I didn’t dream any of this up. It was real; I was just a foster kid, someone she looked after but didn’t love.

For many years, I struggled with the thought that God would eventually reject me, He would tire of me and send me to hell, but at 43, God gave me a vision that changed my life. In this vision, he showed me how much He loved me. He said, Bill, you are not a foster child, you are not a bastard, you are MY son, I adopted you…and he said, “I’m not mad at you, I’m not mad at you, I’m not mad at you.” Three times, He said this to be sure that I understood it.”I still struggle from time to time with issues of self-worth. But now I know that Jesus wants to be my best friend, and He’s all good. My identity must be in Him, not in me, my friends, or anyone else. I have a long way to go, but with that said, I’ve come a long way too. I trust you will forgive me if I said too much… know this: God isn’t done with me yet.

In closing, Jesus Christ loves you. He didn’t die for all men as a group; He died for you, and you, and you, individually…multiplied by all that would receive His gift of eternal life. He found me. I didn’t find Him. He accepted me, and I received that gift. I did nothing to deserve it, pay for it, or earn it. He adopted me, and I gratefully accepted. Nothing I have done or could ever do caused me to earn or deserve His gift. When I needed Him most but deserved Him the least, He found me. He loved me when no one else did; He saw through my guilt and pain and found a person inside. My life is good because of Him, and I will stand holy someday in His sight because He washed me clean. He turned what Satan meant for evil into what God meant for good. Instead of becoming all the things that Satan had for me, I use my gifts to glorify God. God saw something in me that I could not see in myself. He picked up the broken pieces and put me back together. I am a pot meant for honor, not a pot to put discarded waste into. My fruit is good, but only – and I do mean ONLY -because of my BEST FRIEND, my BROTHER, my LORD, and my SAVIOR JESUS CHRIST. I will stand before God in a white robe only because of Jesus.

As we advance, I donate most of my work time to JesusFedMe. This organization has given me purpose. When I see an abused or unloved child, I can feel their pain and know the appropriate response to loving that child. Sometimes, a child in pain is just a hug away from believing in some possibility of hope. Our job is to project hope on that child. In closing, I think God allows pain in our lives so that we can feel the pain that others experience and be that one person or ministry that genuinely understands. This ministry is about spreading God’s love, hope, and healing to a needy world. Indeed, the outstretched hand of Jesus Christ is our hope in a hurting world.

I apologize for the honest bluntness in this testimony. Forgive me.

-Bill Wegener