I was just two when my dad left his calling as a pastor. I grew up hearing about the faith-filled man he had been before alcoholism and drug dealing took over. Sounded nice, but that’s not the man I knew. My experience with church was limited to vacation Bible school, where memorizing Scripture earned ribbons that made me feel special. I didn’t understand then that God, as a heavenly Father, was very different from the earthly father I experienced every day.

Being known as the dope man’s daughter wasn’t easy. I told people my dad was a street-side pharmaceutical representative to lighten the situation. Humor softened a reality I couldn’t reconcile.

Dad brought fear and chaos into our home, especially during his drinking binges. He would storm through the house, and I would run and hide. But I was never alone. Every time, a Presence would sit beside me. I was afraid to ask who He was because I feared He might leave. All I knew was that He was gentle, kind, and good, and He stayed with me until the storm passed.

This went on for years, and I never told anyone. I didn’t even realize it was unusual.

Today, I am grateful that Jesus met me in those dark, isolated corners before religion ever had a chance to explain Him to me. I fell in love with Him quietly, deep within my heart.

I was 11 when I first told someone about these encounters. My uncle—a faithful pastor and prison minister—was visiting when I first heard God’s voice. “Tiffany,” God said, “one day you are going to heal the hearts of many teenagers.”

I ran from the room, crying. Teenagers sounded like giants! My uncle immediately recognized that I’d had a God encounter and asked me about it. I told him everything, ending with, “But I’m only eleven!”

Uncle Raymond just smiled. He assured me God would give me time before sending me on assignment. Excitement and urgency surged through me. I couldn’t wait to see God unfold His plan.

Everything changed when I was 13. My dad, whom I’d always thought was untouchable, received a 150-year prison sentence. His absence placed a huge burden on my mom, and I was determined to help her.

I quickly found a babysitting job that kept me out until three in the morning. Working all night and going to school all day eventually caught up with me. I had been a top student—a book nerd. I’d already even received a partial scholarship offer to Duke University based on my PSAT scores. But exhaustion eventually led to missed classes, and my grades fell apart.

Watching everyone else enjoy life made me restless. My peers spent weekends drinking, laughing, and escaping reality, so I joined them. Alcohol felt empowering. I thought I was conquering the monster that had devoured my father, but in reality, it was slowly swallowing me too.

Over the next few years, my life drifted far from who I was meant to be. At 18, I discovered I was pregnant. Getting married seemed like the right next step, so we did. We lasted 11 years, but in the end, our marriage ended as broken as the two people who’d entered it.

Over time, my heart grew numb. I was no longer a tender-hearted girl but a woman marked by pain, abuse, and disappointment. My identity was fractured and so was my faith. Still, God never gave up on me.

My sisters were both Christians and often invited me to church, but I resisted. I refused to walk through those doors unless I was ready to follow Jesus wholeheartedly. I didn’t want a hollow experience. I respected Him too much for that; I had known from childhood that Jesus was real.

Eventually, I agreed to attend a Sunday service, but inside, I felt nothing. Frustrated, I went into the restroom and said bluntly, “God, if You don’t touch me today, I will never come into Your house again.”

That night, I visited another church with my cousin. Unknowingly, I sat directly in front of the ladies on the prayer team, who, it turned out, had no qualms about praying and crying loudly. I became irritated. What was wrong with these people?

I hadn’t cried in over a decade.

Then my aunt leaned over and handed me a tissue. Confused, I looked down and realized my shirt was soaked with tears. God had broken through my walls without saying a single word.

“Tiffany, would you like to give your life to the Lord?” One of the women behind me asked gently. I couldn’t answer.

“What is your hesitation?” she asked.

Embarrassment. Shame. Guilt. What could I possibly offer God? What the world hadn’t ruined, I had ruined myself.

Finally, I whispered, “If God wants this life of mine, He can have it. But there’s not much left.” I soon learned no life is ever beyond repair.

The Holy Spirit immediately began healing me from the inside out, breaking the lies and restoring my identity as God’s child. I asked Him to soften my heart and return me to the person He had created me to be.

God answered my prayer and, through forgiveness, helped me find compassion for those who had hurt me.

