My name is Carma, and my life has been a relentless pursuit of a Father who seemed both inseparable from my soul and yet devastatingly absent from my reality. If you were to look at the map of my existence, you would see a terrain scarred by fire, soaked in spirits, and littered with the debris of churches I visited, hoping to find the singular truth I had discovered when I was only eight years old.

 

I was born into a house of iron and silence, where the "rod" was not a metaphor but a heavy, stinging reality. Between the brutal beatings for "back-talking"—a child’s desperate defense against a world that made no sense—I wore the uniform of my childhood: black and blue bruises stretching from my shoulders to my ankles, hidden beneath the required turtlenecks and long pants even in the heat of July. But at five years old, I found a sanctuary. I would slip out of the house, crossing the street to a church whose walls vibrated with the roar of music. It was loud, chaotic, and it spoke to a Father I felt in my bones. In those hymns, I felt the warmth of a love that didn't demand perfection, only presence.

 

But as I grew, the darkness outside the church began to swallow the light inside. By four, my innocence was stolen by an uncle whose hands were far from holy. By nine, my mother gifted me my first carton of cigarettes, a morbid initiation into the family tradition of self-destruction. I was raised on vodka and orange juice, a steady diet of liquid numbness meant to keep me "calm."

 

By fourteen, I was a girl trying to fill an infinite void with finite, broken things. I became pregnant, and though I carried life within me, it was not meant to stay. Johnathon died within me, and when I finally dared to walk into the sanctuaries of the world—the Baptists, the Nazarenes, the Lutherans—to seek comfort, I was met not with grace, but with judgment. They told me that because my baby wasn't baptized, he was thrown into the lake of fire. They told me his death was my punishment for the sin of conception. I was deemed "unclean," a vessel of wickedness. I was baptized seven times over the next few years, desperate to wash away a stain that the preachers insisted was permanent.

 

At sixteen, my heart failed—literally. I survived, but my spirit was shattered. Two years later, a necessary hysterectomy took away my ability to ever carry a child again. I was told this was the final seal on my condemnation. I watched my older sister undergo abortions, and I felt a strange, chilling relief that at least I had lost my baby to nature, rather than personal choice of murder and condemning them to hell. I stopped looking for God then. The irony was too sharp: I loved a Father who seemed to demand nothing but my suffering.

 

I married an atheist who was, in his own way, a bastion of stability. For fourteen years, my life was small, quiet, and controlled. I wasn't allowed to work or carry money, but I was given the freedom to study theology in secret. I read the Torah, I sat with Jehovah’s Witnesses, I explored the Amish, and I chased every ghost of a doctrine I could find. And then, just as my husband began to discover the Heavenly Father during his own struggle with his health, he died.

 

That was the end. I didn’t just turn my back on God; I declared war. I spent the next few years as a woman with nothing to lose, drowning my grief in bottles and living in a nihilistic haze.

 

The end of the road came on a night of absolute, suffocating darkness. I had planned it. I had the pills, the liquor, and the isolation I needed to ensure no one would disturb my final act. I sat on the floor, the preparations laid out like a dark sacrament, ready to exit a world that had only ever offered me pain.

 

Then, a slap.

 

Sharp, stinging, and undeniable, it landed on my left cheek. I spun around, heart hammering, ready to fight an intruder. There was no one. I sat down, shaking, and began again. A second slap, this time on my right cheek.

 

"I know what you're doing," I whispered to the empty air, my voice trembling with rage.

 

I reached for the pills, and a pressure landed on the top of my head, firm and restraining. I screamed, "I have free will! You can’t stop me from making my own choices!"

 

Driven by a manic, defiant need to tell God exactly what He could do with His "protection," I ran to my car. I knew of a Catholic church nearby. I would march in there, look at the altar, and demand He leave me alone. I was going to sever the cord once and for all.

 

I turned the corner and heard it—a sound that pulled me back through time. The music. It was that same, loud, stirring music from the church across the street when I was five. I didn't care about the decorum; I scrambled up the steps, my heart pounding, ready to confront the Almighty.

 

I opened the doors and fell. I tripped on the inner stairs, crashing down in a heap, broken and breathless. And then, the music stopped.

