I grew up on Providenciales in the beautiful by nature Turks & Caicos Islands. Our two bed room home that housed my parents, and seven children was located on the water front in the settlement of Blue Hills. I can still recall the daily trips to the beach by my siblings and me enjoying the beautiful water, sand and sun. My life was no ordinary one. Our home was not what God intended a home to be. As I can recall there was constant turmoil in our home (looking back, I guess those days at the beach was simply our way of getting away from it all). My mother who was/is a Christian, held Bible devotions with us, taught us Bible verses, took us to church, and made sure that we attended Sunday school and other church-related functions. My father on the other hand, was/is not a Christian, and was the main cause of the ever-present turmoil.

Our family owned a restaurant where I worked (when I was old enough) while attending school. To this day I cannot decipher how I endured the public humiliation, because my father had no regard for God, men, time or place; he almost on a daily basis dispensed verbal abuse and threats (sometimes in the presence of customers). Through it all I tried my best to remain respectful and always regarded myself as a “nice” girl, as I was not out there in the world doing anything that could be classified as sin (or so I thought in my own immature way).

Because of the emotional abuse, i instinctively developed apprehension, I learned to smile when I wanted to cry (pretense); I always managed to maintain a calm disposition (pretense) even though inside I was screaming, “I can’t take this any longer!” I later realized that I had grown to be a very angry, resentful young lady, one who would chase all the guys away with a don’t-say-nothing-to-me look, or a few harsh words. Well, enough of that depressing segment of my life. Just writing about it brings on negative emotions.

At age nineteen, I met my husband Derek. Three years later, in the summer of 1987 after much work, he was finally able to convince me that I needed a Savior, and that being a “nice girl” was not good enough. I accepted Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior at a revival service being held at our church. Most stories you’ve heard of persons coming to know Christ perhaps went like this: “Well I was rebellious, doing whatever I wanted to, but later I realized that I needed a Savior.” For me, it happened in the reverse. I rebelled after I had become a Christian (you might say, you were never saved in the first place – well, in that regard, I guess none of us are, because we ALL sin from time to time. We’re just experts on classification/comparison of sin).

I’ve done some terrible things I wish I could go back and undo, but I can’t. I’ve hurt a lot of folks and I wish that I could just zap them so they would forget that the ‘ungodly’ incident occurred, but I can’t. What I can do is to say that I’m sorry, that the pain that I’ve caused was unwarranted and brought on by either my own selfishness or a desire to get even. I have repented and I know that God in His mercy have forgiven me, but the regret will always be there. Because I have been forgiven, I am then required to in turn forgive. I have forgiven my father, but the memory of the verbal/emotional abuse will always be there.

I leave with you the words of a song (not certain of the author):

“You who are broken, stop by the Potter’s House, you who need mending, stop by the Potter’s House, give Him the fragments of your broken life. My friend, the Potter wants to put you back together again.

Thank God for forgiveness!