新媒网 · 跨境数据社区

CHAPTER 7: A HOUSE THAT WAS NEVER HOME I grew up in the 90s — a time of innocence, struggle, and quiet prayers whispered in the night. I was raised by a single mother, a woman whose strength I only truly understood much later in life. We lived in a house that was never really ours. Not by ownership, and not even by belonging. It was a home miles away from what we called home. A place where we lived — but never settled. A family we stayed with — but never truly became part of. We were taken in, yes. But there was always a silent line drawn in the sand — a reminder that we were not “them.” That we were different. Dependent. Displaced. And as a child, I carried that weight. I remember watching other kids laugh freely in homes filled with warmth and their own blood. Meanwhile, I was trying to fit into a space that didn’t recognize my voice, my presence, or my pain. But even then — even in that lonely corner of existence — something beautiful was beginning to grow. My mother, despite all the odds stacked against her, made sure I went to Sunday school. She didn’t have much to offer in material wealth, but she gave me something greater: hope. Hope that God would one day visit our sorrow with joy. Hope that the God we sang about in church would rewrite the story of our home. Hope that the tears she tried to hide at night would one day be wiped away by His hand. In Sunday school, I found a kind of belonging I didn’t have at home. There, I was taught to sing. To pray. To believe. There, I heard about a Savior who didn’t reject anyone — especially not the broken. And I held on to that hope, even when life outside those walls said otherwise. Every time I saw my mother cry silently… Every time I was made to feel like a burden in the house we lived in… Every time I was reminded that we were not part of the “real family”… I whispered a quiet prayer: > “Lord, make this pain worth something. Turn our sorrow into songs of joy.” And He heard. Not immediately. Not in the way I expected. But in the perfect, redeeming way that only Jesus can respond. Because God doesn’t waste pain. He collects every tear. He remembers every prayer from a child trying to belong. Looking back, I now understand: That lonely season shaped my heart for ministry. That pain taught me how to recognize outcasts. That rejection gave me eyes to see the ones others overlook. And today, when I preach about God’s love — I’m not speaking theory. I’m speaking experience. Because I know what it’s like to live in a house that wasn’t home. I know what it’s like to be part of a family in name, but not in love. I know what it’s like to be the one who didn’t fit. But more than that — I know what it’s like to be picked by God. Chosen. Adopted. Welcomed into a Kingdom where nobody is ever “extra.” Where nobody is rejected because of their background. Where every tear, every ache, every prayer — is seen and heard. > “Even if my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.” — Psalm 27:10 That verse became true for me. And now, I live not just as a survivor of childhood sorrow — but as a son of God, called and beloved. He took me from a house I never belonged… …to build me into a temple He would dwell in.