My Testimony

"What is the bravest thing a human can do?"

The question that prompted this entry, the question that made me open my computer, itching to write. A question that has a lot of answers and various opinions, but my answer was,

"The bravest thing a human can do is be vulnerable."

Being vulnerable is the scariest, most overwhelming feeling. There are levels of vulnerability. Some things may be too heart-wrenching to admit, some may be too dark, and some may resurface feelings you so desperately tried to hide. My philosophy on it is, simply, you are sharing a story that has shaped you into who you are today. And what a beautiful concept--how you went through such a trial, and you grew into this empowering person. That is a story worth sharing. That vulnerability is a great reason to set aside your ego. Because there are people who need to hear such strength and perseverance. People are dealing with the same situations and feeling deeply alone with them.

I created Leah: In Progress for this exact reason. To be open and honest, sincere and genuine, raw and accepting, because if one person feels less isolated and more heard, then my work is done and my heart is whole. When I was going through the worst of the worst, my mother got me out of the hole I dug myself into. She shared her hardest battles, was vulnerable about what she had gone through, and encouraged me that when you change your perspective on life, life begins to change. One person--it took one person to be vulnerable.

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I have made, roughly, four drafts of my testimony. And they all went to the trash. I contemplated, read it to some close friends, almost hit "post," and I never could bring myself to. Because being that vulnerable was terrifying. And when that previous question was asked, the first thing my mind thought was, "Be brave and share how you met Jesus."

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I remember the day so vividly. I was ten years old. I finished a long day of school and volleyball practice, and I had gotten out of the shower. My heart was beyond heavy; it felt like a boulder was inside me. My father's absence has always been at the back of my mind. Some days it is amplified, and other days it sits in silence. This particular Monday, I was at a breaking point. Desperate for answers, desperate for his presence, desperate for contact. I've always been in the church--bless my mother for that--, but I was nowhere near Christ. I mean, I was ten. I went through the motions: going to church every Sunday because my mother wanted to go as a family, praying but only when it was convenient for me, and attending a Catholic school with a strict curriculum to follow. I knew of God, but I didn't have a personal relationship with Him.

Before bed that night, I traditionally prayed as Catholics do. I got on my knees and prayed by my bedside that my father would be involved. Tears were soaking my sheets, and I remember feeling at my wits' end. I was a ten-year-old girl, blaming myself for my father's actions. You can only imagine how tender that conversation with Jesus was.

And because God is so good, He used my courage to put my ego aside and ask Him for guidance, and He presented Himself. There was no booming voice, no vision, no sign saying, "This is God," only the next day--Tuesday--I received a letter in the mail from my father. And I know fellow Christians understand when I say this: you feel when something is gifted from God. It is in your bones, it is in your tears, it is in your weak knees; there was no doubt that God was in that room.

Being ten years old, my mother and my Catholic education planted the seed, but that Tuesday, I began building my relationship with God. I would talk to Him--not just when I yearned for something--, brought Him up in conversations with friends, and was referred to as the "Christian girl" in middle school. However, with that age comes bumpy roads. I began falling for worldly temptations--cussing, gossiping, disobeying--and I was back to being lukewarm.

My father did not stick around for long. Depending on the day, week, or year, he would appear and then disappear. It took me a while to correlate the two. He was a spitting image of my relationship with God. Dipping my toes in the water, but never fully submerging myself. I thought, "I wonder if God feels the same way about me as I feel about my father?" And good thing God is so forgiving, but that thought alone was enough to refuel the fire for Jesus.

In high school, the fire grew larger. I began renewing my faith. I went to church willingly, listened to worship music, and attended faith-led conferences. And since then, I have not looked back. And funny enough, my worth stopped being dependent on whether or not my father was involved, but instead, my worth was found in Jesus Christ. Does it still affect me? Well, yes, of course, but my mindset shifted from, "Why is this happening to me?" to "How is God using this pain to strengthen me?"

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This entry holds no hatred for my father, but instead an understanding of the ugliest part about me: the way I let another person's actions dictate who I was and what I was worth for an incredibly long time, and how God saved me from it. God transformed a mess into a message. And because He is so good, He helped me heal and open my heart to forgiveness. Which, in turn, allowed me to welcome my father back into my life.

Typically, what you are praying to overcome is something God needs you to endure to grow closer to Him. Everything He does has a purpose.

I was focused on the wrong thing the entire time. I was craving a father figure; I was craving answers. And now I see it so clearly. The almightiest Father was right beside me the entire time--God.

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Vulnerability--a harsh reality to face. But you deserve to feel seen and heard. Hard conversations come in life because life is freaking hard sometimes. We are all trying to figure it out. Atticus said it best, "It is better to be brave and vulnerable than safe and alone."