 

A voice—clear, resonant, and impossibly strong—filled the room. It wasn't the voice of a man. It spoke of suffering, of the trials of my youth, and of the reason my husband was taken just when he had finally found the path. It answered the question I had carried since I was eight years old—a question no preacher had ever been able to answer. It didn't speak of hellfire or sin as a cage; it spoke of a Father who had been holding me through every bruise, every bottle, and every heartbreak.

 

I don’t know how long I sat there. I remember leaving, trembling, my face soaked in tears. A woman in the parking lot asked if I was okay, and I lied, telling her I had just taken a driving break. I drove home in a daze.

 

When I walked into my house, the "well-planned" suicide was still waiting, the pills sitting in their neat little zip-lock bags, labeled in order of necessity. I looked at this organized death and felt a strange sense of distance. I had the answers I had been searching for, but there were so many more questions now. I decided, in that moment of fragile clarity, that I would go back to that church. I would ask the rest of my questions, and then I would kill myself.

 

It was a Friday, which felt strange—why would a church be open on a Friday? I made a pact with my own despair: Sunday. I would go back on Sunday, finish my inquiry, and then decide.

 

But the weekend was a blur of the old life. I woke up Saturday to my bottle of vodka, spent the day in a haze of television and self-pity, and collapsed into a drunken sleep, nursing the Bacardi I needed to survive the night.

 

Sunday morning came and went. The sun rose and moved across the sky, marking the time for service, and I simply lay there.

 

I woke up late, the light streaming through the curtains, realizing I had missed it. I realized I had not gone to church. And for the first time in my life, the silence in my house didn't feel like a prison, and the absence of the bottle didn't feel like a threat.

 

I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at the zip-lock bag of pills. I realized that the God I had been running from—the God I thought was a punisher—had been the only one who didn't let me leave. He had been the one slapping my face when I tried to end the story before it was finished.

 

The morning air felt unusually sharp as I stepped out, my mind intentionally barren. No liquid breakfast, no numbing routines—just a desperate, jagged hunger for clarity. I had questions that had been festering since my husband’s death, questions that had turned my heart into a battlefield of resentment and confusion. I was heading to the Pentecostal church again, not out of devotion, but out of a defiant need to demand answers from the "divine dude."

 

I arrived to find the building pulsating. The music was already in full blast, a rhythmic, soul-piercing sound that seemed to bypass my ears and vibrate directly in my marrow. Even through the wall of anger I had built, the heavens seemed to leak through those notes. I slipped into my usual back-row seat, clutching my bitterness like a shield. I didn't want to sing, but my lungs betrayed me; I found myself humming, then singing, my body beginning to soak up a warmth that felt suspiciously like peace.

 

When the music cut out, a young man at the top of the stairs caught my eye, his face lit with an invitation. I snapped. I shook my head violently and waved him off. Don’t you dare, I thought. I’m not here for you. I sat, ready to launch into a verbal assault against the Almighty, but before I could utter a syllable, the sermon began. It wasn't a generic message; it was a conversation. Somehow, the words were speaking directly to me, cataloging moments of my life—the times I had been hidden in the shadow of His wing, the times He was the only pulse in a lonely room. He was answering the questions I hadn't even dared to vocalize, simply asking, “Trust me.”

 

I left before the final prayer, fleeing back to my car. I drove home vibrating with a strange, contradictory cocktail of fury and intimacy, shouting at God, arguing with Him, yet never once breaking the connection.

 

That night, I made a pact. "I will come back," I told the Father. "I will come back every single time until you give me the answers I’m owed."

 

He responded with a gentle, non-negotiable instruction: "If you want the truth, you must have a clear mind and a pure heart."

 

On Monday, I found an AA meeting. Tuesdays and Fridays became my anchors. I worked until 4:00, racing against the clock to make the sessions. For three weeks, my life became a rhythm of church and recovery. Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, Wednesday evenings—I was there, a ghost in the back row, soaking in the Father’s presence while remaining hostile to the congregation.

 

The third week, a Friday, broke me. The AA meeting had been grueling, and I was emotionally hollowed out. I drove to the church, intending only to sit on the stairs and let the music act as a transfusion for my spirit. I was wearing slacks, which I felt were entirely unsuitable for the building, so I stayed outside, listening to the worship bleed through the wood.

 

Then, the world tilted.

