When I was four years old, my family was in the process of moving into our own home in Bani, Dominican Republic. We were waiting for it to be finished as there were some changes my parents were making to it – it had a two car garage that my parents were converting into a closet and restroom for the master bedroom.

The architect lived across the street from my grandmother’s house and my mom sent my elder brother to his house to ask a question. My older brother followed behind him and I went after him.

We crossed the street the first time fine, however, by the time I caught up, my elder brother was already turning back around to head back home.

He crossed the street running and my other brother followed. Me being a four year old didn’t know I had to look at both sides of the streets, so I chased carelessly after them and ended up being hit by a motorcycle.

At that time [1997] the streets in my hometown of Pueblo Nuevo were made out of rocks. When I got hit, I fell backwards and hit the back of my head on a rock. What I remember is a car coming towards me and thinking that it was going to ran me over before I lost consciousness.

In recent years I found out that my dad’s side of my family told the biker to leave before my dad found out and to this day they still have kept his identity a secret. Why? Because my dad would beat him to a pulp.

I had to get stitches on the back of my head, my mom had the hair that had to be cut in a ziplock bag for a long time.

Because of the history of my birth and then this accident, during the years in which I was depressed [2013-2016], I questioned whether I should even be alive a lot. Back then I thought my birth story was different, I thought I almost died at birth, I thought I had been inches away from hitting the floor when my great-grandmother caught me. When I combined that idea with this accident I always thought “clearly the universe doesn’t want me here”.

This was all a untrue, of course, a lie to keep me still, to stop me from moving forward and building a relationship with God. I never once turned to God to ask Him why I was here, never thought to include Him in the conversation because for the longest time at kept Him at arm’s length. I went to Him when it was time to make tough decisions, always let Him decide where I should go, but having heart-to-heart conversations? I couldn’t even have them with myself I began journaling in June 2018, and even then it was kept to a bare minimum.

When I did make the decision to pursue a relationship with Jesus, I made it clear to Him that I have no idea how a relationship works and that He will have to teach me.

He has been, and He has been very, very patient with me because it’s no easy work.

He first had to get me in a setting where I could be around people [small group] and be comfortable around them to speak. Then, once I was out of my shell, He had to perform heart surgery on my emotions. He’s still working on them, and slowly but surely I am beginning to be more intune with my feelings. It is a very slow process, snail slow, but I know I am getting there.

I no longer look at my birth or this accident as a sign that I’m not suppose to be here, but as the opposite: that I am.

Some people would look at this and see just another accident, I wasn’t looking to where I was going as I crossed the street.

I choose to look at it as it was revealed to me August 2018: there’s an enemy who is after my life. There’s a thief lurking around, waiting for the perfect opportunity to steal everything God has for me.

I choose to believe this, because this truth says I have a purpose, a reason for existing.

What do you choose to believe in regards to why you’re here?

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