My parents made my brother and me sit down on the couch as they nervously stood before us. 

“We’re permanently moving back to the US … in two weeks,” they said. 

I couldn’t believe my ears as tears burst from my eyes and flowed freely down my cheeks. My worst nightmare had come true. I wouldn’t even be able to finish the school year. I was only fourteen, and as I saw it, my world had just fallen apart.  

We had lived in southern France since I was four. But now, because of my mother’s deteriorating health, we were moving to a country I barely knew. My only experience with the States was during our summer visits every three years—not enough to prepare me to live there, much less attend an American public high school. 

Once in the US, I quickly realized that I was different from the other teens at school and church—I didn’t understand their world, and they didn’t understand mine. I could barely comprehend their youth slang and colloquial expressions, although I would never admit to it. 

I don’t want to give the impression that my behavior was perfect while my classmates and youth group members were unwelcoming. I made my share of mistakes—which I see now—and allowed my pain to become a barrier between me and all those around me. 

But God didn’t leave me to flounder alone during this horrible time. I felt His presence more intimately than ever before. Jesus became my friend when I thought I had no other, and He held me close. 

You know the story of Daniel’s three friends who were cast into the fire. When King Nebuchadnezzar looked into the furnace, to his shock, he saw four people walking around inside, and he described the extra person as being “like the Son of God.” 

I certainly wasn’t in a fiery furnace, but I was in a fire of sorts, and I wasn’t alone. Jesus entered my world, took my hand, and walked every step of the way with me. And He hasn’t stopped since.