 

The music stopped, and when I looked up, I was no longer on the stairs. I was inside, tucked into a tiny, solitary pew next to the sound booth in the very back. The transition was impossible, a supernatural intrusion that left me mortified. I had broken my own code of conduct—pants in the sanctuary—and I felt entirely exposed. The Pastor moved toward me, his eyes filled with a concern I wasn't ready to accept. I held up a hand, a sharp stop gesture, and bolted for the door.

 

I went home and wept with shame. I can never go back, I thought. I’m a farce. I’ll just go to the Catholic church like I meant to from the start.

 

But Sunday told a different story. I started the car with the intention of heading to a traditional Mass, but my hands took the wheel and swung the car toward the Pentecostal church. I drove in, desperate to be invisible. I found my small pew—a space for one—and hid there. The music was as stirring as ever, but the sermon was a disaster. They spoke of the Trinity, and the words grated against my spirit like glass. I left in a fog of confusion and fresh anger.

 

Back home, I took it to the Father. "That wasn't the truth," I challenged Him. "What is this Trinity?"

 

His voice was calm, cutting through the static. Don’t worry about what you heard. You know the truth. And now, I need you to pray for a brother named Jerry.

 

I scoffed. "Jerry? I don't know him, and I don't care about him. I’m the one hurting here! Why would I pray for a stranger when I’m the one you need to fix?"

 

Pray for Jerry, He insisted. You don’t need to know what he needs.

 

"Fine," I grumbled, surrendering to the divine annoyance. I prayed.

 

The following Wednesday, the hunger returned. I needed the Father. The service was typical for that place—people collapsing on the floor, tongues of fire, erratic movement. I always left before the chaos started, but tonight was different. I sat in my safe corner, and for the first time, the music didn't matter. It was just me and Him, an internal dialogue addressing the secrets of my youth and the hollow weight of my husband’s death.

 

Suddenly, He asked, “Do you believe me?”

 

"Yes," I gasped.

 

Then go to the Pastor. He is doing the sinner’s prayer. Join him.

 

I was torn. He had already told me I was forgiven, but the prompting was insistent. I marched up to the front, my heart hammering. I walked right up to the Pastor, poked my finger against his nose, and hissed, "I will do this prayer, but I swear, I will not let you push me on the floor!"

 

He looked stunned, but he began. I blocked out his voice, leaning into my own conversation with God. "Okay, You win," I whispered. "I give up. This life is Your responsibility from this moment forward. I will not make a move without Your approval. You want me to do something? Make it clear. No wondering, no guessing. I take no responsibility for this body or this life—It belongs to You."

 

I retreated to my pew, trembling. I didn't fall. The Father then whispered a final instruction: Close your eyes. Say it over and over: 'All must believe for miracles to happen.'

 

"Why?" I questioned.

 

Because you said you belong to me.

 

I yielded. I began to chant the words—All must believe for miracles to happen—until time dissolved. When I finally opened my eyes, the world had changed. I was sitting in a twisted, impossible position, my body feeling like a rigid statue. A sudden, paralyzing fear gripped me. I started to cry, aware of the crowd around me, their hushed whispers and outstretched hands.

 

Then, the fear vanished.

 

It was replaced by a sensation so tangible I could have reached out and touched it: a warm, massive blanket of arms wrapped around my entire being. It was the same Presence I had known since I was five years old. Every doubt, every trace of trauma, every burning question evaporated. I was held. I was safe. I was found.

 

For the next eighteen days, I walked in a state of grace. I lived in that church, absorbing the light. I even met Jerry—a kind man, though I still had little room for social niceties. I was too busy learning how to breathe under the weight of such profound love.

 

Then came the eighteenth day.

 

I was driving back from the house I had shared with my husband, the truck packed with the remaining remnants of our life together. I was finally letting go of the items, clear-minded and surrendered. Then, without warning, the truck hit an incline. Gravity turned against me. The vehicle bucked and tossed, and I was launched through the windshield.

 

At the hospital, the doctors used cold, clinical terms. Paraplegic. Severed spine. Permanent.

 

As they spoke, there was no darkness, no self-pity, and no scream of "Why?" My only thought, calm and crystal clear, was, Fine, Father. This is Your body and Your life. If You want it in this condition, it is Your will, and I accept it.

