I grew up knowing I had a brother and sister somewhere in the world. I often wondered what they were doing and if they knew Jesus. Sure I wanted to find them, but it seemed impossible. My dad had no clue where they could be. So, I never talked about it to anyone but an old friend.

Susie never knew about her family. She was adopted by a Christian family when she was three. Finally, the previous Thanksgiving, her adopted mother gave her all the records she had on her. She went to her pastor and soon her entire church was praying with her about finding her birth family. Some time after Christmas she made contact with dad, but received very little response. Finally, one day just before hanging up, he told her she had a sister in Birmingham, only a twenty-minute drive from her house.

She grew up without the shame and humiliation of drunken, fighting parents. She was raised in church and accepted Christ when she was fifteen. Her entire life was dedicated to her Savior. Now, I was sure she wished she had never found me. She didn't deserve this. She was a wonderful, strong, Christian woman. A woman I deeply admired.

Seeing her standing by my bedside, I developed a deep fear of losing her. I wondered if someone who had lived such a sheltered life could still love me after doing this horrible thing? How long would she be able to tolerate my vacillating between being a strong Christian and a weak one? I wanted her to go away and leave me. I didn't want her to see me like this, but I was afraid to say anything. She stayed by my side.

My first visitor, outside of my family, was the Senior Adult Pastor. I thought it was funny that he came. Yet, seeing him brought out all the anger and resentment that had building for two years. I vented everything on him. He handled my explosiveness with grace, dignity, and compassion.

I dearly loved my pastor from day one. He was a great support for me when I was dealing with God's call on my life. Yet, as I stated before, after that, he avoided me. Still, I knew God called me to minister to hurting people. I received training at a previous church as a lay counselor. I reached a point where I knew God wanted me to get more extensive training.

By November of 93, I felt I should lower my head if the pastor glanced my way, which was rare. Yet, the person I felt most rejected by was the Minister of Music. I pleaded for an appointment with him from the first week we were at the church. He ignored me. I wrote him, sent him flowers, and baked cookies and candy, but he never responded.

Singing was my entire life from the time I was a very little girl. When I became a Christian I held on tightly to the pew in front of me to keep from singing. After about four months I could no longer hold it back. Quickly, maybe too quickly, I began doing solo work. From then on, I was a soloist in every church I attended, until I came to this church. The only way I was finally granted an audition was a request made by my husband.

Roger wanted to do something special for me on our anniversary. Then, as now, we were in bad financial condition. I was depressed. He knew that finding my brother John and my sister Susie just one mother earlier was both exhilarating and depressing. Going through all of that without the outlet of singing was getting to me.

The day of our anniversary, May 26, he came home for lunch, as he usually did. He told me he spoke with Harvey and they made arrangements for me to audition that day. I was shocked, but ready. I was so excited it was hard for me to get a good breath. Somehow God pulled me through. Then, on July 26, 1992, two months later, I sang a solo for the first time at my church. God carried me on a cloud.

I sang again the following February and was not asked again. Now it was November and I could not fathom why I wasn't given another opportunity. Desperate for an answer, I sought him out at least every other week to ask why. He avoided me. One night after church I sought him out and told him I needed to talk to him about Matthew 18:14-24. He looked at me with a blank, condescending look, and walked away. I entered torment.

Then, there was the new Minister of Education, whom I deeply admired. Although he had only been with our church a short time, he already had proven himself as a servant of God. Still, it upset me because he was hired to be a staff person while still in Divinity School. What was the difference in his calling and mine? Maybe, I felt, it was because he was a man. After all, according to the mindset of most people, God doesn't call women. He was raised to the position of the Assistant Pastor we had loved so dearly, the man who ministered to our family when we needed help. Hurt and confusion flooded my entire being.

I gave up teaching a Singles Sunday School Class for several reasons during this time. The stress of a new job, my oldest daughter and her son being back home, and having two teenagers was getting to me. Yet, there were other factors involved. I wanted to teach the singles class from a book I had read by Neil Anderson, Victory Over the Darkness. The book helped me see some areas in my life that needed cleaning up. I felt strongly that the singles class I taught needed this material too. I asked him about it and he insisted I teach from the curriculum. I went to him again after quitting the class and urged him to either let me or someone else teach the material, they needed it. He said he would pray about it, but I heard nothing from him. Even a "No" would have been better than silence. What was wrong with me? Did I have spiritual leprosy and was not aware of it? What had I done to alienate every one I cared about on staff?

