KIM'S TESTIMONY

The Bubble

My first memory in this world is a medical bubble tent.

I was a little girl, sealed inside plastic, looking out at a world I couldn't touch. That's where my story starts — not on a playground, not in a Sunday dress. In a bubble, sick, separated, watching life happen on the other side of a wall I never asked for.

Most people get to forget their first pain. Mine introduced itself before I knew words for it.

The Faces

When I was a young girl, I saw demonic faces. And I saw Satan himself.

I was a child. I had no theology, no church words, no one standing over me telling me what to do. What I had was a Name.

I said the Name of Jesus over and over again — and I rebuked him. A little girl, with nothing but that Name on her lips, stood her ground until the darkness left.

People ask where my faith comes from. It doesn't come from a book first. It comes from a little girl who learned, before she learned anything else, that the Name works.

The Long Road

The sickness never really left. It changed costumes.

Lupus. Scleroderma. Raynaud's. The whole thing — a body at war with itself for a lifetime. My hands stiffened and curled. I have been through fifty surgeries. Fifty times under the knife, fifty times waking up to fight again.

Today I have two working fingers.

Two. Count what you did today with your hands — all of it — and imagine doing it with two working fingers. That's my every day. And I still do it. I still drive. I still ride my horses. I still show up.

The Seed

Years ago, in an AA meeting, I met a man named Steven.

I dropped one seed on him — the seed of God. And then I said nothing more about it. I didn't preach at him. I didn't chase him. I planted it and I let it be, the way you do with seeds.

I never brought Him up again. HE did. When Steven finally came asking about God, it was his own mouth that opened the subject — the seed had done its work underground, in its own time.

That man is my husband now. And everything you see built here — all of it — grew out of a seed a sick woman dropped in an AA room and had the patience to leave alone.

Why I'm Telling This

I don't want pity. Pity doesn't do anything for anybody.

I want to be a living and walking testimony for Jesus.

Not a story about a woman the darkness and the sickness beat — a story about a woman they couldn't beat. The bubble couldn't do it. The faces couldn't do it. Fifty surgeries couldn't do it. Two working fingers, and I am still standing, still riding, still His.

If He carried me through all of that, He can carry you through whatever you're reading this in the middle of.