Chapter 1 – Heaven’s Pen

Heaven’s Pen

The Story of Now

I’ve not put down the pen in 9 years.  Yet I’ve only published a 6-month window of my writings for others to read.  My argument with myself lies in the guilt that I can’t produce I want to be truth.

In my own life experiences, the good stories have been my saving grace.  Since I was a little girl watching Disney movies that speak of happily ever after, I’ve held a sacred bond with stories of hope.  They’re a lifeline to those of us who live in lives of lollipops and unicorns.  They’re the vision of what could be true in a miraculous shifting of events.

As a child sitting in a window seal I picked up the pen for the first time and there-after spent years in my nightly routine – writing letters to God about visions of hope that my dad would one day return.  I had a vivid imagination and a heart that clanged to the “what if” scenarios that brought me peace and joy; even if they did only exist in my imagination.

I mixed fairytale with prayer based on the stories I learned about on Sunday mornings in Church.  The preacher man taught, “If you can only have childlike faith in your heart, then you can ask God and he will do it.”  This gave me a glorious idea, considering I was a child and capable of believing in God’s miracles.  Week after week I listened to the preacher tell stories of how prayer had produced miracles in the lives of the men and women who prayed to God in the bible.  So every single night, I wrote prayers and believed God would answer them.

Boxes of letters had accumulated in my closet and under my bed and at the age of 12 my secret was found out.  I didn’t have room enough to hide all of my letters I’d written to God.  My mother had them laid out in heaps of papers one day when I returned home from school.  I was horrified and felt ashamed.  I thought she would mad at me in learning that all the years passed by I’d kept such a big secret from her – the desire in my heart to see my dad return to my life.  I thought she’d be angry that I wasn’t grateful for her and my stepdad – which wasn’t true at all.  I just wanted my first love back.  What a child experiences is innocent and doesn’t need understanding.  Either way, that day would shift everything for me.

She answered with truth; almost.  My mother told me a story that night and brought before me a picture book of memories she’d kept of her life.  There within she revealed a photo to me of two men standing next to a beautiful horse in a Winner’s Circle.  The one that rode the horse she pointed to and said, “This is your read father.  His name is Tim.”

I burned all of the boxes that night after they were all asleep and I made a promise to myself that I’d kill the naïve little girl within me that had believed in such silly ideas – to think that I could write letters to God with visions of hope and the Heavens would answer my prayers.

I was angry at myself and angry at others.  The preacher had lied to me; lied to us all.  The prayers and letters did nothing.  And my mother had lied to me too.  From birth to age 12 she let me believe a lie about who my father was.

Five years later I prayed for the first time since that day.  As a 17-year-old who was in a mess I couldn’t take back – clinging to the breath of life on the dining room floor of my parents’ house I asked God to help to me, In Jesus name.  I died that night and was recollected around 5 am the next day.  A team of paramedics were able to revive me and three days after that I woke from a coma with an experience that shifted everything once again.  I had journeyed into another realm in the hours where my spirit had been removed from my body.  I didn’t understand why I’d been saved from death and I didn’t understand what to do with this new information I’d collected about the human consciousness.  So, I did nothing.

Even when the first responder repeatedly visited my home following the event, befriending me, claiming he’d “witnessed a miracle” and prying to get me to speak of my experience, I remained silent. 

Nineteen years later I prayed again.  My son was diagnosed with a condition that couldn’t be cured, according to the doctors.  The seed of miracles that had been planted inside of me from my own near-death experience began to well up inside of me as my only hope for change.

A woman knocked on my door one afternoon, claiming that God had sent her to me.  She said that I was her assignment and she’d come to teach me how to pray with power.  I sent her away three times before finally agreeing to hear her out.  “I’ve been given specific scriptures from the Bible to give you and teach you.  They are weapons for prayer,” she would say to me in her Nigerian accent, I barely understood.

Just a few short weeks after meeting this woman and engaging in nightly talks with her over the phone to pray together, my husband was struck down with a TBI.  This wasn’t a small event.  I spent the next several months living in hospitals at his bedside as prayer had become my only weapon.  He endured 3 brain surgeries and daily doses of despair as the team of doctors continually spoke death and impossibilities over his life.

