The Path That Leads to Total Surrender

From the preface • Pages iii–v

Why I Wrote This Book

I did not begin this journey intending to write a memoir.

I simply wanted to understand my life.

As I looked back over the years, memories began returning—not as isolated events, but as pieces of a much larger story. Seasons that had once seemed unrelated slowly revealed a pattern I could not see while I was living them. What had felt like disconnected experiences became part of a single journey, patiently woven together by the Father's hand.

With each memory, I found myself asking the same question:

"Father, what were You revealing about Yourself during this season?"

That question changed the way I looked at my past.

Instead of seeing only joy or disappointment, success or failure, I began to recognize something far more enduring. The Father had been present in every season, faithfully revealing His heart through people, circumstances, unanswered prayers, unexpected blessings, and even through experiences I once struggled to understand.

This book is not an attempt to present a perfect life.

It is not the story of someone who always understood God correctly.

Nor is it an effort to explain every mystery or answer every question.

It is simply the testimony of one woman who has discovered that the Father never stopped revealing Himself, even when I failed to recognize His presence.

As I have written these pages, I have found myself returning again and again to the ordinary moments of life.

The embrace of my mother.

The quiet strength of my father.

The prayers that filled our home.

The stories told by my grandmother.

The seasons of joy that seemed to pass too quickly.

The seasons of sorrow that seemed they would never end.

Looking back now, I can see that none of them were wasted.

Each became part of the Father's patient work of shaping my heart.

There were times when I misunderstood Him. Times when I measured faithfulness more by what I did for Him than by how well I knew Him.

Times when I believed I understood His ways, only to discover that He was gently leading me into a deeper understanding of His character.

Through it all, His faithfulness never changed.

If there is one hope I carry for every reader who opens this book, it is not that you will see my story as remarkable.

Rather, I hope you will be encouraged to look again at your own.

This memoir is an invitation—not simply to walk through the story of my life, but to consider the Father's presence within the ordinary, difficult, unexpected, and unfinished places of yours.

My journey is not yet finished.

I am still learning.

Still growing.

Still discovering the Father's heart.

And that is the place from which I offer you this story.

From Chapter 1: A Child Marked for Purpose • Pages 1–3

A Mother’s Embrace

My earliest memories are not of places. They are not of possessions. They are not even of events.

My earliest memories are of my mother's embrace.

My sister and I were only a little over a year apart in age, and from our earliest days we competed for our mother's affection. Whenever she sat down, we hurried to claim our places on her lap. Somehow, she always managed to make room for us both, one daughter on each knee.

Even when she lay down to rest, our little competition continued. Each of us wanted her to turn her face toward us. In our childish minds, whoever received her gaze had somehow received the greater share of her love.

With remarkable patience, my mother solved the problem in the only way she knew how. She would lie flat on her back, stretch out both arms, and gather each of us close, one daughter tucked safely beneath each arm. Yet even that did not always satisfy me. I was a strong-willed child.

Whenever my mother corrected me, I often cried far longer than the situation deserved. Looking back, I can see that my tears were not always about the correction itself. Somewhere in my childish heart, I had discovered that if I cried long enough, my mother would come. She would lift me gently onto her lap. She would speak softly to me.

She would offer me a drink of water to calm my temper.

Then she would patiently wait until my tears subsided.

The remarkable thing was not simply that she comforted me. It was that she never stopped trying.

To her frustration, I often refused to be comforted. The more she tried to console me, the more determined I became to remain upset. At the time, I never paused to consider how exhausting that must have been for her.

Motherhood eventually gave me a different perspective.

I watched my own children respond in much the same way. More than once I found myself pursuing a child who seemed determined to resist the very comfort they longed to receive. In those moments, I could not help but smile through my own frustration as I realized that I had become my mother.

Only then did I begin to appreciate the quiet perseverance of her love.

As a little girl, I simply knew that my mother loved me.

As a woman, I came to understand that love is often measured not by grand gestures but by patient persistence. It chooses to return again and again, even when its kindness is resisted.

With the perspective of years, I can see that through my mother's patient love, the Father was giving me an early glimpse of a love I would only later learn to recognize as His own.