Sitting on the floor of a dimly lit basement in a rented house in Buffalo, N.Y., bleary-eyed and defeated, I watched the phone as it rang. My reflexes were dulled by marijuana and despair, and I had reached the end of myself. In the third-floor bedroom slept my fretful two-year-old daughter. In the living room, shattered glass from a broken window and blood from her father’s battering arms was yet to be cleaned. And in the basement I slowly reached to answer a call from the only Christian I knew.

My life was marked by rebellion. My mom was a cheerleading coach, so I played football. She loved pop music, so I listened to emo and indie punk. I’ve always had a violent reaction to keeping up appearances, so I rejected everything that was considered a social norm. All of my friends were outcasts, and I preferred that. I still do. Outcasts tend to be more honest.

Eventually my self-inflated ideas of heroic rebellion bore their true fruit. I was kicked out of my home at 15, dropped out of school, and lived in flophouses buying and selling drugs, sometimes working, always angry. Eventually I stumbled across an enthusiastic Navy recruiter who bought me lunch—and special drinks to clear my system of anything suspicious—and happily filled his quota when I enlisted at age 19.

My ASVAP (military test) score was perfect, so the Navy waived my requirement for GED or high school diploma on the condition that I would attain one of those during A School. Immediately following A School training, my battalion was shipped to Kuwait. My time of overseas service was marked by smuggling alcohol, refusing to go to 5:30 a.m. muster, sneaking out to lie on airstrips in the middle of the night, and having an illicit relationship with a married senior sailor. When I became pregnant, the commanding officer gave me an ultimatum. If I turned in the father for fornication and adultery on deployment, I would be let off the hook; otherwise, I would be dismissed. I chose the latter. It gave me the out I was looking for and the opportunity to feign heroism.

Released from service a year after enlisting, I promptly went to Houston, Tex., where my child’s father—discharged for attempting to go AWOL—divorced his wife and hooked up with me. Thus began the most horrific three years of my life.

As bad he was under the constant threat of reprimand in the military, his behavior was immeasurably worse when the Navy’s shackles were released. I wondered why his wife never put up any fight; I found out quickly. This man was perhaps the meanest and most unfeeling person I had ever encountered. He routinely indulged in pornography, strip clubs, cocaine, and was verbally and physically violent. He called my black and gay friends obscene names. He told me every way possible that I was utterly worthless. I believed his treatment was what I deserved, a penance for my terrible sins.

A move to Buffalo, N.Y., proved the hand of God in my life. On Mother’s Day, after a terrible fight, my daughter’s father was arrested for domestic violence. My neighbors, a lesbian couple across the street, came to my rescue and let me stay with them a little while. They were so kind. A few days after his arrest, on that basement floor, I picked up the phone and took maybe the first piece of advice I had ever taken.

The Christian on the phone told me that if my child’s father showed remorse, I should take him back—but if he didn’t, “walk away, and never look back.” Minutes later, I received a call from him at the jail. “Well?” I said. He didn’t apologize. He accused me. I had never been so grateful to have been refused an apology.

The next day, I went to a church—Buffalo Community something—where the pastors were from Houston and New York. That seemed important. I thought they could help me finalize my plans, so I went to see Pastor Dave. He said he would pray for me about my next move. Thanks for nothing, I thought.

Pastor Dave did pray, and believed the Lord wanted me to move back to Oswego, N.Y. Great, I thought. Even this pastor doesn’t want me around. I thought maybe he’d better pray again. Oswego, my hometown, was the last place on earth I wanted to go. Yet the pastor was quite confident. I called my brother, who soon moved my daughter Stacia and I into my father’s old house.

A few nights after I had settled in, I lay my daughter down to sleep and walked out into my father’s garage. I had a pack of Newports, a two-liter Pepsi, and a Bible. I read every gospel, barely registering, but so desperately needing to be close to God, who I knew was very present. I prayed one prayer, over and over. It was the wretched plea of a terrible mother, to save her daughter from the future that loomed over her. I begged God to spare her becoming like me. I made a vow to the Lord, that if He would help me to save her life, I would give myself to Him without reservation, whatever that looked like.

My life didn’t change immediately. But there was a noticeable change in my thinking that I couldn’t rightly define until I read this verse: “For it is God who works in you, both to will, and to work, for His good pleasure” (Phil. 2:13). The willingness to go God’s way was present where it had never been.

I knew of a church in Oswego that had housed me as a homeless teenager. I knew I had to go to church. I also knew you should wear a dress to church; so I wore a dress—never mind that it was sheer with a slit to the thigh. I came late, and left as soon as possible. Still, I was stopped in the parking lot by a dear older friend who was surprised to see me and cooed over my daughter. Then a guy with leopard-spotted hair and baggy skater jeans barreled out of the church. I knew this guy! He was a punk drummer who ran with my friends in high school. “Brian, right?” I asked. “Yeah! Hey listen, let me buy you lunch!” Brian half-shouted nervously. I shrugged, and accepted. I didn’t have money for lunch anyway. (Later, I found out that my friend Laurie had commented to her friend Kim, “Oh look at that Brian! Such an evangelist!” to which Kim replied with a side-glance, “Did you see that dress? That boy is not evangelizing!”)

Brian soon became my best friend. I started college, got an apartment, and Brian frequently came around after Stacia’s bedtime (“so she won’t be confused or frightened’), stayed on the front porch (“to avoid the appearance of evil”), and talked for hours over coffee. We reminisced about old friends, recounted our broken lives, confessed sin, and studied the Scriptures. Stacia loved him immediately, and since she was a wary and shy child, this was uncanny. I saw immediately that Brian was no ordinary man. We knew we had something real that the Lord would bless, to make a real home.

The Lord gave me an immediate and fiery passion to know His Word and to discuss it in any capacity. I journaled about the Bible in English and business classes at SUNY Oswego; I debated with the evolutionary biology professor. I studied and asked questions, to the chagrin of my fiancé Brian and the leaders of my church; but I couldn’t be satiated. The Lord enabled me to quit smoking pot nearly immediately, and the desire to quit cigarettes and unhealthy eating habits followed (though the working out took some time). There was a brand new life in me. I was starved for the life of holiness, which the Spirit of God in me desired to live.

Now, 9 years later, Brian and I are married with 5 children. Brian has adopted Stacia and loves her as deeply as our mutual children. They often joke that she loved Daddy before I did. For many years we attended the Charismatic church where we met, but, as we grew in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior, we simply couldn’t remain. We are grateful for what the Lord has done through that congregation, and grateful too that He led us to the Reformed Presbyterian Church of Oswego, where the preaching of God’s Word is rich and enthusiastic, and the service to the brethren and the poor is sincere and in secret, as the Lord has commanded.

I barely recall the girl on the basement floor of that Buffalo apartment. I am fully assured, because of what the Lord has done, that “if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old things have passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Cor. 5:17).

Brooke Demott and her husband, Brian, attend Oswego, N.Y., RPC. They have 5 kids: Stacia (11), Aliana (7), Judah (5), Malachi (3), and Selah (18 months). They homeschool and are very active in the community. Brooke, Brian, and Stacia are pictured at their wedding to the right.