I was born into the Havasupai tribe in northwest Arizona on January 30, 1984, the oldest of seven children. When I was little, my mom took me to church a few times, but I don’t remember anything about Jesus. I found my stepdad’s beer in the refrigerator and began drinking at a young age.
I eventually graduated from a boarding school in California with a basketball scholarship to a college in Iowa. I was afraid to get on the plane alone, so I decided to stay home and help Mom raise my younger siblings. When my drinking got out of control, she kicked me out of the house. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I just went from one friend to another, drinking until I passed out.
This continued until June 30, 2003. I was drinking at a friend’s house when I became angry about something. In my stupor, I grabbed her ATV keys and took off on the back roads. That’s the last I remember until I woke up five months later in a Las Vegas hospital.
I was alone and confused. I thought I had passed out at some friend’s house. I yanked the tubes from my body and tried to leave but fell flat on the floor. They hadn’t expected me to live, so my twisted limbs, especially the foot, had healed that way. When my mom came, she transferred me to a rehab center in Phoenix. My caseworker was a Christian, and she and her friend Cathy persuaded me to attend church. It was there I gave my heart to Jesus.
While in rehab, I went back home for a cousin’s funeral. As we were leaving, my mom said there was a place we needed to go. When we got into the car, the medicine man got in, too. I wondered why he came, but I didn’t ask. We drove to the place where I wrecked. We stood at the top of the hill and he said, “Your soul is still down there.”
He gave me something to make my healing complete. The stuff he gave me was green like marijuana, and he told me to put it under my tongue. I didn’t want to but was afraid not to. Not long after this, I became violently sick, and couldn’t even hold water down. By the early morning hours, my mom and sister began the five-hour trip back to rehab, where they hooked me up to IV. For three days my body rejected everything that went in.
Then Cathy came and took me to church. Her pastor wanted to pray for me. The charge nurse gave permission but warned, “Don’t give her anything to eat.” I kept throwing up while the pastor prayed. Then he requested that bread be brought. He pinched off a piece, dipped it in oil, and told me to eat it. I’ve never tasted anything that tasted so good. I could have eaten the whole thing! I stopped throwing up immediately, and the nausea never returned.
About a year later, I was able to return home. But the temptation to drink was so strong that I moved to Kingman, about an hour from home, and got an apartment of my own. Since I had attended church in Phoenix, I began to look for a church home. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and the first church I visited was advertising a potluck dinner. Maybe that is why I chose that church, but it is the one I still attend.
The first person I met was Debbie (the pastor’s wife), and she introduced me to Audrey, who has become a real friend. She got me involved in helping at church. She knew that when I was around family and friends, I still had the strong temptation to drink, and it was becoming a problem. So, she helped me get into the Christian Discipleship Center in Cortez, Colorado, for a 90-day session.
I’m thankful I went through the program. I learned things about God and the Bible and myself. I’ve been baptized since returning home. I do chores around the church and help teach little boys on Wednesday nights. Audrey and I are reading Breaking Unhealthy Soul-Ties. I write down my questions; then we get together to talk about them. I pray that my family will come to know Jesus, too.
One verse that carries me over the bumps in the road is Psalm 139:10: “Even there your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me.”
