Testimonials

We didn’t meet in a church foyer.
We met online—just two people looking for fun. Casinos, parties, long nights and even longer hangovers. That was our world. No rules, no conviction—just the thrill of living in the moment. Somewhere in that wild mess, we started to grow closer. And not long after, we found out we were pregnant with our first son, Albert.

That should’ve been the wake-up call. But it wasn’t.

I was still out running wild—drinking, getting high, doing whatever I wanted. And in some twisted way, I actually thought that one day, I could bring my son into that lifestyle. Show him how to “live free” like I did. I thought that was freedom.

Once Albert was born, Jessica and I got our own apartment. We were trying to build a home—but something else had already moved in. The spiritual atmosphere in that place was… wrong. Off. Oppressive.

It started subtly: doors opening and closing on their own, objects shifting, strange cold spots, heavy air. Then came the shadows. Not just flickers or tricks of the light—real, looming figures that watched from the corners of our home. We felt them when we were alone. We felt them when we were together. I even had to keep a Bible in the bathroom just to shower—because the moment I closed my eyes, I felt something was going to grab me. It became normal… or at least, we got used to it.

At work, I started telling my co-workers what was happening. They weren’t saints either, but they had church backgrounds—Catholic, Baptist, Adventist, Mormon. Every single one of them pointed me to the same guy: Victor.

Victor was different. I didn’t want to talk to him. Too clean. Too sober. Too holy. I figured if I said one word to him, he’d report me—I was high most of the time I was on the clock anyway. So I brushed it off. Until the day everything changed.

Albert was just a few months old. One night, I laid him gently on our bed—neatly made, thick blankets tucked in tight. I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. When I came back in, what I saw froze me.

He was buried.
Not under one blanket—under all of them. Even the fitted sheet. Smothered, completely covered. There was no way he could have moved like that. No way any person could have done it without us hearing or seeing. My heart dropped. I rushed to pull everything off him. Thank God, he was okay. But something was after him. And it wasn’t hiding anymore.

I told my coworkers what happened, and again they said, “You need to talk to Victor.” Still, I refused.

Then came the second strike.

Albert was resting in his baby swing, and suddenly he stopped breathing. No sound, no cry—just gasping, slipping away. I panicked. I grabbed him, shook him, patted his back, yelling his name, trying to wake him up. Nothing worked. We packed up everything and rushed to the car to head to the hospital.

As I shut the front door behind me, I heard the click of the lock.

And in that exact moment—Albert let out a peaceful sigh and fell asleep in my arms. Breathing perfectly. Calm. Like nothing had ever happened.

Jessica and I just stared at each other. Silent. Confused. Terrified.

We still took him to the doctor, but they found nothing wrong. Physically, he was fine. But spiritually, we were in a war we didn’t even know we had signed up for. That was the final straw. I told myself, I have to talk to Victor.

The next day at work, I walked up to him and told him everything. I was half expecting judgment, or at least a weird look. Instead, he said:

“No problem. I’ll come to your house. We’ll talk. We’ll take care of it.”

I asked him when.

He looked me straight in the eyes and said,
“Well… when does all the spooky stuff happen? At night, right? I’ll be there at midnight.”

It was a Saturday night when Victor showed up—right at midnight, just like he said he would.

He stepped into our apartment and took it all in. The cigarettes. The empty beer bottles. The liquor lined up on the counters. Even the little plants I was growing in the window—told him they were tomatoes and chilies. He didn’t say anything at first, but I could tell he knew better.

Victor looked around with purpose. He wasn’t judging—he was discerning. He could see what we couldn’t. He saw the things in our home that were attracting the spirits we’d been battling. The things that were displeasing to God… things I didn’t even know were a problem.

Then he sat us down and told us a story.

He shared his own testimony—how he was once addicted to heroin. How devils and angels dragged him into a church one day. He didn’t hold anything back. He told us that he could pray and command those spirits to leave… but if we didn’t get rid of what was inviting them in, they’d only come right back.

We talked for hours—about his life, about ours, about what we really wanted for our home, our son, and our souls.

Then he said, “Alright. Let’s pray.”

He stood up. We bowed our heads.

And as he began to pray, something shifted in the room. It wasn’t subtle.

The walls started to shake.
Pictures flew off the walls.
Cabinet doors slammed open.
Pots and pans banged and clanged in chaos.
Everything that had been hiding in the shadows was now throwing a fit—because it was losing.