In the TIRR rehab center, a nurse named Jeri was assigned to his room.  She gave me a gift that would prompt me to pick up the pen again – a book called More God written by a traumatic brain injury survivor named Nate Little.  His story wasn’t of the likes of Cinderella, but for me in that moment it was far more powerful than any work of fiction and fantasy I’d ever read.  Nate was the living and breathing example of a miracle by God.  Not only did he recover from unthinkable brain damage, but the pain had led him to purpose.

God had not only healed Nate but he gifted him love.  The ER nurse who helped save Nate’s life later became his wife and best friend.  Together they opened a ministry to teach surfing to handicap kids, they wrote books and appeared on shows to give the gift of hope to others with their testimony.

The day I finished reading Nate’s book allowed at my ex-husband’s bedside was the day I picked up my laptop and followed in Nate’s footsteps.  I began recording everything that I witnessed and even collecting pictures and videos of occurrences taking place in TIRR.  It’s as if I had connected with a secret portal to Heaven in these moments and simply saying “yes” was the key that unlocked this new journey.

God poured out miracles all around me.  He gave me endless content to report and I became the observer and the reporter of Heavenly occurrences on a day-to-day assignment to tell others of the good news. 

Back home with my ex-husband, life wasn’t easy.  I was a caregiver and a mother with the weight of a family on my shoulders alone.  Yet in this trial, I was gifted so many miracles still.  My heart remained connected to God’s voice as I began pouring out all that I received not only in writings but in action too.  That Christmas we adopted 7 families for Christmas.  Ironically, the greatest response I received more than a year later from these acts came in an email that one of the mothers sent to me.  She said that the Bible I had gifted to her 13-year-old had given him purpose.  He read it to the other children and found joy in teaching what he was learning to the kids.  Ironically this boy had a condition that impacted his speech.  Amazingly, the Bible had helped him to break free of his own insecurities and physical shortcomings.  The boy who couldn’t speak well became the voice of God sharing the word of God with all of his siblings.

Other miracles took place in these years that only I could truly feel and experience.  Like for example, in October of 2017 when my own finances had reached an end, a stranger on my social media page sent me a post of a man who’d just been put out homeless.  She asked, “Can you help him?”  I’ll never forget that night for the rest of my life.  My mind had immediately said, “No, I can’t.”  In truth, I had less than $3,000 in my bank account and my mortgage upcoming would take the entire amount.  In other words, if I even dared to buy groceries for my kids and handicap husband we would end up in foreclosure from the bank and lose our home.

I couldn’t sleep that night.  I tossed and turned as a voice inside of me said, “Call him.”  I had no choice but to answer that voice and so I did.  The man on the other side of the phone spoke fast.  He said that he’d been evicted from his home and needed $500.  With the money he planned to get a hotel room, print his resume at Kinkos and go on foot to find a job immediately.  I said ok and sent the $500 to a Western Union near him that he had appointed.

The very next day I received a call from a woman who wanted to list her home for sale and make an offer on another house.  And in the following 3 days I received 3 other calls from complete strangers requesting similar scenarios.  The month of November in 2017, my real estate business recorded nearly 20 million dollars in sales.  This was the highest month of revenue I’d ever had not only in my real estate career but in my professional life.  Not only did I make my mortgage payment, but I also was given enough money to make it through the Spring and support my family.

The works of God in my life started taking an outward direction as the miracles I’d experienced in the hospital began shifting away from my wants, needs and prayers into a place where I felt I was being called to be a light in the lives of strangers.  It was beautiful beyond words and yet, my own affairs began dwindling into darkness.  My ex-husband refused to continue his therapy and seemed to lose interest in healing, fighting to return to his role as a husband and father and even started waring with me over little things like whether our son should have a curfew or not.

The Bible says a house divided will fall.  That’s exactly what happened to my home.

In January of 2019, I was diagnosed with heart failure.  Many hospital visits to undergo various tests concluded that stress was the culprit of my condition.  The battle I was locked inside of as a type of prisoner in my own home, (seeking peace and unity with a husband that no longer wanted to be on my team), had taken a toll on my mental, physical and even spiritual well-being.  Then in March of 2019 I was served divorce papers.

