Proof The Bible Is True

Ever since my husband, Ricardo, lost his job and we lost our home, I’d said the same prayer every day. Lord, help us find an apartment. Lots of light, warm and homey, a new kitchen, a clean, fully tiled bathroom. Outdoor space, like a balcony, would be nice, but asking way too much. A decent place would do.

 

Ricardo didn’t believe in prayer. But he didn’t have any other answers. We were renting part of a rundown house in Rockford, Illinois, not ideal conditions to raise our eight-year-old son.

 

It was dark and cramped, the floors cold and bare. The kitchen appliances were constantly breaking down and there was no storage for our things. The shared bathroom was filthy. But there was nothing else in the area that we could afford. Then I found mouse droppings and roaches. I’d had it.

 

Walking back from doing errands one day, dreading returning to our squalid little space, I cried, “Lord, we can’t live like this! Where is the apartment I’ve been praying for?”

 

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