I was born with spina bifida. The doctors told my parents that I wouldn’t survive, and if by chance I did, I’d never walk or develop normally. Heartbroken, my parents took me home and waited for me to die.
At six months old, I underwent an operation where the doctors were able to remove most of the tumor that wrapped around my spinal cord and protruded through my skin. They also pushed my spinal cord back inside my body. But they still had little expectations for me.
God had a different plan, though (Psalm 139; Jeremiah 29:11; Ephesians 2:10). Not only did I survive, I miraculously grew into an energetic little girl who walked before age one and read the newspaper before age three.
As I grew older, however, I developed neurological complications in my feet and legs. By age 12, I had lost all feeling in both my feet. By 18, I developed pressure ulcers on the bottom of my left foot.
I underwent 12 surgeries over the next 10 years on my left foot, and then gangrene set in. I woke up one day in the emergency room, packed in ice from the neck down as the doctors tried to lower my 106-degree temperature. They amputated my left leg below the knee the next morning.
For the next several years, I struggled with alcohol and drugs as I dealt with self-doubt and insecurities. In the midst of all this, I was caught in a toxic marriage and doing my best to be a good mother to my only child, Tyler.
Deep down, I knew I needed God in my life, but I didn’t know how to find Him. I also didn’t know what to do with all my problems, so I ran. I took my beloved son and moved cross-country to start a new life in Tennessee.
I found a church there and got baptized, hoping that when I came up out of the water, I’d be a new person. But nothing changed, because I was only going through the motions. I hadn’t given my heart to God, nor had I committed to following Jesus.
I still considered myself a victim of life and its cruel circumstances. I didn’t think I was a sinner who was in need of a Savior.
I went to church for about a month. After every service, I would stand in the parking lot holding Tyler, hoping that someone would invite us to lunch. I was desperate for fellowship and clueless about how to live for God. But every Sunday, people passed us by, got into their cars, smiled, and waved as they drove away. I felt so rejected and alone.
Instead of reaching out, however, I withdrew and eventually stopped going. Self-pity took over, and I convinced myself that those “church people” didn’t care one bit about me. Truthfully, I’d never given them a chance to know me.
Isolated, I reached for substances again to ease my pain. I started hanging out with a different crowd where I quickly felt accepted. Soon, I was trapped in an old, familiar cycle of self-destruction.
A couple years later, Tyler’s dad found us. We went through a bitter divorce and custody battle. Panicked at the thought of losing the most precious person in my life, I fled to Mexico.
Once I got there, I realized I had no next step to my genius plan, so I crossed back over to straighten things out with the authorities. Turns out, they were waiting for me, and as soon as I crossed the border, I was detained.
The authorities put Tyler in one police car and me in another. As we drove down Interstate 5, they let me listen to his little voice over the police radio. “Hi, Momma!” he piped. “I love you, Momma!” My heart ripped out of my chest.
I was in jail for three weeks for misdemeanor child stealing. After my release, I was given a six-month restraining order, forbidding me to contact Tyler or my ex-husband. The day the restriction lifted, I rushed to call, but the phone number was no good. My ex had taken Tyler and disappeared.
Knowing my son was gone broke me. But before I could process that loss, I learned my dad had lung cancer.
The doctors predicted my father would be fine and scheduled surgery to remove the bottom third of his right lung. But when they opened him up, they saw that the cancer had spread to the chambers around his heart. He never left the hospital alive.
At that point, I gave up on life. I no longer cared whether I lived or died. My son was gone; my dad was dead. What was left for me? I packed a bag and fled to Mexico with one goal in mind—to stay inebriated so I never had to face reality. I had no coping skills for pain other than substances.
I lived that way for the next two years, consuming a steady flow of booze and drugs on the beaches of Ensenada, hoping to die. I felt nothing but despair, despite the beautiful ocean sunsets that surrounded me. And then I connected with a group of people who manufactured and sold meth.
First Corinthians 15:33 says, “Do not be misled; bad company corrupts good character.” I know this to be true.
