By Tracy Kase:

A little over a year ago, I hit what most would call rock bottom. I found myself sitting alone on my bed, tears flowing down my face, with everything in my life completely unknown. I had just confessed to my husband that I had been having an affair with my boss for over two years, and even though he immediately told me he forgave me, I told him I needed time to figure everything out. My job was gone, my marriage was broken, and everyone in my life was hurt by my actions.

Throughout the course of the next few days, weeks and months, it was all I could do to just wake up and face the world each day. I was confused, lonely, angry, frustrated, and broken. I was terrified of my future, because it was all unknown.

But, I did get up and face each day. No matter how hard it was, I confronted the issues in my life with hope. This word — hope — became the theme of my life. I began feeling life again, unafraid of facing challenges, because I had hope.  I even got the word tattooed on my wrist a few months ago.

It’s been over a year, and while I am still alone on my bed, I have such hope for the future. Today, I am divorced, and I am single. I am working a new job, much different than where I thought life would take me. I am living with my mom and my sister, when I thought I would be living in a big city helping to start a church. My life today is so much different than I thought it was going to be at this point.

But I know that good things will come. I have learned so much about myself, and about the grace of God.  I have been left a better person, and I’ve learned an important thing.  When trials come, cling to hope and use those trials as opportunities to learn, grow and seek truth.  Every one of us has so much to be hopeful for.

By Elora Ramirez:

I sat in the booth across from my parents, one hand stuffed under my thigh and another grabbing the knee of my husband for strength. I could hear my dad’s baritone through the tears.

“Eventually, Elora, you’ll need to seek restoration. I’m not saying you’ll need to see this person ever again, but a letter…something. You’ll need to find reconciliation for complete healing.”

My heart bristled and I squeezed my husband’s leg. I breathed in quick and whispered a quick and fragmented sentence, “I have…I have nightmares about it. About her just showing up.”

I really started crying then, the pain of abuse pulsing bright red and fresh as if it happened yesterday and not over twenty years ago. No. There’d be no restoration soon.

This was a few months ago.

I’m 29 years old and had just found the courage to tell my parents of my childhood abuse. Even now I get shaky thinking about it. And as much healing as has taken place over the past year, there’s still so much left wounded — so many residual scars left festering.

On days like today, when the separation between myself and my abuser is more of a thread than a brick wall, I feel like a little girl hiding from an inevitable punishment — the proverbial other shoe dropping and crushing what’s left.

I cling to 3 truths that have helped in healing:

1. Love does not equal manipulation
2. I can trust my husband
3. Offering grace to myself is essential to healing…

Sometimes though, to be perfectly honest, forgiveness and grace and second chances are the last thing on my mind.  And I’m learning to be okay with that … even in the mess of unforgiveness and woundedness.

I’ve learned that forgiveness is a process, and there’s no set manual or timeline.

But I don’t want to sit in the muck of resentment forever. I don’t need to harbor bitterness or hatred for these wounds I carry. So while I may not be ready to hang my hat on the past completely, I can still move forward – slowly.

I’ve learned to find God’s love in the middle of my fear. And while I wait out the process of healing, He holds my hand.  My heart is being molded into one of grace, and love, and belonging.  And at long last I’m beginning to see that I’m worth it.

By Joy Cannis:

“God, please help me.”

At one point in my life, this was my daily plea as I came down from whatever I was high on.  Vivid images flood my mind as I close my eyes tightly and relive those moments. The stench of cigarettes, liquor and dance-floor fog. The guns on their hips; mine holstered securely on my thigh. Long white lines laid out on a table…

“Do the whole thing or you might as well not do any at all.  You’ll be free.”

And I was free … for a few hours. But the elusive high is like chasing a ghost.   And for years, those thoughts and images acted like a mental prison, closing the door behind me.

Those of us who have been addicted to evading reality understand that dark, inescapable hell where you can no longer control the madness. The drugs, alcohol, sex, cutting, stealing — name your poison – stop working one day.

