The Statistic I Was Supposed to Be — and the God Who Intervened

When I say that I was a statistic, I can still hear those words echo in my head.
I had all the markers of one.

I lost my father before I was old enough to know I even had one. I grew up in a home riddled with loss, divorce, single parenting, drugs, alcohol, abuse, and more. I spent my childhood in a very rough part of town. I was a brainiac – but too smart for my own good – so I decided to coast through school instead. No adults were truly aware enough, or cared enough, to intervene.

I married my high school sweetheart because… well, you know. I thought I knew better than anyone else. I believed I was the exception to the rule. I had my first child at 18 – for the same reason.

My beginning could have been a manual for things not to do – or better yet, a cautionary tale titled, “Don’t Let This Happen to You.” We’ve all met teens like this. The ones where you feel like you could pre-write the ending of their story. You know what’s coming. It happens all the time.

And yet…

Where do I even start with this blog?

My hope is to share my story – not because it’s extraordinary, but because God is. I want to be a blessing and encouragement to others and, most importantly, to show what God can do when you invite Him into your life.

I suppose the place to start is where I first truly met God.

That happened in a hospital room when I was 19 years old.
But let me start the day before.

My first husband and I were separated at the time. We had been married less than a year but had dated for four. We loved each other deeply, but we were so young. I know, some young couples make it work beautifully. But neither of us had strong examples of healthy marriage, so we were figuring things out as we went, fueled mostly by love and hope.

That day, he came over to see our son, Jas, and to tell me that he loved me and wanted to make our marriage work. He wanted to move back home and be a family again. I was overjoyed. He promised that the next day he would pack up his things (he was staying with his grandmother) and come home.

He just had one more thing to do.

It was his uncle’s birthday, and they were going to go out riding motorcycles that night. He promised he’d be home the next day.

What happened next I could not have imagined.

At 2:00 a.m., I received a call from a doctor at the hospital. My husband had been in an accident, and I needed to get there immediately. It didn’t look good.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I don’t remember the drive. I’m not even sure who took me to the hospital. I remember sitting in the waiting room for what felt like forever before they finally took me back to see him.

I wasn’t sure what I expected. He’d been in a motorcycle accident, I braced myself for the worst.

But when I walked into the room, it was just Dan. He looked like he was sleeping. No blood. No visible injuries. Nothing that looked catastrophic.

The doctors explained that he had hit his head too hard. This was about six months before Oregon’s helmet law went into effect. The impact caused enough damage that he would not survive. He hit his head and simply… stopped living.

My mind was reeling. Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to describe it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. There were people everywhere, but all I wanted was a moment alone with him.

I asked everyone to leave the room.

When I was finally alone, I broke down.

What was I going to do?
How could this happen?
We had just reconciled. He was coming home.

And then I did something that changed my life forever.

I cried out to God.

I knew nothing about being a Christian. I didn’t know Scripture. I didn’t know theology. I only knew that God had to be real. And so I said, out loud:

“God, I don’t know why You took him. But I know You have a plan. You have to. I trust You…because I don’t know what else to do.”

That moment marked the beginning of the rest of my story.

There was no beautiful church altar. No dramatic salvation prayer. No clear understanding of Romans 10:9. Just me – broken, weeping, and reaching out to a God I knew must exist and must be bigger than my pain.

I’m old enough now to look back and see what I couldn’t see then. I thought I was writing my own story, making my own decisions, living life my way, a lone ranger carving my own path.

What I didn’t realize was that God had been there the entire time. He saw where I was. He knew what I needed to walk through. He allowed experiences that would shape me into who I am today – a child of God who understands truth, grace, and mercy.

I still struggle sometimes when I ask myself, Why me? Why didn’t I end up like so many of my friends did? What did God see in a rebellious, stubborn, too-smart-for-her-own-good kid that made Him decide she was worth redeeming?

I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: God is real. God is faithful. And my life is living proof that we are never just statistics – we are stories still being written by a loving, purposeful God.