At first, I knew better than to associate with these people. They were constantly under police surveillance. But when you have nothing to live for, you don’t think logically anymore. It wasn’t long before the Mexican federales were raiding my house. These men were no joke—dressed in all black, wearing full face masks, and armed with machine guns.
One morning as I made my way to the liquor store to spend the last of my change on a 40 oz. beer, I heard a voice inside me say, “Julie, you are going to hell for the way you’re living.”
I was shocked. I’d never spent time worrying about heaven or hell, so I knew this wasn’t my thought. Regardless, I knew hell was what I deserved.
That afternoon, I had an appointment to see a doctor because of complications in my remaining foot. My condition, osteomyelitis, had resulted in an infected ulcer the size of a football. The doctor told me my right leg would need to be amputated, or I’d die from the infection.
That news was the last straw for me. I had already lost one leg, not to mention my son and my dad—and now my remaining leg had to be amputated? The anguish in my heart overwhelmed me. Inside, I knew I could either keep running toward death or turn to God.
I returned home and collapsed in a heap of gut-wrenching sobs on my living room floor. Suddenly I sensed what I now know to be the Holy Spirit of God fill the room. He pulled the blinders off my eyes and helped me see my need for a Savior.
As I became painfully aware of the person I had become, I cried out, “God, I need You to become the center of my life, or I’ll be lost forever! Help me. I don’t know how to pray. I can’t stop drinking or doing drugs. I’m trying, but I can’t quit. I can’t even meet You halfway. Do whatever it takes to set me free.”
I woke up the next morning but felt nothing. Assuming God hadn’t heard me or wasn’t answering my prayer, I decided I had nothing to lose and went ahead with a plan to smuggle meth across the border. I felt numb as I walked to the pedestrian crossing of the Mexico/San Ysidro border at San Diego with four pounds of crystal meth duct-taped around my waist.
I was arrested before I reached the other side.
During my first week of incarceration, a small group of women volunteers came into the prison. One neatly manicured lady sat on my bunk, smiled, and said, “Do you know that Jesus loves you very much?”
Tears streamed down my face as she went on to tell me about the forgiving heart of Almighty God. He was a God who desperately wanted not only to save me but also to change my life. (See Ezekiel 18:23; John 3:17; 1 Timothy 2:3–4; 2 Peter 3:9; and 3 John :2.)
I got on my knees in front of my cold metal bunk and surrendered my life to Jesus Christ. A lead weight lifted from my heart. I was in prison and facing 17 years to life. I was at risk of losing my only leg—and yet, for the first time, I felt free and full of hope.
Still dealing with the infection, I requested to see a doctor. He took one look at my foot and told me that, without a doubt, I’d lose my leg, and soon. But I couldn’t agree with him. I had just read Isaiah 53:5 that says, “By His wounds we are healed,” and I believed that Jesus had not only died to save me from my sin, but to heal my sickness and inner wounds.
“Nope,” I told the doctor. “I’m not gonna lose this leg. Jesus is going to heal me!”
He laughed, but God had the last laugh. Every day after that, a small group of faith-filled women and I prayed together, speaking healing over my body. Two months later, the ulcer was gone, and new skin was growing over the hole in my foot. The doctor couldn’t believe it. He declared it a miracle, insisting, “Jesus must have done that!”
Incredibly, I served only 22 months in federal prison, with my last stint at FMC Carswell in Fort Worth, Texas. There, I completed a 500-hour Residential Drug Abuse Program (RDAP). I had requested the program even though it wasn’t required. I needed practical skills to live a clean and sober life on the outside.
My mom was so supportive, despite all the pain I’d caused her and my dad. She sensed the change in me and was excited for me to come live with her upon release. She sent me cards with pictures of clothing she had bought for me. They were hanging in the closet that was going to be my bedroom in her apartment.
But six months before my release, the chaplain called me to his office and told me that my mom had just died in her sleep. I was devastated.