Within six months, my life had changed so dramatically that I began sharing my testimony everywhere God opened a door. I was determined to turn my former torment into testimony.

Then one day, I received a call from the prison where my father was incarcerated. He had pancreatic cancer.

By then I was 30, ministering, and full of joy and purpose. But my father still seemed untouched spiritually, despite years of conversations about Jesus. Knowing his time was short, I visited the prison hospital and quietly asked God for an opportunity to pray with him before he died.

What I saw when I walked in that day stopped me in my tracks. Peace radiated from my father’s face. I had never witnessed him like this. Turns out, my uncle—the same man who had encouraged me years earlier—had visited him and spoken honestly about Jesus. My father had rededicated his life to the Lord.

I’d always been skeptical of deathbed conversions, but when I saw the glory of God resting on my father’s face, every trace of doubt disappeared. Then came another miracle.

My father asked me to pray for the doctors, nurses, and guards around him. He had no idea I had prayed for that exact opportunity.

I dropped to my knees on that dirty prison floor and prayed fervently (James 5:16). Inmates and guards wept. It is the most precious moment I ever shared with my father.

Less than 24 hours later, Dad went home to be with the Lord. I had the honor of speaking at his funeral and sharing the story of the prodigal son who had come home to his father (Luke 15:11–32).

If my story ended there, it would be a beautiful testimony of God’s mercy. But God rarely stops at one miracle. As Ephesians 3:20 (NLT) says, He is “able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think.”

An acquaintance posted online, asking prayer for a gravely ill man named Howard. The Lord spoke clearly to my heart: “Pray like he’s going to live—and mean it.” I did.

Seven years later, I saw a post from Howard. He was very much alive, serving the Lord and searching for people to review a new book he had written, Yielded. The Lord prompted me to contact him.

Howard was unlike anyone I had ever met—brilliant, kind, and easy to talk to for hours. We became close quickly.

One day while praying, I saw a vision of Howard getting married, but the bride’s face was unclear. When I asked God to show me her face, I realized it was mine. I panicked. Love was not part of my plan. People who have lived through trauma are often afraid of love. It’s too uncomfortable.

Howard carried such gentleness, grace, and strength. I was too damaged, too hardened. I didn’t feel worthy of his love. But moments after that vision, Howard called my work phone and said confidently, “The Lord told me He showed you something. Would you like to share it?”

“Good news,” I replied. “You’re getting married.” And then I hung up.

I avoided Howard for several days, but he kept calling. When I finally answered, he laughed and said, “Tiffany, I know you’re the one. Has God shown you?”

He had. But was I willing to trust God with His choice for me? Could I? Yes, and I would.

By then, I had developed a faith that was willing to go where others wouldn’t—even into a relationship many people might hesitate to embrace. Did I mention Howard is a quadriplegic with many health challenges?

I flew to Phoenix to meet him in person. Twelve hours later, he proposed. We were married soon after. (You can read Howard’s story on page 14.)

Many people look at Howard’s wheelchair and see a world of limitation. I see a gift. God gave me a man whose arms can never grab me in anger. All he can do is love me. His gentleness has helped heal wounds in me that he never caused.

Today, Howard and I minister to everyone from the incorporated to the incarcerated because we know firsthand what God’s love can do.

Maybe like me, your beginning in life was painful. But your past does not have to determine your future. Scripture promises that “God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns” (Philippians 1:6 NLT).

Don’t let trauma, disappointment, or fear keep you stuck in survival mode. You were made for more. You were made to know God’s love and to walk in the identity, purpose, and freedom He created just for you.

The same Jesus who met me in my hiding place wants to meet you in yours. Let His love find you. Yield your life to Him and watch Him transform your pain into purpose and your brokenness into a testimony of His redeeming grace.

Consider: Do you believe that God can restore your life? What does Tiffany’s story reveal about the patience and mercy of God? Are you willing to trust His plan for you? How might your greatest pain become part of someone else’s healing?

DR. TIFFANY BELL leads Yielded Life Ministries along with her husband, Howard. She is a writer, speaker, and podcaster.