You wouldn’t call my childhood the happiest one a person could have. Growing up in a tiny, run-down house as the tenth of twelve children—with parents who struggled with mental health issues—I certainly learned about the fear of God. But I didn’t know how much God loved me. We were very poor, and we rarely had enough food. My father would sometimes shoot squirrels from out of the bathroom window so that we could eat, and other days we would crawl through grocery store dumpsters looking for food. We didn’t have any blankets, so in the winter we put our legs through the sleeves of moth-eaten coats.
It was a hard life, but things began to change when, at twelve years old, I started babysitting for my oldest sister. She and her...
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