“Ms. Best, we recommend that you terminate this pregnancy.” Momma was five months pregnant with me when she heard those words.
It had been a tough pregnancy from the start. Being an unwed, poverty-stricken, pregnant woman of color in the sixties was difficult enough, but then came the extreme morning sickness. Momma tried to push through the nausea and dizziness as she worked in the tobacco fields of Eastern North Carolina alongside her family, but it was difficult.
Her pregnancy with me wasn’t a time for celebration. Momma already had three children, but her parents supported their daughter in every way.
A friend offered her a drug called thalidomide to alleviate her morning sickness symptoms, and Momma welcomed the relief. But what she, her friend, and the doctors didn’t know was that this drug was causing much harm to me, as it did to over 10,000 other unborn children whose mothers took it in their first trimester.
When Momma developed severe abdominal pain, she went to a clinic. But it took multiple trips before she was sent to a specialist who could diagnose the problem. There, she learned of my congenital disabilities and the life-threatening complications she likely faced if she continued with the pregnancy. She left the doctor’s office devastated.
She turned to her faith to help her make the most difficult decision of her life. Momma strongly believed in the principles of the Bible and held tightly to her conviction regarding life, even though the odds were stacked against us. After much prayer, she decided to risk her life for mine.
I fought my way into this world on January 19, 1968, tearing through my mother’s placenta and causing her to hemorrhage internally. A heavy silence hung in the air as the doctors and nurses cleaned and examined me, and then the doctor gave Momma the news.
“Ms. Best, your son’s body is very deformed. He will never live a normal life. He’s missing bones from both shoulders and can’t bend his arms and legs. His right hand appears weak, and his left is severely deformed.” He went on to tell her that both my kneecaps were turned backward and that the fingers on my left hand were nothing but stubs.
My mother, an otherwise quiet and gentle woman, had heard enough. “Bring me my son!” she demanded. Holding me close, she told my aunts, “The Lord knows what He’s doing. This baby’s name is Frederick Ronzelle Best.” It means peaceable ruler.
I stayed in the hospital after Momma was released so the doctors could run more tests. Momma took this time to prepare my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and my three brothers for my arrival.
Her family rallied to care for me. The Bests are a tight-knit clan who understand hard work. We come from a long line of sharecroppers who have experienced many difficulties.
My condition quickly became the talk of the town, and many people came by the house to get a glimpse. Most, though, only pretended to congratulate my mother. They whispered horrible things behind our backs.
Some said I was cursed. Others said God was punishing Momma by giving her such a child. But she paid them no mind, choosing instead to cling to the Lord and His promises. While I was in her womb, the Lord had told Momma that I was no different than any other child. She was confident God had great plans for me. Dear friends confirmed His promise: “God has entrusted you with a special gift, Sylvia. You are blessed.”
Raising a special-needs child was no small task. Momma depended on the Lord daily, facing her fears and challenges with grace, dignity, and fierce determination. Tears often fell from her eyes as she watched my little body work hard to do what other babies did easily.
Little milestones were celebrated as huge victories as I rolled over, sat up, took my first steps, and learned to feed myself against all the doctor’s predictions. I loved learning to do things for myself. Momma had her hands full—I wanted to help her however I could.
At first, she was protective of me, but as I grew up, she treated me no differently than my siblings and wouldn’t allow anyone else to either.
Every day, Momma instilled in me that I was not handicapped. To this day, I can hear her firm voice, “Don’t let nobody label you, Frederick. You can do whatever anyone else can. Don’t ever let nobody tell you different.” My learning accelerated when I started school. Momma ensured I was in regular classes like everyone else.
In the years that followed, Momma had many more children—15 in all. By the world’s standards, we were destitute. We wore hand-me-downs, slept five kids to a bed, and often couldn’t afford to attend school. But as far as my siblings and I knew, our needs were being met. We had a roof over our heads and a home filled with love.
But then, when I was in the third grade, our family suddenly became homeless. We moved around a lot, and during this chaotic time, I was raped several times by a person we trusted. I carried shame and misplaced guilt over those incidents for many years.
Social Services got involved after someone reported our family’s situation. We had no idea the kind lady visiting, asking questions, and bringing us food every few months was a social worker.