 

In the heart of the wreckage, I didn't feel broken. I felt held. I was finally, absolutely, exactly where He wanted me to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was led to the only true church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I was so reluctant! I thought it was a cult, they brainwashed people, they did not know what the action of fun way, they were not Christians, they did not even know Jesus Christ was the son of God like all the other religions, they too were following a mad-made Satan led god. The only difference between the “Mormons” Catholics, and the mainline Protestants, and evangelical were the difference between their man-made rules. I was raised Catholic somewhat.

I had no idea what the Heavenly Father had planned for me, but as I sat in the stillness of my room, I realized that for the first time in my existence, I truly did not care. This life was His. It wasn't mine to manage with a bottle or a bitter heart; it was a vessel for His purpose.

 

I was no longer drinking. I hadn’t touched a drop since that Sunday when the Father whispered to my spirit that I needed a clear head. It was a miracle that defied logic. For two years, I had existed in a haze—a fifth of vodka at sunrise, a full bottle of Bacardi to survive the night—yet the craving had simply vanished. It was replaced by a hunger for His word that far surpassed any thirst I had ever known.

 

My life was confined to the boundaries of my bedroom, and eventually, the seat of a wheelchair. I had lost the use of my legs, but in that forced stillness, I found my voice. I spent days and nights in conversation with God. My sister became my hands and feet, ferrying me to every service the church offered, even on Fridays. Every Sunday, she would wheel me to the church steps, find a strong soul to hoist me and my chair into the sanctuary, and bring me back down when the hymns faded.

 

It seemed she always found Jerry.

 

Jerry was the man who lifted me with a gentle, steady grip. Every time he carried me, I prayed for him. I prayed for his burdens, his family, and his spirit. I never prayed for my own healing; I had already received the only healing that mattered. I had the Father, and He was in charge.

 

Weeks bled into months. A re-diagnosis brought a sliver of hope—my paralysis was localized to my left side, and with focused care, there was movement where once there was only stone. Then came the Saturday that tested my resolve. My sister informed me she couldn't take me to church the next morning; she had family obligations. The devastation was physical. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I would survive the silence of a Sunday without the house of the Lord.

 

I remembered Jerry had given my sister his number. A thought flickered: Why not call him? But then, the shame set in. I didn't know him. I was a broken woman in a chair—who was I to ask for such a favor? I dialed the number, my heart hammering, but I hung up before the second ring. I couldn't do it.

 

The phone rang instantly. I stared at it, breathless, then finally picked up.

 

"Don’t you think we have caller ID, Carma?" Jerry’s voice was warm, amused. "Why did you hang up?"

 

That moment was the prologue to a life I never dared to write for myself. From that Sunday on, we were inseparable. We were "special friends" in the purest sense. We spent hours—sometimes twelve or fourteen at a stretch—surrounded by Bibles, dictionaries, and encyclopedias, excavating the truth of the Heavenly Father. I learned the cadence of his spirit, and he learned the depth of my scars.

 

One day, amidst the scattered pages of holy text, Jerry asked me to marry him. I laughed, a startled, watery sound. "Jerry, look at me," I whispered, gesturing to the wheelchair. "I’m like this for the rest of my life. Why would you want this?"

 

We talked for hours, weighing the pros and cons of a life tethered to infirmity. But the love that had grown between us wasn't built on the stability of our bodies; it was built on the foundation of the Father. We got engaged that night, trusting Him to handle the logistics of a future we couldn't see.

 

In the months that followed, the impossible happened. Through persistent prayer and diligent care, I was no longer paralyzed. I lived with chronic pain, yes, but the wheelchair was relegated to the corner. I had hope. I had a promise. And on our wedding day, I walked down the aisle on my own two feet.

 

But life has a way of balancing joy with the crucible. We learned shortly before the vows that Jerry suffered from seizures. It was another trial, another mountain to climb, but we stood at the altar ready to walk the path together.

 

The Father led us to Utah to work with Jerry’s sister and her husband, who were members of the LDS faith. We lived with them for over a year. During that time, I held a question in my heart—a question about the nature of the Godhead—but I never asked it. I felt that only a true, spirit-led Christian could answer it, and I was waiting for the right moment.

