My Testimony

Author Darlene Conard

“The people who sat in darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up.” Matthew 4:16 KJV

As a fifteen-year-old teenager, I struggled between life and death.

Self-mutilation became my source of relief. Several friends encouraged me to try it. The experience gave me a high. Of course, it doesn’t make sense. How can tearing into the skin with razors and glass cause one to feel high? It’s just as addictive as drugs, alcohol, or anything else. I’ll get into that another time. I couldn’t handle the physical and mental abuse any longer! No one cared! No one listened. Everything behind closed doors stayed there. No one believed me anyway!

Chains of depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies lured me into a cold atmosphere. I felt nothing except a sense of justification and liberation. There was no empathy, concern, joy, or awareness of goodness; everyone around me was completely shut out. The thirty pills prescribed by the psychiatrist only worsened my condition. Pain upon pain built a wall between me, God, and everyone else.

Every church I entered rejected me after seeing me dressed in black from head to toe, with dream catcher earrings hanging from my ears and dark makeup on my face. “Can’t you wear something different? Do you have to come like that? This is the house of God.” Many pastors and church members passed me by with disgust. After being turned away five times, I decided to convert to necromancy. What else could I believe? Apparently, I was destined for hell. I belonged to darkness. If there was a God, and if Jesus really did die and resurrect, He didn’t want to waste time on me, or so I had rehearsed in my thoughts.

Cutting became more than just getting high. “Witch— that’s what I want to be, a full-pledge witch!” You name it: tarot cards, palm reading, spell books, seances! I participated.       

As I ambled down the familiar path home from town, a woman approached me, her condemning demeanor earnest and inviting as she spoke of her church. Her words tumbled out, heavy with conviction, proclaiming that my current path led straight to hell. With a sardonic chuckle, I shot back, “Tell me something I don’t know!” The stark black polish on my nails stood in sharp contrast to the vibrant autumn leaves scattered around me, and I felt my frustration bubble to the surface.

I clutched the torn pages of a once-sacred text in my hand, now reduced to confetti-like scraps after an impassioned encounter. As I completed my retort, the remnants of that biblical literature flew from my fist, fluttering through the air like a mocking testament to my defiance, landing right in her startled face. “I’ve been there before; the church is crawling with hypocrites!” The bitterness in my voice echoed the painful memories of my past, memories that weighed heavily on my chest, driving me further from the warmth of my grandmother’s love. I couldn’t bring myself to bridge that chasm, not now, not ever.

Allow me to clarify my point: Dismissing the existence of demonic powers and choosing to ignore them does not eliminate their presence or influence. Whether or not you believe in them, these forces remain a part of the unseen world, operating beyond our understanding.

I first came to know my grandmother in 1999. She was a steadfast woman of God, and her unwavering devotion was evident in her relentless prayers. Day after day, she and a lady named Bonnie Miller, whom she mentored, dedicated themselves to prayer and fasting, their hearts filled with hope and love for me. Her prayers, like a gentle but persistent tide, flowed unceasingly as they interceded on my behalf.

As my sister and I strolled down the shadowy street, the cold air of the night wrapped around us like a heavy blanket. It was one o’clock in the morning, and the only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves and our quiet footsteps echoing against the pavement. In that moment, I found myself caught in a relentless internal battle, a tug of war between contrasting voices in my mind.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to church?” one voice urged gently, offering the promise of solace. “You can be free of all this. There’s hope, a new beginning waiting for you.”  But just as swiftly, another voice surged up, sharp and bitter. “Remember what happened? You aren’t welcome in the church—any church! You’ll never escape the pain that clings to you like a ghost.” The memories surged forth, unbidden, of harsh words and painful moments. “Remember what your dad did to you? You’re nothing! He said it; they all said it at school. You’re a disgrace to God!”

The echoes of their taunts reverberated through my mind, fueling the war between good and evil. Each side fought fiercely, amplifying my confusion and despair, while the darkness around us deepened, reflecting the turmoil within.

One night, I dreamt of a Man hanging on the cross. Lightning lit the sky. Thunder shook the foundation of the earth. Muscle and skin hung from His bloody, disfigured torso like shredded sheets. He was unrecognizable.  No longer was I distant; I suddenly found myself at His feet. Slowly, as I looked up, His blood dripped on me.

The dreams persisted, hunting me night after night. I was uncomfortable not understanding His marvelous light. No matter what I tried, it felt impossible to silence my thoughts. I engaged in countless distractions, attempting to drown out dreams compelling me to the truth, His truth. Yet, amidst this internal chaos, a flicker of hope remained: God always prevails!

Darkness struck back with a vengeance, transforming my once empowering confidence into a paralyzing vulnerability. Questions swirled inside my mind like a relentless storm: “Who am I? What am I?” Fear held me captive through the long, restless nights, leaving me in a state of raw anxiety. Countless times, I jolted awake, gasping for breath as if something sinister were slithering across my skin—its presence accompanied by eerie laughter and hushed, mocking whispers that taunted me from the shadows. The struggle continued throughout the day, casting a shroud of weariness over my body, while waves of nausea and confusion crashed over me, leaving me exhausted and disoriented. Each moment was a battle against an unseen force, tightening its grip with every passing hour.

On several accounts, I attempted suicide by tightening a cord in a knot around my neck. My middle sister pressed her shoulder against the wooden door with all her might, straining against the heavy resistance. As she pushed, the latch gave way with a resounding crack, splintering the lock. With a swift movement, she ran to my side, removing the cord from my neck in a determination to snap me out of the anxiety attack. I took overdoses of valium, anything that kept me from thinking.