It would take years for me to see the transitions in my own path beyond the day that my hopes and dreams of the future were shattered.  Letting go isn’t something I knew how to do because my faith had returned to me.  The little girl in the window seal who sent prayers to Heaven had been rekindled in the flames of fiery trial and I refused to return to the cynical woman who walked in fear and doubt.  I had since learned that God has the power to do anything.  God can bring the dead back to life.  God can send power into a brain that’s been physically butchered and partially removed in the creation of new neuropathways against all reasoning humans have attributed to science and medicine.  God can use the broken to heal the sick, the foolish to confound the wise and he could even use a woman like me to spark his light in children who had deficits in poor families.

Yet in all situations, I’ve learned that if there is not unity there is no power.  To be on the same page with another is to share in hope and a vision of what is hoped for.  In other words, every single one of us are granted choice in what we desire.  And if that desire resides in opposition to another, we simply can’t walk together.

The homeless man had a desire to get a job and get back on his feet.  God blessed that desire when he spoke to me by His Holy Spirit to help that man walk towards that hope.  And in other situations (the ones that mattered the most to me), I had tried to make my visions and hopes strong enough to all involved to go a path based on my desires – unshared in the collective.

I haven’t put down the pen since 2016 in that hospital room.  I’ve kept daily journals in notebooks, in secret blogs only I can access on various websites and I have even recorded short stories, published as books on Amazon that are priced too high for anyone with reason to purchase.  I keep a sandbox full of hand-written prayers and I even make prayer candles that I distribute anonymously in all my travels – packed in little gift bags with notes that invite others to share prayer requests with me.

Truth be told I’m searching for purpose in all of the pain and trying to sort through all the miracles I’ve witnessed to piece together a story that I can’t comprehend.  I don’t know why God has taken everything from me; my marriage, my career, my family, my relationships, my home and questionably my own sanity with regards to bridging the physical and spiritual worlds together in logical sense. 

A voice within me constantly speaks to me that I’m fighting a battle of faith I can’t see – challenging me to continue to write even though I feel I have nothing good to share.  I find myself at war with my own experiences as if I’m the author trying to look beyond the horizon and see something that would mimic the day Cinderella slips on the glass slippers and is invited into a Kingdom of new beginnings. 

I can’t see it.  I can’t see the moment my ex-husband steps into a path of healing where God finishes the work he started in that hospital room back in 2016.  I can’t see the day that my son will be delivered from weights of shame, guilt and confusion as he stayed back to be the caregiver for a man who he regards as his hero.  I can’t see the day that all things will be made new and love will be my portion after the endlessness I’ve felt through each day I’m traveling this world in a job I don’t like – fighting lack and homelessness in my own way as I can’t find the motivation within to return to the prisons that once gifted me stability in this world, (financial freedoms and a sense of power), yet kept my soul seeking something greater beyond material gain. 

But like the night I received a vision from God, in the very moments following the words of the surgeon, “Say goodbye to him,” I hold onto a vision I was given a year ago as I laid in a puddle of my own tears crying out to God in the fetal position in account of all that I perceive to be fearful looking upon my son’s life. 

The vision was only a glimpse – like a shimmer of light that came and then left suddenly.  I saw myself in a beautiful backyard next to a pool as a man prepared food on the barbeque pit.  I don’t know who this man was but he loved me and I loved him.  Then I saw my son in that backyard with a woman he loved and a child they had together.  If this vision was a glimpse into a future moment in my life here on this planet then today my heart praises God for the story he’s piecing together in my life.  However, nothing in my physical world today gives me reason to believe that this could even be possible.

I live in a room that I rent from a script writer in Woodland Hills outside of Los Angeles and make less money today than I did at age 18.  I am thousands of miles away from my daughter who is alone working as a bartender in Fort Lauderdale in Florida and my son, who I only speak to via text every few days as he asks me to Zelle money so that he’s able to eat, has no job, a car that barely works and doesn’t even have a valid drivers license.  The boy that once lit up the airways of YouTube as a future star in sports – the very boy who was featured in a HBO documentary called “Rising Stars” now sits in the pit of dreams shattered that I too suffer in.  He’s spoken to me about suicide more times then my thoughts can bare to utter and he doesn’t see a way out of his own pain.

How could any of this be God’s plan for our lives?

So today, with the little bit of strength I have left in me, I write these words in a format that can be instantly published to a book; rather than in secret notebooks or hidden online journals.  I fight my own doubt and voices in my head that say, “you’re crazy to think you have anything to speak that could encourage another’s soul,” and I abandon the little girl in the window seal that writes prayers to God but instead I pray in a sacred space with my candles and I vow to write the truth of this journey; wherever it leads to now.