 

Life in Utah was a storm of change. Jerry lost another sister to an accident, and we found ourselves navigating the grief of his sudden, seizure-induced health crises. Through it all, his LDS family showed us a kindness that was hard to ignore. Yet, after two years, a restlessness settled in my bones. I felt that the environment was pulling us away from the core of my convictions. I needed to move. We packed what little we had and returned to the city of my birth, the place I had fled after my first husband’s death.

 

For twenty years, Jerry and I became spiritual nomads. We wandered from denomination to denomination, always searching for a house of worship that truly knew the Heavenly Father. But every time we sat across from a pastor or minister, the moment they touched upon the Godhead, I heard the same man-made lies. We would pack up and move on, hoping the next steeple would hold the truth.

 

Trials came in waves. We faced poverty, illness, and the stinging loss of time. But through it all, blessings were woven into the tribulations. Jerry’s sister, whose husband had once been a lukewarm believer who only joined the church to appease her, eventually found herself divorced. The Father, however, was faithful. He brought her a man of true, unshakable faith—a man whose heart wasn't cluttered by the material idols that had ruined her first marriage.

 

I decided I would host them for the Fourth of July. I wanted to get to know this new man of hers. But deep down, there was a different fire burning. I saw an opportunity. I planned it all out: the prayers, the studies, the arguments I would use to show them the truth of the Gospel. I was convinced that I could "convert" them, that I could lead them to the pure understanding of the Father that had sustained me through a lifetime of wreckage.

 

I sat on my porch as the sunset bled gold across the horizon, reviewing my notes, feeling the weight of the Bible in my lap. I was Carma, the woman who had walked out of a vodka-soaked grave and into a marriage built on prayer. I looked at Jerry, who was tending to the grill, his face lined with the history of his seizures and our shared struggles.

 

I realized then that I had spent twenty years searching for a building filled with people who held the "right" answers, all while the Father had been busy building something far more resilient.

 

I looked at my notes, then at the house where my sister-in-law would soon arrive. I had my plans, my strategies, and my well-rehearsed theology. I was ready to save them. But as I watched the wind move through the trees, a quiet realization washed over me: the Father didn't need my arguments to change hearts. He had used the wheelchair, the vodka, the poverty, and the silence to change mine.

 

Whatever was to happen this Fourth of July, I knew one thing: I had no idea what the Heavenly Father had planned for us. But I didn't care. This life, with all its beautiful, messy, and complicated turns, was undeniably, wonderfully His. And for the first time, I was truly content to just let Him lead.

The heat of the July sun seemed to stretch across the horizon, a golden haze that signaled the arrival of the Fourth of July. My home was buzzing—a vibrant, chaotic symphony of laughter, clinking plates, and the anticipation of fireworks. My family had descended upon us, and among them was my new brother-in-law. To me, he represented the ultimate challenge. He was a man of firm convictions, deeply rooted in his beliefs, a person who seemed immovable in his spiritual stance. I had spent so long preparing myself, praying that the Heavenly Father would guide my words, that I would be a vessel for His truth. I knew that while human beliefs are often brittle, the knowledge of God is firm, persistent, and ever-growing. I was vibrating with excitement, holding my breath, waiting to see how the Father’s grand design would unfold through the noise of the celebration.

 

The Fourth passed in a blur of food and camaraderie. By the morning of the fifth, the house had quieted. The breakfast dishes were cleared, the scent of Jerrys coffee lingered, and we gathered in the living room to visit. I remember the air feeling unusually still. I had no plan to bring up the question—in fact, I had intended to step back and let the Father take the lead. But then, as if by some divine override, the question spilled out of my mouth before I could catch it. It was sudden, sharp, and felt like a wrecking ball.

 

In my mind, the LDS church was just like any other religion—caught in the web of the Trinity or, worse, lacking a true understanding of the Godhead. I had intended to approach my brother-in-law with grace and patience, yet I had just blurted out a direct challenge that I feared would alienate him instantly.

 

Mortified, I stood up and walked outside, the screen door clicking shut behind me. I paced the porch, feeling the heat of the sun and the sting of my own perceived failure. "I’m sorry, Father," I whispered, my heart racing. "I ruined it. I was supposed to be Your instrument, but I couldn't even keep my own mouth shut." I felt like I had burned the bridge before the crossing could even begin.