Victor kept praying. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop.

And then… it all stopped.

Just like that, silence.

A deep peace fell over the house like a thick blanket. Not just quiet—peace. Heavy, still, holy peace. It was like a fortress had dropped around us. Like a shield had been raised. We could feel it. We were safe.

I told him, “Thank you.”

Victor looked around, and with a half-smile said,
“If I were any other kind of church, I’d probably be charging you five, six, seven hundred dollars right now.”

I reached into my pockets, embarrassed. “I’m broke,” I told him. “We barely get by. I don’t have anything to give you.”

He looked at me and said,
“You do have something you can give me.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Your time,” he said. “Come to church with me on Sunday.”

And that was the beginning.

I didn’t want to owe anyone. And I felt like I did. So I went.

Just one time, I thought. Just once to say thanks.

But that one visit… became a turning point.

After the service, I walked up to the altar and yelled out to God. I didn’t know how to pray, but I knew how to cry out. I begged Him to take my addictions—cigarettes, drugs, the lifestyle—take it all. I left it there, at the altar. Then I went home and forgot I even prayed it.

Days passed. I reached for the usual temptations—nothing. No craving. No pull. No desire.

God had actually done what I asked. Silently. Thoroughly.

He didn’t just clean our house. He started cleaning me.

You see, I had already experienced the devil. The darkness. The fear. The torment. The spiritual weight that crushes and mocks and threatens.

But through Victor, I met God.
And when I experienced God—I knew.
No one could ever tell me the Bible isn’t true.
Because I didn’t just read about it.
I lived it.

And from that day forward… there was no going back.

Praise the Lord, sisters.

My name is Emily, and I want to share my testimony with you tonight. I was baptized on October 13th, 2002—23 years ago. I’m the oldest daughter and the third of seven siblings. I was also the first granddaughter in my family, named after my grandmother, Sister Emma Gutierrez. Tonight, I want to open up about a part of my life that’s not easy to talk about, but it’s part of my journey and my healing. As a child, I was a victim—not only of child abuse, but also of molestation. I was taken advantage of by different people… including my own father. What happened to me should never happen to any child. I should have never had to endure the things I did, especially at such a young age. It was wrong. No adult should ever use a child for their own desires. But that’s what happened. And it left deep wounds that I carried for many years.What I went through… the pain, the trauma—it’s something I wouldn't wish on anyone. And what hurts even more is knowing I'm not the only one. Too many children—boys and girls—go through the same kind of abuse. Innocent lives, taken advantage of by adults who should have been their protectors. It's heartbreaking… and it's wrong on every level. For me, the abuse didn’t stop quickly—it dragged on for years. There was no safe place for me. Not at home. Not around family. The very people who were supposed to watch over me… didn’t.

As I grew up, I kept witnessing things I should’ve never seen. Little by little, my heart grew numb. What was once shocking became routine. And in that numbness, I started to believe this was normal. Like this was just how life worked. Like this was happening in everyone’s home.And that lie… that twisted belief… It made me accept things I should’ve rejected. It blinded me to the truth—that what happened to me was never okay. As a little girl, I didn’t fully understand what was right or what was wrong. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. I couldn’t explain it—I just felt it. And yet, I stayed silent. Why? Honestly… I still don’t know. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was shame. Or maybe it was just the confusion that comes when a child is forced to carry something too heavy for her to understand. I didn’t want my family to find out. I didn’t know how to say it. As a child, you don’t have the words we have now as adults. You just have feelings—fear, guilt, sadness—but no safe way to let them out. I was scared. Scared of getting in trouble. Scared no one would believe me. Scared the truth would break my family apart. So I buried it. I kept it inside for years. As I got older, my body started to change. I developed early—especially in my chest, which runs in our family. And by the time I was in elementary and middle school… I was still being victimized.