Maybe I told them too much about our family situation and they were sitting in judgment, I didn't know. I longed to ask them, but deep inside I was afraid of the answer. I wanted to hear from them why they refused to minister to us during such an emotional time in our life? Where was the body of Christ for people suffering from problems other than physical ones? Why wasn't there a ministry for Christians suffering with emotional problems? None of the current "ministers" attempted to minister to us during our time of crisis. I felt deserted.

The sense of abandonment I felt during my childhood came surging through me and I wanted desperately to run from everything. So, while in the hospital I began pretending much as I had when I was five going through the abandonment of my biological father. I felt the doctors and nurses would reject me too.

The psychiatrist promised me I would not be placed in "lock-up" because they were planning to transfer me to the hospital where my psychiatrist and counselor practiced. Yet, in the middle of the night on Tuesday, I was placed in lock-up and it was miserable. It was hard for me to imagine a depressed person getting any better in that atmosphere. The wallpaper was pealing off the walls, water stains were in the ceiling and getting a nurse was impossible.

Allow me to regress and share with you about the monitor they blessed me with. The stupid thing beeped with the high frequency of an alarm clock if I so much as moved one microscopic bit. In ICU, and the regular room they placed me in, the nurses were quick to respond, but not in lock-up. Being a quick study on things, I learned to check the monitor and the tubing myself. When I saw the tubing and everything was okay, I tripped the switch and shut the maddening thing off. My attitude grew worse with each incessant beep. Again, as in childhood, I became responsible for myself during a time when someone else should have been taking care of me. The more I remembered the sad times of my childhood, being alone while my mother and my sister were partying, and being alone in this room, the madder I got and my depression deepened. I wanted desperately for God to hold me, or at least for one of His representatives to hold my hand. Yet, I refused to give in, I continued to pretend.

When Wednesday morning arrived and I was transferred to the other hospital it was almost like dying and going to heaven. The nurses appeared to be informed of my condition and greeted me with warmth. For the first time in years, I felt safe. Shame diminished and a sense of acceptance began to grow.

My new room was refreshing. On top of that I was given the freedom to leave the floor and go to the gift shop, walk outside, or do whatever I needed to do. After introducing myself to the nurses, off I went with my plastic cash card in hand. I needed something new to read.

Walking through the store the title of a book caught my eye. In bold gold letters I saw, A Walk With Your Shepherd, and I was drawn to it. Glancing through the book I realized how this could minister to me. I later read the opening story about a sheep called Wanda, because she wandered off a lot. "She was looking for something -- she wasn't sure what -- but she was certain she must be missing something." I quickly identified with Wanda and had a hard time putting the book down.

Wanda wandered around until she found herself lost in a cave. I thought about how many times I too ended up in the dark surroundings of a cave. However, the minute the good shepherd noticed her disappearance he was on her trail. With wisdom he stayed far enough behind her for her not to notice him. He wanted her to realize she was in trouble for doing wrong before he rescued her. He wisely waited until she called for help before he rushed in to comfort her. As Dr. Gaultiere so beautifully said, "It was only at that point that Good Shepherd went to help her. He didn't rescue her before she had learned from her mistake."

Had I ever learned from my mistakes? As the past again rushed to my mind, grief overcame me as I realized the answer, "No." Instead I numbed myself and ran hard. I trudged on, taking care of myself to the best of my abilities. For sometime I felt God telling me to stay put, stop running, but fear enveloped me. Running ceased to be a possibility, which is what led me to the suicide attempt. I knew it would be easier to die and not face the shame than, stay and suffer through being disiplined.

There came a moment when I felt God trying to tell me something. I became still and focused on God as a gentle, loving shepherd and my mind pictured Jesus on the cross. I cried, begging God to help me learn the lesson with some trace of dignity. Writing in my journal I experienced an urgency to tell my story. It was then I began to grasp the idea given to me years ago; I was to write a book. Soon I laughed scornfully at the ridiculous idea. After all, who in the world wanted to read a book about my life? On top of that, who would believe all the trauma in my life? Surely they would think of it as fiction. There were so many things that had happened that even I had a hard time believing it. Yet, the thought never left.

I remembered another time I felt compelled to tell my story. Now here I was again doubting God's ability to write through me. Yet, how could it be from God, there was no happy ending for me. Wasn't every book supposed to have a happy ending? No way would God want me to tell my horror stories, in my life there was definitely no "happily ever after." As shame once again embraced me, I made a commitment to seek God through prayer. No longer did I have a desire to run. I wanted shame out of my life.