I came into this world on January 28, 1990, the firstborn in my family. My parents married young—my mother was only 17 when she had me. My two brothers followed in the years after.
If I were to describe my childhood in two words, they would be fear and darkness. Those memories still cast long shadows over my heart. It all began after my second brother was born. I was around 8 or 9 years old, and he was about 6 or 7. Whenever he misbehaved, I would scold him. If he argued back, it would escalate into fights.
That’s when the darkness truly began.
Most of the time, our father beat us because we quarreled. But there were other reasons too—bad grades, disobedience, or even what he perceived as disrespect. At first, he used a cane and forbade us to cry when we were hit. But we were just kids—how could we hold back our tears? Our crying only angered him more, and he would beat us harder, sometimes all over our bodies.
There were nights when he made us kneel on a tortoise shell as punishment, forcing us to stay awake until morning. Even when our mother begged us to sneak into bed, we didn’t dare—because we knew that if he found us sleeping, there would be more beatings.
Our hands and legs often bled from his canings. The wounds left marks—reminders of our shame when we went to school the next day. I was only a child, but the pain and humiliation were seared into me.
One incident I’ll never forget is when he lined my brothers and me on the sofa, stepped back, and ran at us—kicking each of us so hard we hit the wall on the other side of the room.
But the deepest wound came the day my mother tried to take her own life. After one of the worst beatings, she screamed that she’d had enough. She ran to the kitchen and climbed halfway out of the window.
Terrified, I ran after her, grabbing her arm and begging her not to leave us. I promised we would never fight again, that we would be better children if only she would stay. My brothers were crying too, pleading with her. She eventually came down, but the fear stayed with me.
When we stepped out of the kitchen, I saw my father sitting calmly at the dining table, smoking as if nothing had happened. Hatred burned in my heart. I kept asking myself—why was I born into this family? Why couldn’t I have parents who loved me?
For years, those thoughts haunted me. I even wished I’d never been born.
The Search for Belonging
When I was in Secondary 1, my mother finally divorced my father. She remarried, and I thought things would get better. My stepfather promised to protect us and treat us well. But that hope quickly faded.
He showed favoritism toward his biological son, my stepbrother, who was spoiled and rebellious. When I tried to discipline him, my stepfather sided with him. Eventually, he started beating us too. It felt like history was repeating itself.
By Secondary 2 or 3, I was desperate for something more—a place where I belonged. A friend told me about his classmate who went to church every weekend. I was curious. I had seen on TV how church friends were like family—kind, loving, and close. That’s what I wanted. So I asked my friend’s classmate to bring me to his church.
Encountering God
When I first attended a Protestant church service, I was surprised. It felt like a concert—guitars, drums, and people singing and dancing. But as the worship songs played, I noticed people closing their eyes, tears streaming down their faces.
I didn’t understand it, but I felt something stirring inside me.
Then the pastor began to preach. He spoke about God as our Heavenly Father. I flinched at that word—father. My experiences with my earthly fathers had been nothing but pain.
But the pastor said something that struck me: no matter how broken our relationship with our earthly fathers, our Heavenly Father is always loving, compassionate, and full of mercy.
As I listened, I felt a warmth in my heart—like a hand reaching out and gently holding my brokenness. It felt real, so tangible.
When the pastor spoke about Jesus dying for sinners, I knew I was one of them—unworthy and unlovable. But I also heard that God wanted a personal relationship with me. That was something I had never heard before, and I longed for it.
I accepted Christ at the age of 14 or 15.
The Fall and the Rise
For a while, I was deeply involved in church—praying, attending cell groups, and going to Christian events. But my faith was shallow. I was distracted by worldly pleasures—movies, games, and material possessions.
Temptations led me into sinful habits, and eventually, crimes. I was arrested in 2010 and sentenced to life imprisonment in 2013.
In my cell, I cried out to God for forgiveness. I was afraid He had abandoned me. But as I prayed and read Scripture, I found answers in verses like Ezekiel 18, reminding me of God’s mercy and forgiveness.
Still, something felt incomplete. The Protestant services lacked the one thing I longed for—Communion. They said it was symbolic, but I felt it should be more.
A Journey to the Catholic Faith
In 2017, I began reading books by Scott Hahn, a former Protestant who became Catholic. His writings on the Eucharist and sacraments resonated deeply with me. I spoke to a Catholic inmate, who lent me more books.
I realized the Catholic Church held the fullness of faith, rooted in Scripture and tradition. The Eucharist, which Catholics believe is the real Body and Blood of Christ, became the focal point of my desire to convert.
On November 19, 2017, I was confirmed as a Catholic by Father David Garcia, taking St. Francis de Sales as my patron saint.
Walking in Faith
My journey has been filled with ups and downs. There are days of dryness and doubt, especially as I face the uncertainty of life imprisonment. Yet, I’ve never lost my identity as a child of God.
I’ve learned to rely not on my strength but on God’s grace. Through prayers like the Rosary, Divine Mercy Chaplet, and the prayers of St. Bridget, I continue to grow.
I’m also grateful for the Catholic volunteers and counselors who guided me. They reminded me of God’s love and answered my questions during my struggles.
A Song of Gratitude
As I end my story, I leave you with a song I wrote with an ex-inmate, who has since been released:
感恩的心 (A Grateful Heart)
蓝蓝的天空 白云的飘过
心情也变得不错
无边的大海 大地的万态
自然中显露主爱
Chorus:
带着感恩的心 来到主的殿里
颂扬赞美上帝 一辈子跟随你
我要大声呼唤 耶稣是我的主
不再陷入迷途 走向天堂之路
Bridge:
Hallelujah！ Hallelujah！我要赞美主
Hallelujah！ Hallelujah！我要敬拜主
Final Words
Though my past was filled with pain, I now walk in hope. God has shown me that even the most broken lives can be restored. I may be behind bars, but my soul is free.