Even though I looked older on the outside, I was still that little girl on the inside—hurting, hiding, and surviving. At that stage in my life, I didn’t know how to protect myself or speak up for what was right. I didn’t know how to say, “No,” or tell someone to stop. I knew deep down something was wrong, but I didn’t have the voice or the understanding to express it. And even if I had, I wasn’t sure anyone would’ve listened. So I stayed silent. Out of fear… out of shame… maybe even out of confusion. As a child, you don’t know how to process emotions the way an adult can. I was scared. I didn’t want to get in trouble. So I kept everything to myself. Eventually, I began to act out. I became defensive. Angry. Guarded. I carried around pain I didn’t know how to deal with—and it came out in all kinds of ways. By the time I got to middle school, I started being bullied. The girls at school would tease me, call me names, and treat me like I didn’t belong. My body had developed early, and I drew attention that I never asked for. The girls didn’t like it, and I became a target. What they didn’t know… was that I was still just a young girl, carrying pain that no one could see. Because of what I had been exposed to at such a young age, I started to believe love and attention had to come through physical affection.

I didn’t fully understand it, but I had been taught to associate those feelings with being wanted. It left me confused—longing to be loved, but not knowing what love really was. So I began seeking out attention from boys. I found myself in situations I wasn’t emotionally ready for. I started to cross boundaries I didn’t fully understand, thinking it would make me feel valued. But each time, I was left feeling more empty, more broken, and more lost. Even in the middle of everything I was doing, I still tried to carry myself well—for me, for my brothers and sisters, and even for my mom. When anger took root in me because of the pain I had lived through, it became my shield. It was how I protected myself. Anger became my defense. Now, don’t get me wrong—I still had moments of happiness as a child. I knew how to cover the pain, to smile through it, to keep the ugliness hidden deep inside. Nobody knew what I had been through. I carried that secret well.

Around the age of 11 or 12, my family went through a major change. They became devout Catholics—very serious about their faith. But at the same time, something unexpected happened. My aunt started going to an Apostolic church, and that decision set off a chain reaction. My grandmother followed… then my mother… then more of our family. Suddenly, we weren’t just Catholic anymore—we were stepping into something completely different. And I didn’t understand it. They shouted in church. They cried. They spoke in languages I had never heard before. I didn’t know what “speaking in tongues” meant. I didn’t know who the Holy Ghost was. It felt strange. Loud. Confusing. But when my mom went to church… we all had to go too. And we didn’t get to choose—it was expected. I started to push back. I became more rebellious. I had already been carrying pain, confusion, and shame—and now, church felt like another thing being forced on me.

Eventually, my mom received the Holy Ghost, and she was baptize. At first, it felt like her thing… not mine. But slowly, it became part of our life. That’s when I started to notice something shift inside me. We had to change how we dressed—no more pants, only skirts. We had to wear head coverings, which I called veils. I didn’t like it. I resisted it. But even through that rebellion… I could feel something happening in my heart. Looking back, I believe it was God working on me. After everything I had gone through as a child, for the first time… I began to feel warmth. Not from people—but from within. I started to see myself differently. I started to respect myself, even if only a little. The abuse had already stopped by then… But now, healing had started to begin. By the time I got to high school, everything felt like it was on me. I was already broken. Already hurt. Already carrying the weight of trauma, abuse, and a shattered sense of self.So I looked for comfort the only ways I knew how—through attention, relationships, and escape. I started hooking up with boys, always careful to keep it hidden from my mother and my brothers. I didn’t want them to know the choices I was making.

During high school, I got a job and started saving money. But at the same time, I was going out more. I started drinking, experimenting with pills—back then, they were called crosstops. I sold cigarettes at school. I broke into lockers. And honestly, I did whatever I felt like doing at the time. Eventually, I got caught—and that stopped some of the behavior. But in truth, I wasn’t focused on school. I saw friends around me overdosing, dying, getting pregnant, going to jail… and deep down, I knew I was headed down that same path. In 1983, something shifted again. My mother gave her life fully to the Lord. She was baptized, and she’s now been serving God faithfully for over 42 years. God used her powerfully in the church. She taught Sunday School, served with the Dorcas ministry, helped cook meals, made tamales—she was a true servant of the Lord, and she was blessed in her walk.

When she decided to move to Madera, I came first. At first, I stayed with Sister Gloria and Brother Joe Anaya on Road 29. Later, I stayed for a short time with Pastor Gilbert Flores. Eventually, we began looking for a home, and we found one on Harper Boulevard. It belonged to the King family. We lived there for several years until they sold the property. During that time, I met my first husband—he lived right across the street. We were together for ten and a half years. Thirteen years later, we finalized our divorce. That divorce devastated me. It tore me up inside. So I went back to partying… I told myself I was “free” again, but in reality, I was hurting. I ended up in a relationship that turned abusive, and I was badly beaten.

