I never wanted to go back to that frightened little girl I had been when I had come to America, and found my new home.  The horrors I had lived through as a child were a thing of the past, but I would always have the memories as horrible as they were.  And I would always remember the little girl that would have been nine now, a little girl I had when I was still a little girl.  I never got to hold her, never got to know what happened to her. I could only pray she had a good life that a good person had taken her.  Before I would have little faith in the ability to find good people in this world, but now I knew better.  I had a wonderful family.  My true family, even if we did not share the same blood lines, we shared something deeper.  Hope was more my sister than the Sisters I had in that little village in Afghanistan, that Jihad paradise.

            I never wanted to go back to that place, that place of nightmares, of hell on earth.  My family was gone, massacred there but I still had trouble grieving for these people and all they had put me through.  All I could pray was in those last minutes, somehow they had made their hearts right with God.  I knew that my little sisters would go to Heaven, because they had been innocent, but my brothers and my birth Father needed forgiveness for sure, they were pure evil on earth!  I could not describe it in any other way!  They had committed so many evils in the name of Allah I was glad I no longer turned to Allah and instead gave my heart to Jesus!  I found this much more preferable, the truth was I could never understand Allah when my parents had done so much evil in the name of a God they swore was the true and just God.  What just God would allow a Father to rape his daughter, and then say it was Allah’s will?  I know not all Muslims believe this way now, my parents faith, especially my Fathers was perverted, my Mother had no say, she was simply a piece of property.

            My sister Hope helped me to understand the evils of what happened were not my fault, nor was the fact that I lost my leg due to that infection some kind of punishment.  Sometimes bad things did happen to people who were good, it was not always some kind of punishment from God.  It had taken me awhile to accept that, understand that but I was going to make it.

            Lord thank you for allowing me to have this family, to accept things that I could not accept before, and thank you for letting me see that none of this was my fault.  Mostly I want to thank you for sending your son to die on the cross for me, and for allowing me to have a second chance with the family I have now.  I have got to know myself and them more in the past five years than I could have in a lifetime in that hell hole I grew up in.

            I had come far in the past five years, but it had taken me time to open up, to see that my adopted Father and Mother truly loved me in the way my birth parents never could.  It took me even longer to see the faith they had was genuine not the perverted faith of my birth Father.  I saw they lived out a faith that allowed them to reach out and help others, and to love others, not to use the roués of faith as an agenda to do what they wanted.  My birth father had committed all kind of evils in the name of Allah, my true father, my adopted father did not do this, he loved Jesus, and he loved his children as they should be loved.