So I am overcome with gratitude as I lay in bed, more than a decade later.  In the stillness of the night, I stare at the ceiling, replaying that prodigal past.  I feel warm tears run down the sides of my face, because I once was lost, but now I’m found.

I once thought I was beyond human aid.  But I wasn’t.  And more than that, I was worth it. God loved me in my darkest hour, and though I deserved death, I know His protection sustained me.

As you stare at your ceiling, what voice are you listening to?  If it is telling you anything other than, “You are worth saving,” then it’s a lie. You and I both were created with great purpose.  We are worth it, and we are People of the Second Chance.

By Sara Evanchick:

Octomom is in the news again. I use the term ‘Octomom’ so that you’ll know who I’m talking about. But that’s the last time I’ll use it, because she has a name. It’s Nadya Suleman. Did you know that? I didn’t. I’m ashamed to say that I had to Google it.

Nadya is in the news because she recently went on welfare. After swearing she’d never go on public assistance, she has found that she can’t afford to feed her children without it.

The headlines are witty and sarcastic. Everyone is getting a good chuckle over the misfortune of the fame-seeking mom.

And I’m just like her.

Except, I don’t have 12+ little mouths to feed — I just have one. And I don’t live my life in the spotlight.  My life is much more private and mundane than Nadya’s.

But in the early days of our marriage, my husband and I worked as missionaries. Money was tight. And people would say “I’m sure you guys would qualify for food stamps.”  We would always reply the same way. “We choose to live our lives this way (with very little income). We aren’t interested in taking advantage of the system.

I became pregnant, and money was still tight. We knew it was going to be ok because I was going to breastfeed. We had it all figured out. But the circumstances surrounding our son’s birth made that impossible. Not only did we end up using formula, he ended up needing special hypo-allergenic formula — one of the most expensive formulas on the market. We had to get our formula through the WIC program. But at least it wasn’t food stamps.

Now, we are blessed with a happy, healthy 1 year old.  But, as it turns out, we can’t afford to feed him on our own. My husband has been out of work for over a year. We are living with family. And, as much as we tried to avoid it, we recently had to go on public assistance.

And just like that, I’m a welfare mom.

Last week, we were the ones holding up the line at the grocery store. The cashier had applied our bottle return slips to our grocery bill. We had to ask him to call a manager over because we needed him to reverse it. We needed the $3.00 in cash. He was visibly annoyed, as was the manager. After all, it was just $3.00. I’m sure they were irritated that we were buying several weeks worth of groceries with food stamps, and hassling them over $3.00. What they didn’t know was that without that $3.00, we wouldn’t have enough gas to get home.

Let me tell you, there’s no glory in the welfare line.

But at least you didn’t read that story on TMZ.  At least I had the choice of whether or not to share it with you.  Nadya doesn’t have that choice.  So I hope you understand that when I read the clever headlines and overhear the jokes about Nadya, I silently assume that you think the very same things about me.

It doesn’t matter whether or not she deserves this or whether or not it’s her own fault  that she is where she is.  What matters is that her children need to be fed.  And in that way, Nadya and I are the same.  We’re both welfare moms and our lives haven’t turned out the way we expected.

There may not be glory in the welfare line, but shouldn’t there be grace?

By Sonja Harmon:

My mother was an alcoholic. I had only ever seen her sober one year out of my life. That was only because she was on probation for a DUI.

My grandmother raised me the majority of my life while I was in and out of her house, my aunt’s house, or a friend’s house. I can still remember the fights, the screaming and yelling that would happen when my mother was drunk and around. I remember everything like it was yesterday. I’d beg and plead with her to just stop drinking, to make things better and be a mom.

Fast forward to my senior year of High School. It was October of 2004 and I felt like everything was finally settling down and getting in order. I was set to leave in June 2005 to Lackland Air Force base in San Antonio, Texas for basic training right after graduation. It was all I ever talked about. The only thing that I have ever wanted to do since I was a little girl. Nothing else was part of my plan.