God knows I need many miracles.  God knows I need a moment of breakthrough from Heaven.  God knows I need the author of time, space and all power to shake up this reality I live inside of and spark hope into spaces that have been defeated by the voices of doubt.

God knows that last night as I worked a charter with a professional NBA team I fought tears looking at those young men who traveled together as a team to play in Minnesota today.  Every fiber in my being wept as an inner voice said, “This could’ve been my son in these leather seats with his friends going to play in this game.  Why did God take away the dreams of a little boy who’s first word he ever uttered with little lips was ball?  Why has my boy had to suffer through so much and why has God stood by watching him in isolation as his health deteriorates each day?  Why won’t God cause a miracle from Heaven to strike his path and open a door of opportunity for him to be healed and restored?  Why am I sitting in a Minneapolis hotel room crying rivers of tears over the life of my son with my fingers stabbing at a Macbook Pro that has so much wear and tear I can’t even make out the letters on the keyboard anymore?

In May, after I was transferred with my job to LA, I made a website called Malibu Miracle.  Then in June after my son drove to California, escaping a night when the spirit of suicide tried to take his life, I began journaling milestones on this website.  Nothing worked out as I had hoped it might.  My son came to California and lived on a mortgage guy’s couch because I had no place for him to stay in the room I’m renting.  He smoked weed and did chores to earn money for gas and food and then he returned to Texas to be with his dad after only a few short weeks.  In August he flew back to California to collect his car and returned to Houston where he now is in the same cycle he was in before.

I don’t know what God wanted to show me in this little shimmer of hope and light that I received briefly through these occurrences.  I saw my vision and my heart leaped with joy, thinking, “God is doing it.  God brought my boy to California and he’s going to cause a miracle to take place.  He’s going to cause him to have an encounter that will change his path and open a door of new beginnings.”  The disappointment I felt when my boy left and returned to the prison of isolation in Texas was like death.  I didn’t just lose his presence, but I lost my hope.

I’m tired of lying to myself.  I’m tired for living inside of visions and praying each day for a breakthrough and keeping all of the toxic desires, I war with locked inside of my own thoughts.  I’m tired of feeling bitter when I see others living out the purpose God has for their lives and speaking of His Glory.  I’m tired of pretending that I’m doing just fine as I can barely mustard up the strength each day to even face the world outside of four walls. 

If there is a miracle to be had in our story beyond the ones I’ve already experienced, then I wish to walk in the truth of the valley I thirst inside of today.  If not for my own baring of truth itself, then for the sake of these words that might one day speak to another who battles with great uncertainty.  It’s easy to tell the story from the other side of pain.  After we get the miracle, when we can’t even relate to the sadness and the struggle anymore, we write books and testify of the trials that turn to triumph.  But where are the voices of the valley that have the power to connect to the one who’s in the fire?

I’ve been collecting my sorrow for so long, I have not enough room in this computer to store anymore stories etched in pain.  The word says, “the suffering we endure isn’t worthy of comparing to the Glory God will lead us to.”

Well, I’m ready to see this word turn the page for me and my children. 

I’ve said, “yes” a million times to the task of reporting the story in the sky made manifest in the physical world and I’ve recorded visions with a belief that they will soon be in the physical world as evidence that God is the author and finisher of our faith and our stories but can I separate my own emotions from the pen of God?  Can I be the observer who writes in truth what happens here and now without allowing the voices of doubt to shut up the fountain of what God can do in even the most impossible situations?

I will save this document as “Chapter 1” and commit to writing the works of God into the following pages as not to look back and wallow in misery but to believe that everything transpiring now is part of his plan and purpose. 

This book will hold the live documentary of our lives shattered, a nine-year period of mountains and miracles that led us all into a season of separation and wilderness and an outcome that only God knows.  Today we are all in need of Heaven’s power – far away from the evidence of victory in our lives.  I only hold a small seed of hope in God alone because I know that everything I’ve tried has done nothing to change our circumstances.

Today is Sunday, December 14^th, 2025. 

I am writing these words from Minneapolis, Minnesota in a hotel room downtown where I’m laid over on my job and will escort the Sacramento Kings back to California tonight after they play the Timberwolves.  I will write what happens each day from this point forward and do my best to speak only the truth.