Eventually, I had to leave. I was relocated back to my hometown—Ventura, California. Through all of this, I was in and out of church. I wasn’t consistent, but I never let go of God completely. No matter how far I wandered, I always kept Him close in my heart. Then, on October 13th, 2002, everything changed. I went to church. I was baptized in Jesus’ name. And that day, I was filled with the Holy Ghost—filled with the incredible, life-changing power of God. I spoke in tongues for over an hour. It was real. It was undeniable. God filled me completely. And from that day forward, I was never the same. Shortly after receiving the Holy Ghost, I fell away from God. I backslid—and yes, once again, a man was involved. But hear me out, because if you look closely, you’ll start to see the pattern. My brokenness, my victimhood, and my craving to be loved all blended together—and it kept pulling me back into unhealthy relationships.

When I walked away from church, I got involved in a drug I had always been curious about. You know the saying—curiosity killed the cat.  And that’s what it did.  It was one of the most horrifying things I’ve ever felt in my body. But thank God—I didn’t get hooked. I didn’t become an addict.  With the Lord’s help, I killed that cat before it killed me. I got tired. Tired of the drugs. Tired of the alcohol. Tired of being on the streets. So I cried out to God: “Lord, send someone to cross my path… someone to help me get out of this mess.” Soon after, I ran into a brother from the church I used to attend. He invited me over for a drink, and I went. I didn’t expect anything to come of it—but to my surprise, I ended up pregnant. I had been told I couldn’t have children, so this was a shock. We moved to Friday Harbor, Washington while I was seven and a half months pregnant. And on July 16th, 2004, I gave birth to my son in Anacortes, Washington.

His father was supportive. He provided for us and cared for us. But even then, our marriage had problems. We moved back to Ventura, California—and eventually, I made the decision to leave him. After we returned, we lived in Newbury Park. One day, we had a serious altercation, and I laid hands on him in anger. I ended up going to jail. At the time, I was still breastfeeding my son. I’m not proud of what happened.  But if you’ve been listening to my story, you can start to see the pattern again. I had no right to hurt someone, especially a man who wasn’t violent. But my past, my pain, and my anger—it was all still inside me. The day I got out of jail, his father took me to get something to eat. And that’s when we ran into my Aunt Maria.

 She invited us to church that night, and we went. God touched me deeply that evening. I started attending regularly at Lighthouse Church, pastored by Brother Steve Perez. And on July 23rd, 2006, I dedicated my son to the Lord. That was a powerful moment. I made a promise to God.  And even though people called me a hypocrite—because I had one foot in and one foot out—I didn’t let it shake me. That promise meant something to me. Whether I was struggling or not, I knew I had to do my part to keep my son safe from the darkness of this world. After three years of marriage, my son’s father and I divorced. But even to this day, I thank God that my son knows who he is. I planted the seed. He knows who God is. He knows the tools of the Spirit. He’s a fine young man now.  He hasn’t been baptized yet—but that decision belongs to him.

 In time, I pray he’ll make that choice for himself. Now, back in 2003—before all that—I had made a serious mistake. I had an affair. And as part of my discipline, I was placed on probation and sent to another church for two weeks. I stayed in a sister’s home not far from the Family Life Center in Whittier. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone why I was there, but I had to meet with the pastor, attend 6 a.m. prayer meetings every day, and walk to church services—no rides except for night service. I also joined a class for people going through personal struggles. And you know what? As hard as it was, it was worth it. It brought me closer to God and closer to my pastor. Eventually, my mother’s health began to decline. She could no longer care for my nieces and nephew. Family members wanted to separate them—one child here, one there. But I couldn’t let that happen. Because of my love for them, I took all three into my home and raised them together.

Through the courts, I gained custody and raised them for six and a half years. I kept them in church. We faced a lot of trials during those years, but God was always faithful. He showed up in courtrooms, in late nights, in every need. And when the time came, my sister was able to regain custody of her children. But about a year before they returned to her, I started to slip again. I fell out of church. I went back to drugs. Back to hard liquor. And back to old relationships. Someone from my past showed up… And before long, I found myself entertaining two men at once. My home became a place of chaos again. Eventually, I let someone else into my life—his name was Charlie. I ended up moving him into my home, and we were together for a total of 14 years.

