Every child is born with a song—a bright, innocent tune that plays deep within the soul. Its notes are laughter and imagination; its rhythm is that of carefree days. But the world has a way of changing the melody. With every bruise, every betrayal, every whispered lie, the tune starts to shift. Some notes go flat. Some are muted and silent.
Six is a small number—until you measure it in lifetimes. The curse of abuse has run through the veins of my family for six generations. The weight of it spans decades, even centuries, and each family member has carried the mark of this curse.
It began in what history calls the Silent Generation. These were the children of the Great Depression and World War II, shaped by hardship and the need to survive. Their label, “silent,” reflected not only their civic duty and conformity but, tragically, their silence in suffering. That silence was passed down, a shared suffering, through the generations of women in my family. Abuse became a twisted kind of normal, a slow rot that hollowed out the joy and innocence of our childhoods.
Yet, slowly, I began to understand it wasn’t the people themselves, but the curse of sin, that was to blame. When we are apart from God, we live under that curse. Our lives unknowingly serve the enemy. Our actions, whether intentional or not, reflect darkness instead of light. I was a victim of a sin-stained world. And though that world wounded me, I am free from bitterness because I have found the Truth.
So, this is my story—a story of mental, physical, and sexual abuse that lasted until I was 12. I do not share this for sympathy. Someone reading this needs to know they are not alone—because when you know others stand with you, you find the courage to rise. You find your voice. You begin to believe that the cycle can end. And I am here to tell you—it can end! The curse has been broken in my family. Satan no longer holds the pen. And if God did it for me, He can do it for you. No matter what you have been through, there is victory in Jesus.
Broken
The song God wrote for me began to skip like a scratched record—caught between hunger, fear, and the sound of sirens. Drugs, violence, guns, knives, beatings—you name it—“broken” described my family to a “T.”
My stepfather was a well-known drug dealer in Chattanooga. Our home was always under surveillance. Momma always held a full-time job. With her gone all day and a drug-dealing, stay-at-home stepfather, I carried a heavy load as the oldest child. I had a younger brother and sister to look after. I remember feeding us—buttered bread, ramen noodles, cereal. We always had a real meal when Momma came home.
To this day, I replay the memories like an old film reel—flickering images, silent scenes. I will be washing dishes and, suddenly, a moment comes back.
Silent Screams
A melody can’t survive without breath—and they tried to take even that from me. Have you ever been so scared that you tried to scream, but nothing came out? I have. More times than I can count.
The beautiful rhythm of childhood was unraveling note by note. Looking back now, I understand more. There is a quote from John Wesley that says, “What one generation tolerates, the next generation will embrace.” That’s what happened in our family. The tolerance of sexual abuse, without consequence, made it feel expected. It became our inheritance—a malicious inheritance passed down from one man to the next.
Whispers in the Dark
Every place we lived seemed to carry its own scars. I believe trauma leaves residue—and in this house, it lingered in the air, thick and heavy. We had always struggled, but this season of life was especially hard. The house sat in the middle of nowhere, isolated from neighbors, community, and the closest grocery store. It felt like we had been dropped off in a different world—one that was cold, quiet, and unsettling. At first, I welcomed the quiet. But that quiet turned into whispers—low, subtle, damaging whispers that found their way into my spirit.
I believe with everything in me that these were demonic manifestations. They weren’t just haunting the house, they were haunting me—spirits assigned to destroy me—darkness attached to the abuse I had endured, following me from place to place like an unwanted shadow.
That winter brought snow, and the cold was brutal. With no heat in the car, we would wrap up in blankets just to get to school. My breath would cloud the air in front of me as I sat there shivering, wrapped in layers and wishing for warmth. But even in all that struggle, I remember thinking, “At least I’m not being abused anymore.”
I spent my days exploring when I wasn’t at school. Next to our house was an old baseball park on a high hill. I would ride my bike around the paved path that circled the field. The wind in my hair and the sun on my face gave me a small taste of freedom. I don’t know exactly what happened that day. Maybe I closed my eyes to soak in that freedom. Maybe I froze with a flashback. Maybe my hand slipped. All I know is I flew down that hill, lost control, and crashed hard into a ditch. Everything went black.
I don’t remember the impact. I just remember waking up to sirens, the sound of voices, and rocks being picked from my head and elbow by EMTs. I had laid there for hours before someone found me. I thought I had died, and for a moment, I was okay with that. I still bear the scar on my forehead. I notice it when I swipe on foundation, and it takes me right back to that house. To the snow. The cold. The whispers. The silence. Some scars you see. Others you carry in your soul. And at that point in my life, my soul had been shredded.
A New Song
My journey to Christ wasn’t instant—it was a path paved by people who loved me deeply, ministered to my brokenness, and reflected Jesus through their actions long before I truly understood who He was.
It began when Gary and Kay Conn, along with Michelle and Robert Barrow, found my family in a Dollar General store. We were struggling in every way, but they saw something in us and responded with compassion. They prayed with us, fed us, introduced us to God; and they nurtured the gift of music in me, helping me realize I could sing and introducing me to Southern Gospel music. They helped plant seeds of faith that I carried with me even after we were separated by Hurricane Katrina. It would be 18 years before we were reunited, but their love never left my heart.
I must mention my husband, Pastor Danny Brown. He has loved me through every layer of trauma, brokenness, and healing. His steady love and grace showed me more of Christ than words ever could. Now I see that everything I walked through was preparing me—not just to survive, but to minister. God took what the enemy meant for harm and turned it into something for His glory. Today, Danny and I serve in ministry together, and I can say with full confidence that every hard step was worth it.
Each of these people played a vital role in leading me to Christ. Their love, encouragement, and obedience to God helped bring healing and purpose to my life—and led me straight into the arms of Jesus.
Accepting Christ changed everything—but the process wasn’t instant. It was long, hard, and deeply personal. I carried the weight of abuse, trauma, and pain for years. Even after coming to know the Lord, I still struggled to trust, to open up, and to truly believe I could be free from my past. God transformed my life from the inside out. He gave me a new identity—not defined by what I came from, but by who He called me to be. And now I live not just redeemed but called and equipped to help others find that same freedom.
Since coming to faith, my relationship with Christ has deepened in ways I never expected. At the foundation of it all are prayer, fasting, and daily Scripture reading—these spiritual disciplines keep me grounded and help me stay connected to God’s voice.
Singing and music have become powerful avenues for worship and intimacy with the Lord. Whether I am singing alone in quiet devotion or ministering through music at church, I feel closest to Him when I am pouring out my heart in song.
Serving others has also transformed my walk with Christ. Ministry isn’t about me—it’s about putting others first, just like Jesus did. My role as a pastor’s wife allows me to live that out every day. It’s through loving people, praying with them, guiding them, and simply showing up in their lives that I see the heart of God more clearly.
All these disciplines—worship, service, Scripture, and prayer—have shaped me and continue to draw me closer to the One who saved me. I am not who I once was, and I thank God every day for that change.
