VL - Issue 42 - January 2022

TRANSFORMED LIVES
PHOTO BY HALEY MANNING PHOTOGRAPHY
It’s Never Too Late
BY CHRISTINA KIMBREL
“CHRISTINA, I NEED TO SEE YOU AT MY DESK, PLEASE.”
Anxiety ripped through me at the sound of my fifth-grade
teacher’s voice. Another trip to the school office? More questions
about my home? I harbored so many secrets, and even
at that young age, I understood there was safety in silence.
Tears threatened as I walked to the teacher’s desk. I was
relieved when I realized she only wanted to talk to me about a
guest speaker who had visited our class on Career Day. Edie, a
professor at the University of Arizona, had spoken to the class
about journalism and had given us some writing exercises.
“She called me to ask about you, Christina,” my teacher said,
beaming with pride. “Edie was impressed with your writing,
and she wants to get to know you.” I couldn’t believe my ears.
Edie took me on a field trip that included a tour of the University
of Arizona School of Journalism and the local daily newspaper
headquarters. “Christina’s going to write someday,” she
said as she introduced me to the journalists in the newsroom.
“You have a gift, Christina,” Edie told me as I exited her car.
“You will be a great writer someday. I hope to see you in one of
my classes!” She drove away, and I returned to the loneliness
of my childhood. I have never forgotten that day, as it was one
of the only times I felt heard or seen as a child.
I never made it to college. I didn’t even graduate from high
school. I left home at 13, and my innocence disappeared as I
fell into addiction and street life. Before I knew it, I was 18 and
headed to prison. I would remain trapped in a cycle of destruction
for years. It didn’t matter whether I was behind bars or out
in free society; pain, shame, and self-pity kept me shackled.
By 2015, my life resembled a war-torn country. All that remained
amid the rubble were broken relationships and shattered
dreams. All I wanted was a way out.
I was in jail, going through the agony of heroin withdrawals,
when I cried out to God. “If You really exist, please help me.
I don’t want to live like this anymore.” I know God heard me
because, at that moment, a strange peace washed over me.
It comforted me like a warm blanket and gave me the will to
keep breathing.
God responded to me like a loving father whose child is injured.
He held me in His arms and gave me His strength. And
with the help of His Spirit and His Word, I began a long journey
into healing. I received a study Bible from the ministry, Rescued
Not Arrested (RNA). And for the next two and a half years, I
spent every minute I could with my nose buried in its pages.
Every day, I wrote prayers to God in a journal. I opened my
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