 We got married eight years into the relationship, but after six years of marriage, it came to an end. As of February 4th, 2025, I am legally divorced. Life with Charlie was unstable. Our relationship was built around drugs, alcohol, and unhealthy choices. It wasn’t a marriage rooted in love or unity—it was one of convenience. Charlie was always working out of town, and I felt like I was only his wife when it worked for him.  But to me, being a wife meant waking up beside your husband, building a home, doing life together. During those years, I leaned on God to help me with my personal needs—especially the emotional and physical needs I couldn’t get from my husband. And you know what? The Lord sustained me.  I remained faithful. I didn’t step outside of my marriage.

 Even though I had a pattern in the past of seeking comfort in the wrong ways, God helped me break that pattern. I honored my vows—even when my husband didn’t fulfill his. In 2022, my son graduated from high school. He was my only child, and it was just the two of us for so long. When he left for college in Laramie, Wyoming, it hit me hard. The house felt empty. Life felt quiet. I was proud, yes—but I was grieving. To cope, I buried myself in work. I stayed long hours, just so I wouldn’t have to come home to silence. I made mistakes at work during that time—corrected them—but I was clearly struggling. Eventually, my sister started working at the same job and helped support me when I needed it. When graduation time came around in March 2023, I had saved up enough money to rent a vehicle and drive all the way to Wyoming to pick up my son.

 I didn’t make the trip alone—I was blessed to be accompanied by Brother Jarell and Sister Yoli King, both of whom had mentored my son in church. He also looked up to Brother Jacob Amaro. These were good, godly influences that poured into his life. Graduation day came—and I was one proud mother. My son had accomplished something great. He set a goal and reached it. We made the road trip back home together, enjoying the time, the scenery, and the memories. We stopped for rest along the way, and I received a message from my job telling me I was being laid off. They told me to enjoy the rest of the trip, and that there was no need to rush back.  It hurt—but in that moment, I saw it as a blessing. I had uninterrupted time with my son—just us, together again. Because of the weather, we had to travel through five different states to get home. It was exhausting, but worth every mile. I had missed him for nine months, and that time we shared was priceless.

Later, my son began seeing someone he met in college—his best friend’s half-sister, a young woman named Autumn from Redding, California. Not long after he left to visit her, I had a scary experience. I was driving my sister to work, and on my way back—right before the new overpass by the old Amtrak station—I nearly had a head-on collision. Something was wrong. I was drifting into the wrong lane, and I felt completely disoriented. I corrected the car just in time and pulled over on the bridge. That’s when I realized I couldn’t move my left side properly—it felt stiff and heavy. I was in a daze, like I wasn’t fully present in my own body. I sat there, parked, for 30 to 45 minutes. I watched coworkers drive by. I saw a sheriff pass me. But no one stopped—except one coworker who called me once she made it to work.

 She was concerned, and when I told her what had happened, she insisted on letting my sister know. But I told my coworker not to say anything. It was my mom’s birthday, and I didn’t want to ruin her plans.  I pushed through the rest of that day, even drove myself home—though I noticed something was off.  I couldn’t reach the steering wheel with both hands. My left arm stayed stiff at my side, and my left leg felt heavy. But by God’s grace, I made it home safely. That night, I told my sister what happened, and right away she said, “It sounds like you had a stroke.” I didn’t go to the doctor until nine days later. And sure enough, the doctor confirmed it—I had suffered a stroke. What was strange was that I could still do certain things, but my body wasn’t the same.

 My leg dragged slightly, my arm stayed bent close to my body, and my fingers were stiff and hard to open. I began to notice how much had changed.My doctor told me I needed to apply for Social Security. He said he would sign any document I needed. So I began that process, but while I waited, I needed help—real financial help. Remember, I had been laid off. My son Julian came back home, and thankfully, God blessed him with a good job. He started helping with rent and bills. But as a mother, that was hard on me. I didn’t feel like I could provide or support him the way I used to.

In that moment of desperation, I reached out to Charlie.  I hadn’t heard from him in over eight months, but he agreed to help—for a time. For nearly 10 months, Charlie helped pay part of the rent, and Julian covered the rest. Eventually, Charlie stopped helping. But by then, my son had everything handled—and God kept on providing. I was still going to church off and on. And one day, during a visit, a sister came up and gave me a hug. It was Sister Marcela Majia! She was so happy to see me. What she didn’t know was that I had suffered a stroke. I hadn’t told anyone. After her hug, I returned to my seat.But something felt different.