On October 9^th my mom turned 41. The night after, she went into the hospital. To this day I still don’t know why she went in. still actually don’t know what happened. I woke up to get ready for school on the 11^th and was told that the nurses had to resuscitate her at 1am and then had no option but to put her on life support.  I went to school that morning and as I was going through my notes for the morning, the teacher walked over with a slip of paper saying that I needed to leave immediately — that the family was called in to the hospital.

My mother was on life support still when I walked into her room for the first time. I couldn’t get out a goodbye.  Everything happened in slow motion and I couldn’t grasp what was happening. Four hours later, she was taken off of Life Support and died. I was only 17. She was only 41.

After graduation, I didn’t leave for basic training. I didn’t leave for college. I wasn’t mentally there to train to fight or to apply myself to school again. I slipped into a deep depression. I cried every single day and I was angry at everyone. I was angry with God for taking her away right before Prom and Graduation and leaving for the Air Force. I didn’t understand why he would take her. I was so angry.

3 years after she passed away, I met my husband. 2 years after the wedding I became pregnant. One of the biggest events that a girl should have her mom by her side for, and she wasn’t there. Even though I was still angry with Him, I prayed and prayed that God would give me peace and give me the strength to get through this pregnancy.

My daughter was born in February 2011 and I immediately had PPD (post partum depression). I thought the depression that I dealt with after losing my mother was bad, but nothing — nothing — compares to PPD. I was angry and I had no idea what I was doing. I cried constantly. I was angry with my husband for never helping or trying to understand what was wrong. I was terrified of the baby and terrified for her all at the same time. I stayed awake for three days straight making sure she was breathing throughout her naps and bedtime.

Being a mom did get better, but it wasn’t without its costs.  Still, the cards that I’ve been dealt have made me that much stronger. I’ve been given a second chance at living, and a chance to raise my daughter as the mother I never had. I get to show her how to be strong — and how to be loved.

By Tom Zuniga:

Though blessed by a fantastic family with loving parents, my journey beyond their front door has been long and treacherous.  As an introvert, that’s okay some of the time, if not most. But it’s still hard.

I didn’t have many friends growing up. I was the smart, shy guy in high school. Forced to suffer through acne’s onslaught, I felt overwhelming shame from the attention that came with simply opening my mouth. Of course I wanted friends, but I wanted to be ignored too.

I wasn’t loud enough, athletic enough, funny enough, or vulgar enough for friends. This was my reality. My normal.  Needless to say, I was ecstatic to graduate and leave high school’s halls far behind.

Moving into the dorm of a small college drove me to tears, however; I had no idea how to connect with the other guys in my suite or with my fellow students in general.  And even after I eventually started experiencing friendship, I felt called to move closer to home after my freshman year. I was simultaneously saddened and relieved to cease the process of relationship-building and the stress that often accompanied it.

Returning home to a large state university, I retreated into a safe, secluded, relationship-less hole. Grades were my thing, not people. Scoring high on tests was how God had gifted me ─ how I found fulfillment. Not with friendship. Not with community.  And not with love.  I believed I wasn’t good enough for those things.

That inadequacy defined so much of my life from then on.  I sought out church groups, but my insecurities raged over my relational ineptitude.  I tried for a desperate change and moved two-thousand miles across the country, but was still left feeling isolated and incapable.

At 24, I felt like a pathetic infant unable to transition from milk to meals, from crawl to toddle.  I didn’t know where to find community or how to even do it. I was socially incompetent.

It took the love and grace of others to finally change things.   Last summer I worked with a youth missions organization and met some of the most genuine people I’ve ever met.  I experienced violent seesaws of relational hope and hopelessness, and was a broken mess by the second week.

One night my fellow staffers, sensing my turmoil, gathered around me, and I exposed the deepest, darkest chasms of my soul.  I wept bitter tears into each of their necks, feeling deeply loved by friends for the first time. Their support was immediate and constant, beyond anything I’d ever experienced with others. Beyond any semblance of love I’d ever thought possible for me.