 

When I stepped back inside, I decided to bury that moment. I sat down and steered the conversation toward a much softer, more general topic regarding faith. But my brother-in-law wasn’t playing along. He turned to me, his expression serious.

 

"No," he said, cutting through my attempt at small talk. "I want to answer the first question first."

 

My stomach dropped. This was it. He was going to give me the standard, man-made explanation, the one that would confirm every prejudice I had been taught. I braced myself for the "donkey’s tail"—the inevitable addition that would signify a departure from what I knew to be the truth.

 

He leaned forward. "Jesus Christ," he began, his voice steady and earnest, "is the only begotten Son of the Heavenly Father. He came from the spirit world where we all lived at one time. He was born of a virgin, He is the Messiah, our Savior. He died on the cross for our sins, so that we could one day rejoin our Heavenly Father."

 

I sat in stunned silence. I waited for the catch. I waited for the "but," or the heresy, or the twist that would invalidate his words. I looked at him, then at Jerry, then at his wife, then back to him.

 

"And?" I prompted, my voice barely a whisper.

 

He looked at me, perplexed. "And what?"

 

"Go ahead," I said. "Finish."

 

He shrugged. "I don’t know what else there is to say."

 

"No way, dude," I breathed, almost falling back into my chair. I wasn't just talking to my brother-in-law anymore; I was talking to the Heavenly Father.

 

I excused myself again, needing to escape to the porch for a cigarette, my hands trembling. Everything I thought I knew about the LDS faith was unraveling. The dissonance was deafening. Did I misunderstand the answer all these years? How could this be?

 

As I stood there, the world went quiet. "Silence, child," a voice seemed to echo within me. "Hear me. All is well."

 

"What do you mean, all is well?" I argued into the breeze. "I lived with her for a year! I thought I knew who they were!"

 

"I answered your prayer back then," the Father replied. "I moved you into her home. I told you to ask everyone your question, but you never did. You would not listen to me."

 

The next four days were a blur of sleeplessness and revelation. We talked, we searched the scriptures, we prayed, and we talked some more. The questions came like a flood, even in my dreams. My life was performing a 180-degree turn in real-time. At one point, my brother-in-law looked at me and said, "Carma, you are already LDS and you don't even know it!"

 

When they finally packed the car to leave, Jerry and I stood in the driveway, feeling as if the world had shifted on its axis. We were bewildered but electrified. Fifteen minutes down the road, they called. "Hey Carma," his sister laughed. "Now that we’re far enough away that you can’t hit us, we called your ward. The missionaries will be there soon to teach you!"

 

I wasn't angry. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I wouldn't have known where to start, but the Father had paved the way. We were baptized in September 2, 2017.

 

The first two years were an uphill climb. I had promised God that I wouldn't be baptized until I found a church that could answer my question—the one that had haunted me since childhood. I found those answers, but unlearning the lies I had been fed my whole life was a grueling process. There were days of doubt, days where the "perfection" of the members around me felt like an impenetrable bubble. I felt like a jagged rock in a field of polished glass. How did I ever expect to reach the celestial kingdom when I had lived such a life, while these people seemed so innocent?

 

The bubble popped after a while. I learned that my siblings weren't perfect; they were just people. They were imperfect, human, and having a hard time, but they were trying. And that is what the Father has asked of us, along with knowing who Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, and God the Father truly are. That is not too much to ask of his children who he himself has suffered for.

 

I was raised with a transactional worldview—never do a favor unless there is a reward in it for you. Service was an alien concept. But as I began to serve, I found something miraculous: I was the one being served. I wasn't just "helping"; I was being filled. I fell in love with JustServe.org, finding endless ways to connect with my brothers and sisters.

 

It has been eight years now, almost nine. My body has grown frail, and the head injury I sustained has led to Aphasia, forcing me to find new, creative ways to communicate my thoughts. But even as the words become harder to find, the message remains clear. I don't try to change anyone’s mind anymore. I simply plant seeds and leave the nourishing to the Father.

 

I am ready for whatever the next chapter holds. I have no regrets about the day I finally stopped holding on to my own control and handed the reins to God. I am Carma, and I know now that I am not just a servant—I am a daughter. And to my Heavenly Father, I say with all the love and clarity my heart can muster: "I am Yours forever."