For many years in my life, I wondered why God hated me so much. My mother, a member of the Curve Lake First Nation, had given me up for adoption, likely trusting that I would have a better life, not knowing that my adopted parents would be physically and verbally abusive. I ran away from them when I was eleven years old and so began my life of running away from one relationship after another. I was thirty-four years old when I began my faith journey.
As I lay bruised and bleeding on the side of Interstate Highway 10, watching the taillights of the semi fading into the distance, I thought, so this is how God answers prayer.
Less than forty hours earlier, huddled under an overpass of I-95, shivering in the cold spring rain, I’d prayed these words, “God, I don’t know where I’m going but I trust You’re going to take care of me.”
It was the first time I’d prayed in over five years but I was feeling desperate, a minor illegally in the USA, hitchhiking my way to a town that I’d only ever heard mentioned on a TV soap opera. The name appealed to me...