In January 1979, just after my 11th birthday, the authorities arrived at my school. “Frederick,” they said, “you’re coming with us today. We have your mom’s permission to pick you up.” Something didn’t feel right, but I went, hoping they’d take me to Momma.
Instead, I was taken to the Department of Social Services building and escorted into a room. My brothers and sisters were also there.
“Momma’s left us for a while,” one of my brothers told me.
That’s a lie, I thought. There was no way she would go away and leave us with these people.
After telling us that we’d be in foster care for a few months, the authorities took my siblings away in pairs. I fought back my tears, trying to be strong for the others. Many of my siblings screamed and cried out for our momma. It was a pitiful scene.
After a few minutes, I was the only one remaining. One of the social workers nodded in my direction and whispered, “We can’t find anyone who wants him.” Those words were like salt on an open wound.
They found me a foster home by nightfall. As we drove away from the building, I looked out the window, looking desperately for landmarks to remember. I’d need to have my bearings for when I ran away.
We passed over a steel bridge, and I recognized it as the one our family crossed as we entered Greenville. The social worker realized what I was doing, and began to drive down different roads to confuse me.
Her plan worked. And as I lost my way, deep sorrow filled my heart. I began to cry uncontrollably, “I want my Momma. Please take me home. I want my family.”
When we came to a stoplight, I jumped out of the car and tried to run away. I didn’t get far. She caught me, put me back in the car, and drove me to the place I would call home for the next seven years.
Many kind and loving foster homes exist, but I didn’t end up in one of those. My foster mother abused me mentally, physically, and verbally. I can still hear her say the very first night, “He’s a nasty, dirty, little thing.” I was also sexually abused by other foster kids in the house.
I tried often to tell the social workers what was happening, but my cries for help fell on deaf ears. I didn’t know the whereabouts of my siblings for years until social services finally granted some of us a visit.
Together at last, I heard about the horrible hardships and abuse many of my siblings were enduring. I also learned that one of my brothers was in a mental institution, two of my sisters had been adopted, and that my mother had relocated to Baltimore after having a nervous breakdown over losing her babies.
All this news weighed heavily on my heart. Momma had always put me in charge of looking after my brothers and sisters, even the older ones. I felt helpless as I returned to my foster home, but I became ever so motivated to get out on my own and help my family.
One of the most challenging parts of being in foster care was the limitations people put on me. Everyone assumed that because I had so many physical handicaps, my mind didn’t function properly.
School officials insisted on putting me in special-education classes. I had to fight every day to keep my mind from being imprisoned with doubts and insecurities. I graduated with a fourth-grade education.
They also tried to deny me the chance to get my driver’s license, but I worked on the instructor’s nerves until he got sick of me and let me take the class just to shut me up. To his surprise, I mastered driving quickly.
Momma had drilled into my mind to reject the thought that anything was too difficult. I held tightly to the memory of her voice in the face of every obstacle and let it spur me on as I awaited my 18th birthday.
When the clock struck midnight on January 19, 1986, I thanked my foster mother for caring for me, even though she had never once told me she loved me or said anything positive about me. Then I grabbed my bags and walked out the door.
Independent, I was prepared to go to any length to reunite my family. I knew God had given me a divine assignment, and I set out to answer His call. What I didn’t know yet was that I needed to surrender my life to Him first. My mother had planted many seeds of faith in my life, but I had never determined to follow God personally, and that left me open to distraction.
I went through a period of darkness as I attempted to deal with unresolved anger apart from the Lord’s help. I started drinking, smoking, and doing drugs. Then, after becoming mixed up with the wrong people, I found myself in jail for something I didn’t do. I was there a week before they cleared my name.
God used this time to bring me to a place of surrender. He spoke clearly to my heart behind those bars, reminding me that I was created on purpose, for a purpose. He revealed that I needed to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior to lay hold of those purposes. God helped me overcome all the anger and bitterness that had grown in my heart, a root the Bible says defiles many (Hebrews 12:15).
I started inviting God into the broken places of my life. He began healing me, positioning me to help my siblings find wholeness. A person cannot give to others what they do not possess. Until then, I hadn’t realized I needed healing from my past experiences.
