Everything began to shift when my sister gave her life to Christ. It wasn't something small or casual—it was born out of pain. Her health condition brought her to a place where she realized she needed God not just as an idea, but as her foundation. Circumstances pushed her to surrender. And when she did, I saw a different version of her—calmer, stronger, more intentional.
One day, she looked at me seriously and said something I will never forget. She warned me that if I didn't give my life to Christ willingly, circumstances would force me to. She told me that life has a way of humbling you when you refuse to submit to God. That warning shook me, even though I didn't admit it at the time.
There's a scripture that speaks directly to this truth:
"Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I keep Your word." — Psalm 119:67
That verse explains it perfectly. Sometimes, people only turn to God after pain teaches them what peace tried to show them. That was my sister's story. And she didn't want it to become mine.
Yet, even after hearing all that, I didn't change. I didn't give my life to Christ. I still watched what I knew I shouldn't. The difference was that now, something had changed inside me—I felt conviction. Not enough to stop, but enough to feel uncomfortable. Enough to know that something wasn't right.
Conviction is strange. It doesn't force you to change; it only invites you to. And I kept ignoring the invitation.
Then came the season of school admissions. I wanted to enter school so badly. That desire pushed me toward God again—but this time, it was conditional. I didn't want God; I wanted what God could give me. I told myself I wanted a relationship with Him, but I didn't put in the work. I wanted the results without the surrender.
Still, something in me kept pulling closer. I began staying up for midnight prayers. At first, it felt difficult. Sleep fought me. Distractions fought me. But slowly, prayer stopped feeling like a task and started feeling like a lifeline. I began to take my prayer life seriously—not perfectly, but intentionally.
In my daily life, though, the struggle continued. There's a saying that goes, old habits die hard, and I learned how true that is. Habits don't disappear just because you pray once or cry once. They fight to survive.
That's when I understood something important: Christianity is not just about believing—it's about becoming. Becoming like Christ. Living the way He lived. Loving the way He loved. Resisting the way He resisted.
The Bible says it clearly:
"Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus." — Philippians 2:5
That verse changed everything for me. It told me that victory doesn't come from suppression—it comes from transformation. You don't just stop sin by force; you replace it by renewing your mind to think like Christ.
And deep down, I knew the truth I had been running from: the only way to truly stop was God. Not discipline alone. Not fear alone. Not promises to myself. God.
Then I heard something Pastor Philip Mitchell said that pierced me deeply. He said:
"I want to do something you've never done before. Break your flesh. Crucify it. Tell your flesh it has no authority over you. Discipline it. Crush it. Give it no pleasure."
Those words didn't sound gentle. They sounded serious. They sounded like war. And that's exactly what it was—a war between my spirit and my flesh.
For the first time, I understood that this wasn't just about stopping a habit. It was about authority. About who was in control of my life. Was it my flesh, or was it Christ?
That was the moment my journey with Christ truly began. Not because I was suddenly perfect. Not because temptation disappeared. But because I finally decided to fight—not in my strength, but in His.
I didn't know how long the journey would be. I didn't know how many times I would stumble. But I knew one thing for sure: I could no longer live the same way and claim to want God. Something had to die for something new to live.
And that something… was my flesh.