My dear mom, who had only seen me mess up my life, was never going to know the change Jesus had made in me. Tears poured down my face as I asked, “God, what am I supposed to do now?”
Suddenly, as clear as a bell, the Lord responded, “Julie, it’s time for you to depend on Me now.”
I didn’t really have a choice. I had depended on my parents my whole life to bail me out of my legal and financial troubles. I had no family left who believed in me.
I was released from prison on November 20, 2002. I had to fly from Dallas to San Diego to report for probation, as that was where my crime had been committed. I clutched my Bible as I walked through the airport, repeating 2 Corinthians 5:17 NIV aloud: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: the old has gone, the new is here!” That verse got me all the way to my destination.
As I continued to depend on God, He was faithful to provide my every need. He placed wonderful people in my path to support me. He provided a safe place to live and made a way for me to go to college. I graduated with honors, receiving the Chancellor’s Award, the highest honor given to a college student there.
And then, on Christmas Eve 2005, He brought a mighty man of God to me. I met Mike at a dinner party at my pastor’s house—a set-up date for sure.
I tried to scare Mike away by telling him everything about my past addiction and prison time; I even showed him my prosthetic leg. He just smiled and said, “I’m not going anywhere!”
Mike, a US Navy Senior Chief, had met Jesus after losing his wife of twenty years to cancer. Like me, he had been desperate when God rescued him. We were married in 2006, and not long after, Mike became a prison chaplain. (See Mike’s story on page 24.)
Mike often encouraged me to locate Tyler. We prayed for him every day. Eventually we found him on Facebook, but I sensed the Holy Spirit telling me not to reach out to him yet. So I waited, trusting God’s faithfulness to reunite me with my son.
While I was still in prison and praying for Tyler, God had led me to Isaiah 49:18. It says: “Lift your eyes and look around; all your children gather and come to you. As surely as I live,” declares the Lord, “you will wear them all as ornaments; you will put them on, like a bride” (NIV).
Now, I showed that verse to Mike, and for the next several years, I prayed and fasted, clinging to God’s promise. And then, on May 12, 2013, my miracle happened.
Tyler found me on Facebook and reached out. Three months later, Mike and I were at the airport to pick up my son, who was coming for a visit. I stood on my tiptoes, peering down the long corridor as passengers rolled their carry-on bags toward us. Mike saw him first and yelled, “There he is, Julie. Run!” And run I did.
When Tyler saw me, he dropped his duffel bag and ran to embrace me with open arms. We had a wonderful visit, and not long after that, he moved in with us. We had our challenges, but God saw us through.
Today, Tyler is married to a wonderful Christian woman. Can you believe I walked him down the aisle, and Mike married them! They have a precious daughter, which means I’m now a grandmother. Only God could write such a redemption story.
In 2023, I launched Julie Seals Ministries and published my book, All My Hope: A Prisoner No More. It is distributed in prisons and recovery centers in the US and abroad.
If you’re reading my story from inside prison walls, know this: your story isn’t over. God sees you. He knows your name, your pain, every mistake you’ve made, and every wound you carry.
He loves you. And He has a plan especially for you.
Trust Him. He will walk beside you through the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4) and bring you out shining like His on!
I’m living proof that God is real and that nothing is impossible with Him. He can turn your mourning into dancing (Psalm 30:11), your ashes into beauty (Isaiah 61:3), and your mess into a miraculous message.
Don’t give up. Keep praying and believing, no matter the odds. And trust God’s timing. You can’t see clearly now all that He’s doing behind the scenes (1 Corinthians 13:12), but e’s at work, and your miracle is coming.
Consider: What pain are you running from or numbing instead of facing? What might that be costing you? Who or what have you depended on instead of God? What small steps could you take toward trusting Him today?
JULIE SEALS is an ordained minister and evangelist who speaks in churches, women’s events, rehab facilities, jails, and prisons worldwide. She is the creative content manager for Victorious Living. Her book, All My Hope: A Prisoner No More, is available on Amazon. Learn more at julieseals.com.