For 24 years, I’d lived beyond the reach of community’s taunting ─ and loving ─ arms.   But I’m finally mending the scars of fractured friendship and embracing my desire to be sheathed in community’s arms once again.  With the help of community, I’m done with shame, and no longer believe I’m beyond the scope of friendship and love.

I am, indeed, good enough.

By Garrett Markwood:

I don’t deserve to be here.  I’ve gone too far, done too much, and hurt too many.

But grace says otherwise.

I became an addict towards the end of high school.  It began with alcohol and pot, but eventually progressed to include any liquid, pill or powder that would change how I felt.  Before long, I didn’t have a choice — I had to use.  All of the things I told myself I would never do, I did.  The drugs I used and the ways I used them left me ashamed.  Friends and family told me to stop — that I was killing myself.  But they didn’t understand.   I knew that I was killing myself.  That was the point.

I bought my destruction with lies, treachery, violence and crime.  In exchange, I gave up my self-worth, relationships, ideals and morals.  I cursed God and abandoned my soul for one more fix.

But then I collided head-on with Grace.

I somehow found myself in rehab, which became the launching point for my recovery. My father sat with me for 3 days while I detoxed, until I was able to go to treatment. When the facility saw I had nowhere to go, they gave me a maintenance job, and from there I started rebuilding my fractured life.  And I began to understand that I was being given a second chance — no less than an act of God. I didn’t deserve it, and I’d counted myself out, but my life was being redeemed.

I’ve learned that grace is not a limited commodity.  It does not decrease as it is passed from person to person.  In fact, it increases.  Grace creates something from nothing; it creates life from ruin.

So before you count yourself out, know that grace is real, and it’s moving in your life right now.

By Kera Package:

Story telling is terrifying, particularly when it is your own story. When your childhood is sprinkled with parental abandonment, abuse, alcoholism, failed suicide attempts, drugs, sexual addiction, and a myriad of other drama, the last thing you want to do is invite the world into your poorly written soap opera.

People label you, treat you differently, and question your integrity. You lose friends, upset family members, and disappoint those you love. And as you share your story, you wonder if it’s even worth it. Does anyone care? Could they ever understand? Does it even matter?

So it’s no surprise I was afraid of sharing my story. But can I tell you a secret?

Telling your story isn’t nearly as terrifying as not telling it.

Because honestly, learning how to share your story is the only way to truly heal. By wrestling with how to share it, you are forced to find words to define your emotional experiences. And as you do, you realize that those words don’t define you. Those experiences don’t define you. You are not defined by your story.

And in telling your story, you own it, so that it doesn’t own you.

It was pure desperation that introduced me to the concept of story telling. In my senior year of high school, I walked into a teacher’s office, locked the door behind me, and started crying hysterically as I tried to explain how my life was falling apart. I was just kicked out of my house with no money, no resources, and no idea how to respond. And at rock bottom, I was finally forced to share my story.

But just a few months later, my challenges actually opened doors for me to attend college with a considerable amount of scholarship funds. The generous gifts of strangers provided opportunities to move forward, and the support of friends helped bring healing into my life.

All because I shared my story instead of keeping it locked inside.

Sharing my story has been a paradigm shift in my life.  I was once convinced that there was no reason to tell it, but the truth is that if I remain silent, I not only diminish my ability to heal, but I may also rob others of the opportunity to do the same.  As I am vulnerable with my story, people share bits and pieces of their lives as well, and I see healing taking place before my eyes.  It amazes me how someone so imperfect has had so many opportunities to spark healing in the lives of others, simply by sharing my experience.

That momentary fear of how others will respond to what you say is manageable compared to the terrifying idea of thwarting the forward progress of both your life and the lives of others because you are too afraid to share.

Yes, sharing your story is intimidating, but I promise you that it is worth it.

So, what’s your story?