Coming Home to Dixie

It was the summer I was six years old, living with a foster family on their farm in Alabama, when I first learned about Jesus. Vacation Bible School was winding down for the week, and I couldn’t stop thinking about this man they kept talking about—this “Jesus” who loved me. I was fascinated and filled with questions. The teacher was kind and patient as she answered each one. What did it mean to “be saved”? What was faith, really? Of course, my understanding at that age was simple, but something in my little heart told me this was true. This was right.

We prayed together, and as I opened my eyes, I remember smiling so big it hurt. I knew something inside me had changed. That spark stayed with me through childhood—even as my circumstances became harder. I had to leave the loving foster family behind and was adopted by a couple who, though they provided for me, offered little warmth or affection. But God remained a steady companion. As a teen, church became my refuge. I devoured Scripture and journaled my prayers. My faith was deep and unwavering.

Then college came.

I enrolled in a Christian university, full of expectation. But what I found instead was disillusionment. The people I met didn’t live out the faith they professed. There was a disconnect between their words and their actions, and slowly, bitterness crept in. That bitterness deepened after my engagement to a pastor in Israel. I moved across the world for him. But the man who preached compassion and love showed little of either in private. One week before the wedding, it ended. I flew back to the States, my heart in tatters.

Then came the cancer diagnosis.

I was barely recovering from heartbreak when I heard those words: Stage 2 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. What followed was a year of chemo, radiation, pain, and isolation. My body broke down. My soul, already fragile, felt nearly destroyed. But then a glimmer of light—my best friend from college. She took me in. Nurtured me. Encouraged me. She reminded me of the God I once loved so fiercely. It took time, but I began to wonder: Had God saved me again—this time from something far worse?

If I had stayed in Israel, I may never have known I was sick until it was too late.

The thought stopped me cold.

Slowly, my faith returned. Not in church, but in Jesus. And when we adopted our daughters, that quiet rekindling became a flame. I wanted them to know Him the way I once had. I longed for them to feel the comfort and guidance He offers. I took them to church occasionally, but it felt more like a crowd than a community. I wanted more—for them, and for me.

When we moved to Mississippi, I knew we had a new chance.

I told Jim, “I want to find a church.” He wasn’t ready. “Maybe after the New Year,” he’d say. But something tugged at me, and I went anyway—just the girls and me. And I prayed. Not just for myself, but for Jim. For Siena. For Roslynn. I asked God to make Himself known to them.

A few weeks ago, Roslynn said out of the blue, “I want to be baptized.” She had never heard that word from me before. It started a conversation that changed everything.

When Jim returned from California, he surprised me and agreed to come to church. And when the service ended, he walked straight to the pastor and said, “How do we join the church?” I was stunned. But the surprises weren’t done. He then said, “I want to be baptized.”

And I prayed again, Is this really happening?

Thursday night this past week, we were invited to the pastor’s home for dinner. After dessert, the conversation shifted. We talked about grace. About sin. About redemption. Jim asked questions—years of questions—and Brother Daniel answered each one with grace and clarity. Then something broke open inside Jim. Tears fell. His heart softened. And in the quiet of that dining room, he bowed his head and gave his life to Jesus.

It would’ve been enough. That moment alone.

But then Siena chimed in. She had accepted Jesus before, but she hadn’t been baptized. She confessed she didn’t think she was “good enough.” Brother Daniel and his wife, Laura, looked her in the eyes and told her the truth: It’s not about being good enough. None of us are. It’s about believing.

She smiled and said, “I want to be baptized too.”

And Roslynn? The one who started it all? She listened carefully, then nodded. “Yes. I believe.” And she prayed out loud, with a child’s sincerity and faith, accepting the Gospel as her own.

And just like that, the three people I love most in this world—my husband, my daughters—all gave their lives to Jesus in one night.

I will never forget it.

The date is set: November 30, 2025. All three of them will be baptized.

From the seed planted in a tiny Alabama church all those years ago, to the heartbreaks, the betrayals, the cancer, the redemption, and the joy—I now see how God has been weaving this story all along. Even when I didn’t see it. Even when I doubted.

And now, He’s brought my whole family home—not just to Mississippi, but to Him.

I am so thankful.