 I found myself captivated by graveyards, those solemn plots of land where the whispers of the past seemed to linger in the air. I would often wander among the tombstones, hoping for a glimpse of a spirit that might steer me toward the answers I so desperately sought. It was a particularly chilly evening in late October, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting long, looming shadows, when an unfathomable pull guided my footsteps toward Bonnie’s home. Her house sat along the same winding road that led to the graveyard, its silhouette barely visible against the darkening sky.

As I approached,  I can say that the answers I sought for that night came from a holy source. Instead, they emerged from the One who conquered death itself. Dressed in my signature black ensemble, complete with razor-cut sleeves and talismanic jewelry that clinked softly with each step, I felt a strange sense of comfort. My makeup, dark and dramatic, could not mask the profound influence of the Holy Ghost that enveloped me, igniting a power far greater than the darkness that held me captive!

At the age of twenty-five, I finally opened my heart to my grandmother, embracing her presence in my life. It all started when she graciously invited me to attend Bible studies hosted by her dear friend Bonnie in her cozy home.

With warmth and sincerity, Grandma’s friend extended an invitation for me to experience a Pentecostal service in my hometown of Richwood, West Virginia. The genuine love and kindness exuded by both of these remarkable women transformed my perspective on Christianity. It became clear to me that their concern for my well-being was sincere and profound; they truly cared for me in a way I had never experienced before.

That Sunday morning, an unfamiliar heaviness settled upon my spirit, a stark contrast to the joy surrounding me. As the new friend I had met performed a heartfelt rendition of “There’s a Miracle in Every Pew” by Aaron Wilburn, a wave of sorrow washed over me, revealing the depths of my own misery. I could feel the gazes of the congregation piercing through the air, but the thought of their judgment was rendered insignificant in that pivotal moment. With a determined heart, I made my way to the altar, each step heavy yet purposeful.

Kneeling down, I cried out, “God, I can’t carry this burden any longer! I can’t continue like this; please take this weight from me and do with me as you choose!” The atmosphere shifted around me, and in that sacred space, I felt the undeniable presence of God enveloping me like a warm embrace. Drenched in His love, mercy, and grace, I laid all my broken pieces before Him, vulnerable and raw.

In that transformative instant, something shifted within me; I was no longer the same. The chains that had long bound me began to shatter in the name of Jesus, their grip releasing as darkness retreated into the shadows. A newfound clarity pierced through the fog of my despair, and I began to see the world through a lens of hope and light.

With a kind smile, the pastor approached and said, “God is going to use you in a mighty way.” Those words resonated deep within me, igniting a spark of possibility and purpose that I had long thought extinguished.

My grandma and her friend’s perseverance encouraged me to fight in prayer for others.

Don’t think for a moment that the blood of Jesus has or ever will expire. Cast away the thought that the prayers for lost loved ones go unheard. Give no place to the voice that says, “You’re wasting your time!”

I’m here to testify that the consistency of fervent prayer breaks chains of darkness!

“Me?” I exclaimed, my voice filled with disbelief as I glanced around at the small group of intercessors standing nearby, their faces a mix of hope and encouragement. “God wants to use me?” As the weight of those words sank in, tears streamed down my cheeks, soaking through my black T-shirt and leaving dark smudges on the fabric. I froze, grappling with a whirlwind of emotions. Just moments ago, I had been consumed by anger and resentment towards God, blaming Him for the chains of evil that bound me. I had inflicted pain on myself and hurled curses in His direction, all while immersing myself in ominous spell books and practicing dark rituals. How could it be possible that He would choose someone like me?

… “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.”   James 5:16 KJV

At one time, feelings of shame kept me from sharing my testimony. A pastor discouraged me from speaking of it, explaining I would go back into bondage.  I realized something: what if the testimonies of those in the Bible went unpublished? How would anyone know His glory embellishes the broken souls of men, women, and children of all nations? No limits!

“Speak of your testimony, the Holy Ghost urged during a group meeting of people from all over the United States in 2014. For the longest time, I hesitated. Without further delay, I gave my testimony. “Thank you for sharing. I thought I was alone. I would have never thought that someone like you went through so much.” The lady’s tear-filled eyes locked with mine. “Don’t ever be ashamed,” she continued.  We must share our testimony!  “And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death.”  Revelation 12:11 KJV

For a long time, I have chosen to remain silent about my past lifestyle, and there’s a purpose behind this decision. I intend to weave these experiences into a book that will candidly depict my journey.

Ultimately, the opinions of others about my story hold little significance. My primary goal is to reach those who are grappling with similar struggles, reassuring them that they are not alone in their fight.

Through my words, I aim to convey messages filled with hope, comfort, and the profound possibility of redemption through Jesus Christ. As both an author and an artist, the idea of volunteering in my community once seemed distant and unimaginable to me. Yet, I have come to realize that Jesus has the power to transform anyone and any situation, turning despair into hope and darkness into light.

… “my speech and my preaching was not with enticing words of man’s wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power: That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God. Howbeit we speak wisdom among them that are perfect: yet not the wisdom of this world, nor of the princes of this world, that come to nought:  1 Corinthians 2:4-6 KJV

 Wherefore I say unto thee, “Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.” And he said unto her, “Thy sins are forgiven.”

I do not celebrate Halloween because I have a deep understanding of its origins and significance. This day, often shrouded in fun and fantasy, has roots connected to ancient traditions surrounding witchcraft and the supernatural. For many, it is a time associated with dark arts and rituals—a day when witches and warlocks would perform sacrificial ceremonies under the cover of night. Halloween carries an underlying meaning that is sinister.

God bless; my prayers are with you always!

Darlene J. Conard

Feel free to forward it to anyone you wish.  My mission is to encourage everyone to follow our Lord Jesus Christ with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength. ©Darlene J. Conard Vision Ministries 2024.   This may not be republished or used without the author’s written consent. Darlene J. Conard is also affiliated with Glory Carrier Ministries.

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