“He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap; He seats them with princes and has them inherit a throne of honor.” — 1 Samuel 2:8 (NIV)
My story didn’t begin in a nursery—it began in the margins.
My mother was just sixteen when I was born. Still a child herself, she was a ward of the state of Tennessee, placed there because of neglect. She had grown up in abject poverty—the second oldest of thirteen children and the first among them to become a parent. But parenting isn’t something you can give when you never received it, and she was in no way equipped for the task. How could she be?
My father, for his part, never claimed paternity. He offered no support—financial, emotional, or otherwise. His absence would become one of the defining voids of my early life.
So I came into the world a child of poverty, raised by a child of poverty. The cycle was generational, and like too many others, I inherited more than just genetics—I inherited the consequences of broken systems and broken relationships. By the time I was old enough to know the difference, I had already experienced nearly every form of abuse and neglect a child can know.
I’ve often joked that the term “dysfunctional family” was coined just to describe mine. But of course, there’s nothing really funny about it. It was chaos. It was survival. And it left scars that don’t always show on the outside.
No one looking at that boy—hungry, angry, ashamed—would have guessed the future that lay ahead. As a child, I certainly couldn’t have imagined it. That one day, I’d serve as the CEO of a nonprofit dedicated to helping vulnerable children and distressed families. That I’d stand in courtrooms, boardrooms, and churches as an advocate for kids like me. That I’d write and speak about trauma, grace, and justice—not as an academic, but as a witness.
Isn’t God amazing that way?
He takes what the world discards and redeems it. He rewrites stories. He turns wounds into wisdom and messes into ministries. My life is proof of that. Not because of my strength, but because of His mercy.
I’m a recovering orphan. And my recovery didn’t come from forgetting where I came from. It came from reframing it—through the lens of the gospel, through the power of healing relationships, and through the calling to be for others what I once needed most.
Because the story isn’t just about where you began—it’s about who you’re becoming.
That’s what it means to be a recovering orphan. I don’t hide where I came from. I don’t pretend the pain didn’t happen. But I also don’t live as though it gets the final word. Because it doesn’t.
God does.
And in His hands, even our worst chapters can become a testimony of grace. He brings beauty from ashes, honor from shame, belonging from abandonment. He sets the lonely in families—and sometimes, He even sends us back to help build them.
Where have you seen God redeem the broken places in your story? What “ash heap” might He be lifting you from today?
