I grew up in a world full of deep wounds, both inside my family and outside.

When I was five, the cane-shaking lady next door sprayed her blackberry bushes with poison so the neighborhood kids wouldn’t eat the renegade berries that spilled over her fence into the common alley. I didn’t understand that as I popped a huge handful into my mouth.

“You’re going to die! You’re going to die!” she screamed at me after seeing my purple stained cheeks.

I shook and cried, flailing myself on my bed. I obviously lived, but the fear of death took root in my heart. At ten, my biological father died. Knowing he’d passed to the other side made me feel more vulnerable to the grave’s icy grip.

During junior high, life felt unbearable and I considered killing myself. My mom’s third marriage disintegrated and I frequently broke down at school, wracked with tears.

Then came hope!

My freshman year of high school, a friend invited me to Young Life. Every time the speaker said, “Jesus,” my heart pounded. The leader ended one of his talks by asking, “What kind of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him?” (Matthew 8:27)

The question echoed through my mind throughout the summer before my sophomore year. By the time I went to a Young Life weekend camp in the fall of that next school year, my heart longed to know this Jesus. When the camp speaker spoke of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, I knew I wanted to follow Him the rest of my life.

I sat under an evergreen tree that evening and looked up into the star-pocked night, searching for the face of God. In that moment I gave Him my heart, life, past, pains, countless tears, and wounds of my childhood to the Father who would never leave me, to the God who conquered death.

I’ve sought after him ever since.

My prayer as a writer? That in the pages of my books, you’ll meet this same Jesus who can take your deepest wounds, and darkest trials, and turn them into the most stunning triumphs.