A line from Soul on Fire has been echoing in my heart. A little girl asks John, “If you could go back and stop it from ever happening, would you?”
I sat with that question longer than I expected.
Would I change it?
Would I choose a different story if I could?
Would I ask God to spare me the pain and suffering of every situation?
As I kept pondering, the question widened.
What if I had pursued being a doctor? When I was in elementary and middle school, I dreamed of becoming a burn doctor—someone who could save lives like mine, bring healing, speak hope, and be a voice for those who felt unseen. I had it mapped out. A plan. A future I thought I understood. And then I changed my mind. But what if I hadn’t?
If I hadn’t changed course, I wouldn’t know my best friend—I wouldn’t have gone to the same college. I wouldn’t have the experiences of missions, travel, research, and ministry that shaped my faith and my heart. I wouldn’t be in Pennsylvania, because I wouldn’t have had time for ministry training. I wouldn’t know most of the people who now form my support system. I’d be buried in far more debt. And if I’m being honest, I would likely be lost in my faith—striving for purpose instead of resting in calling. I wouldn’t be who I am today.
It doesn’t stop there. It doesnt stop at just one choice.
If I’m truly honest, I wouldn’t stop hard things either—the ones that came with deep wounding, the ones that quietly shaped me just as deeply. Losing people too soon broke something in me, but God used that grief to teach me how precious time is and how tightly love should be held. Friendships that went sideways left me lost for a moment, but God used that loneliness to lead me toward people who could meet me where I was—and walk with me forward.
There were seasons of deep darkness too. Sexual harm and mental health struggles pulled me into places I never would have chosen. Places where hope felt distant and light seemed thin. But it was there, in the dark, that I learned how brightly God’s light truly shines. How His presence doesn’t disappear in suffering—it becomes more visible. More necessary. More real. None of it was meaningless. None of it was wasted.
Each moment served a purpose. Each heartbreak altered the path. Each painful memory now the fertilizer to my field.
Life feels a lot like a railroad line. One small switch can send the train in a completely different direction—but the train keeps moving. It doesn’t stop because the track changed. It continues forward, carrying every passenger, every scar, every hope along with it. And here’s the part that brings me the most peace: the train doesn’t choose its own tracks.
The conductor can’t see far enough ahead. They can’t see the trees fallen across the rails, the mud caked thick enough to seize the wheels, or the places where staying the course would cause more damage than a detour ever could. They don’t know where the track ahead is weakened, where continuing straight would mean derailment—total collapse.
But God does.
So with every shift, every unexpected turn, God takes hold. He moves the switch not to confuse the journey, but to protect it. What feels like a setback is often a rescue. What feels like loss is sometimes God quietly steering us away from something that would have broken us beyond repair. He reroutes not because the destination is wrong, but because the path we were on would have cost too much. With every change in direction, the journey might feel longer and sometimes I just want off at the next stop. But each moment longer is another moment to embrace the click of the wheels, the blow of the horn, the countryside out the window, and the slow pace across the tracks. The detour isn’t punishment. It’s preservation.
Every change in direction—every loss, every ending, every painful redirection—was God ensuring the train didn’t derail and fall apart entirely. Not all things were caused by God, just like the conductor didnt cause the mud on the tracks or the tree to fall. But He ensures it doesn't completely change the outcome, Ensuring it stayed intact long enough to reach where it was always meant to go. What the enemy means for evil, God uses for Good.
So would I change my story?
No.
Not because the pain wasn’t real.
Not because the losses didn’t hurt.
Not because the scars—visible or invisible—were easy to carry.
But because God redeemed it all.
Without my burn, I wouldn’t have met my friends through World Burn Congress—people scattered across the world who understand suffering and resilience in a way few others can. Without it, I wouldn’t have gone to camp or received opportunities that poured life, confidence, and faith into me. I wouldn’t carry the same compassion for those who suffer, because I wouldn’t have lived it. I wouldn’t be in Pennsylvania, because I wouldn’t have met the person God used to bring me here.
I wouldn’t be who I am.
Scripture reminds us that God works all things together for good—not just the beautiful moments, but the broken ones too. He doesn’t waste wounds. He turns ashes into testimony. He takes what the enemy intended for harm and transforms it into healing, purpose, and hope.
If my story—my scars, my grief, my detours, my survival—can help even one person feel less alone, trust God more deeply, or believe that redemption is still possible, then every ounce of pain was worth it and I would do it all over again.
So if you’re reading this and wondering whether the hardest chapters of your life ruined the story, I want you to hear this: they didn’t. God may be using them to change your track—not to derail you, but to lead you somewhere you never knew you needed to go. Your are not alone, you are not being punished. You are being rerouted to something better. You are in the midst of the Grand cross life journey, dont get off now.
Your story matters.
Your pain is not pointless.
And God is still carrying you forward.