 I noticed that I had walked without pain…My knee bent normally… My leg didn’t hurt. My left arm, which I could barely move before, had stretched out… and I was clapping my hands—both hands. Before, I had to lift my right hand over to help my left clap—but not this time. I was shocked. I started to cry. Right there, I began to thank God. I went back to that sister and told her what happened. What we experienced in that moment—God met us both. It was beautiful. It was healing. It was God. From then on, I started coming back to church more regularly.  I began visiting friendship groups, slowly building consistency and commitment again. Yes, I had a stroke—on April 26, 2023—almost two years ago. It affected my left side.

 I had to use a walker and a cane. My memory and speech were also affected. My doctor sent me to physical therapy, and eventually I got help through IHSS, and began receiving medical supplies and support. While going through all of this, I stayed faithful to the process. I kept up with my doctor’s visits and Social Security paperwork. And through it all, Julian never once made me feel like a burden. He never threw it in my face. He was patient and kind, even when he asked, “How’s your case going, Mom?” And I’d just say, “Soon, son… it’s being processed.” I thank God for my son—his patience, his strength, his support.

 God truly blessed him, and me, through this season. After nearly 10 months of waiting, my financial blessing finally came through. I was approved. I was excited, humbled, and grateful. Not only was I approved—I was blessed with my back pay as well. Glory! Hallelujah! God is good. He was in control the whole time. My faith grew stronger. God’s favor never left me. I’ve heard of people waiting two to three years for their benefits… But God moved swiftly in my case.

 Thank You, Jesus! Little by little, the blessings began to pour in. And I never stopped giving thanks to the Lord. Now, I can say—I feel like a mother again. I can provide for my son. I can pay my own bills. And I know it was nobody but God who made that possible. In October 2024 I went to Midnigh Cry in Stockten California My leg—the one that had been stiff since my stroke—suddenly felt normal. There was no tightness. No pain. I stood up… and I walked without my cane. God had healed me. I cried. I thanked God with everything in me. It was divin Later, they announced in the service that someone had received a healing during the previous night. At first, nobody knew who it was. But eventually… people found out. Yes—it was me. God healed me. Thank You, Jesus! God has continued to surround me with powerful leaders and mentors. I’ve been blessed with group leaders like the Keltings, Brother Jacob, and Sister Mejia.

 Their support and encouragement have helped me press forward even when I felt like giving up. Sister Jessica and her husband, Brother Marcus—you both have blessed me in ways I can't even put into words. God placed you in my life for a reason. Because of your support—and the support of the whole group—I’ve been able to overcome things that once seemed impossible. I want to share one more chapter from my journey. There was a time when my group leaders were Brother Richie and Sister Natalie Hernandez. Brother Richie led us through a seven-week lesson on wounding and healing that included a deliverance prayer.

 During that series, I encountered so many deep emotions—some painful, some healing. I was fighting something in my spirit… Something that didn’t want to let go. Something tied to the shame and trauma of my childhood. It felt like my soul was aching. I didn’t realize it, but God was breaking chains that had been wrapped around my heart for decades. Chains I had buried. Chains I had locked in a box with barbed wire and shame and silence. At home during that season, I was often angry—fighting emotionally. But something inside me knew… I was being shaped.

 God was molding me. And then, one day… It broke. It was torn out of me. And I was set free. What I felt in that moment—I had never felt before. Not even when I was baptized. Because this time, God set me free from the bondage of my past. He delivered me from the shame I had carried since childhood. Now, I can speak about what I went through without breaking down. I can share it without shame.  Because I’ve been delivered and God gave me a song the song “Hallelujah” . And when God delivers you—you know the difference. You walk different.  You praise different. You live different. So to anyone who’s searching… If you’re battling with pain, addiction, trauma, or simply feeling lost… I encourage you—find a church. Find a friendship group. Reach for God. Because I promise you this: He will never leave you. He will never forsake you.

Today, I stand here as a daughter of the King. I am a survivor.  I am set free. I am joyful. I am a conqueror. I am blessed. I am favored. And I am a God-fearing woman. All glory and honor belongs to Jesus.