Bit by bit, I surrendered the pain of my past to Jesus, including the words and actions of my abusers. I placed every person at Jesus’s feet, trusting He would set things right (Romans 12:19). In doing so, I found freedom from the bondage of unforgiveness. Healing took time, but it was worth the effort.
Since I surrendered my life to Him, God has guided my steps and given me the strength and provision to reunite my family. I have often felt like David fighting Goliath as I’ve faced powerful and influential state agencies, especially during a seven-year custody battle against the State of North Carolina. But God’s power has been made perfect within me wherever and whenever I’ve been weak (2 Corinthians 12:9).
There have been many blows along the way, like the senseless murder of my brother, George. That grief almost took me out. But God helped me cope with that painful loss and tragedy and helped me get back up. Losing George motivated me to fight even harder for my remaining siblings.
Getting custody of my younger brother, Jacob, from the mental institution was a tedious process and required supernatural patience. There was a lot of red tape. The biggest challenge, though, was earning Jacob’s trust. He was ten years old, and I was a stranger to him; there was also the matter of my appearance.
Jacob was initially afraid of me, but as I remained consistent in my visits, I became a familiar face and earned his trust. He struggled to remember my name, so I bought him a Fred Flintstone doll.
Seeing Jacob’s potential, I encouraged him the way Momma had encouraged me, reminding him there was nothing he couldn’t do. I also made a pact with him, “If you’ll be my hands and feet, I’ll be your brain. We can do this together.” We had our ups and downs, but with consistent love and patience, Jacob has overcome every limitation placed on him.
In 1989, we found Momma in a domestic violence shelter in Baltimore and brought her home to be with us. We embraced her with love and open hearts, hoping she’d heal from any pain or regret she carried.
We lived together in Eastern North Carolina until 2004, when she went home to be with her Lord Jesus Christ. Our hearts broke, but we were grateful that Momma got to witness all the fruit of those seeds of faith she had planted in her children’s lives.
Our family’s story is truly a miraculous testimony of the life-changing power of God’s grace and love. God has taken everything Satan meant for our harm and turned it for good (Genesis 50:20). He has not wasted one painful moment and has helped each of us overcome our past and live blessed lives. We haven’t just survived—we’ve thrived because of God.
I am amazed when I consider my life. Once I’d graduated from high school, the Holy Spirit motivated me to continue my education. I entered a local community college to study occupational therapy but soon realized the Lord wanted me to help people in their spiritual walk.
So I switched majors and went to Bible college, where I eventually graduated with four doctorates, two master’s, a bachelor’s, and an associate’s degree! I have also authored 12 books and written three movie scripts. Currently, I am working on a movie of my life in partnership with an Atlanta-based production company. To God be the glory.
Of all God’s blessings, my most treasured is my son, Prince, who I had with my beautiful wife before she passed away in 2015. I am reminded of God’s goodness and wisdom whenever I look at him.
Prince is a beautiful, gifted child who is a bearer of God’s light to all. In him, I see God’s faithfulness to another generation. And to think that the Lord would use me, someone the world said was destined to die, to bring forth such a beautiful life. It’s amazing.
Momma was right—the Lord knew what He was doing. And since the moment He created me in my mother’s womb, He’s been helping me and working out His plan for me (Romans 8:28).
He does the same for anyone who will trust in Him. All things are possible with Him if you believe (Mark 9:23; Philippians 4:13). I am living proof that God, not the world, has the final word.
There is no limit to what He can do in your life. God “is able, through his mighty power at work within [you], to accomplish infinitely more than [you] might ask or think” (Ephesians 3:20 NLT). He will not fail to work out His plans for you (Psalm 138:8).
That’s why you can be strong and courageous (Joshua 1:9). It’s why you can cast off those labels and limiting thoughts, and keep taking steps of faith.
The world and your circumstances will try to convince you that you won’t make it, but God says you will!
Dr. Frederick Best is an overcomer whose love for Jesus Christ compels him to share the gospel with those rejected by society. He is a father, pastor, and friend to many. His autobiography, They Said I Wouldn’t Make It, can be purchased on Amazon. For more information, visit drfredbest.com.
