I was very fortunate growing up and accepted Jesus into my life at the age of five.
I was sincerely trying to do the right thing, but my life was still very empty. I didn’t have a real relationship with Him.
The preacher asked if we died that night did we know if we would go to heaven. I knew that I would not.
At eleven years old I was confused, scared and angry. I put a lot of the blame for my problems on God.
A coworker invited us to church we finally gave in. On our first visit we loved it…
When I was older, a friend invited me to a youth gathering every Wednesday, yet no one ever shared what Jesus did on the Cross.
I knew that just because my parents and other relatives were Christians, that did not automatically make me one, too.
It’s hard to remember a time when God wasn’t part of my life…
God gave me Christian parents who showered me with their love and shared with me that it was God’s love that enabled them to love me.
I admitted to God that I was a sinner. I confessed that I beleived in Him and that He sent His son to die for my sins.