My name is Carlos M. Rodriguez, and I want to share a portion of my testimony with you all. What I share is what the Lord has done in my life and how He saved me from going to hell.

As a young child, my mother left me at my sister’s house for what I thought would be just a weekend. That very same night, I heard the phone ringing. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was my mother calling my sister to tell her that she would not be coming back for me.

My sister was a churchgoer at a Pentecostal church located in Brooklyn, NY, right on the corner from her house. I attended as much as I could, even when she stayed home. There, I found peace, joy, and witnessed what I now know to be the power of God—healing, restoration, deliverance, salvation, chains being broken, and more. I often stayed with the church teen group. They were on fire for the Lord—fasting, church shut-ins for entire weekends, all-night prayer services—sadly, something very rare in today’s church.

At the age of 11, I received my calling from God to be a minister of His Word and to deliver His message to the world.

My sister was a survivor of abuse by her husband, which I personally witnessed. I helped raise her children the best I could. After a year or so, I was moved from her house to a brother’s house, then from house to house. I began drifting away from the church and into the things of the world—drugs, crime, alcohol. I dropped out of junior high after being moved to Queens, NY. I formed a gang and was involved in fights almost every day. I had guns put to my face that jammed, knives pulled on me, yet somehow I was never seriously hurt.

I started selling cocaine in Queens, and one day the very same people I was selling for kidnapped me and took me to a cemetery on Queens Boulevard. They beat me as I sat in the back of the car, then forced me to walk through an “Apache line”—men lined up on both sides beating me as I walked through. I looked up and saw one of them filling a needle with heroin to inject me as I was forced to dig my own grave.

At that moment, I began praying to God for mercy as I dug. Moments later, one of the men ran in shouting, “Carlos wasn’t there.” What I later learned was that one of their guys had been beaten by people I knew, and they assumed I was involved. That was clearly the hand of God saving me from death yet again.

My memory of exact dates and years is difficult to recall because my living situation was unstable. I witnessed plenty of abuse and drug use. Eventually, I stayed at another sister’s house, and I remember my mother calling her and telling her to kick me out. She did. I had nowhere to go.

I rode the subway back and forth, sleeping on trains, rooftops, hospital basements, hallways—anywhere I could stay warm and get some rest. Every day and night I wondered where my next meal would come from. I did whatever I had to do to survive and stay warm—even the unthinkable—yet I was just a young man with no direction.

I remember holding onto a can of peas I had stolen from a store. That was my breakfast and lunch. I don’t even remember how I opened the can, but I did.

I later moved to Florida to live with a brother, but shortly after, my best friend was murdered. I flew back to New York the very next morning seeking revenge. I don’t know what I was thinking. I ended up in jail, and after my release, I found myself homeless again.

I reconnected with friends I grew up with in Queens and started hanging out at the park. Every night they would go home, and I would pretend that I also had somewhere to go—but it was all an act. I increased my drug use—crack, marijuana, alcohol—and stole from anyone I could, even loved ones. I was in pure survival mode.

Basketball became my outlet. I played every day just to stay busy and avoid thinking about where I would sleep at night.

One day, I learned my sister was having a family gathering, so I took the subway to the Bronx. When I arrived, everyone seemed to be having a great time. My sister was no longer the churchgoer she once was. I stood at the kitchen entrance, grabbed a knife, and stabbed myself four times while they laughed—trying to end my life.

I woke up in the hospital, handcuffed, and was taken to the psychiatric ward. After days there, I was released back into the streets with nowhere to go. I questioned why God allowed me to live.

Everywhere I went, no matter the borough, I saw the words written on walls: “Jesus loves you.” I tried to avoid it, but it was everywhere.

I began using heavier drugs—cocaine and heroin—selling and using. I lived in a crack house for over a year. Years later, I ran into my mother, only to be given a fake phone number. I spent many nights standing on the edge of rooftops, wondering if I should jump.

At the age of 20, I was told by a brother that the man I thought was my father was not my real father. That devastated me. I searched for my father but was ignored and rejected by everyone I asked. When I questioned my mother, her response was always, “I had better things to do.” A couple of years ago, I stopped asking—it only reopened wounds I was trying to heal.

I went to jail many times—not for long terms—but each experience left a mark. Abandonment, drugs, incarceration, suicide attempts, homelessness, loneliness, gang life—it all feels like yesterday.

I returned to church many times and left many times. One day while playing basketball, I met a woman who was always at the park. I walked her to the store, bought her a Pepsi, and today—35 years later—she is my wife and the mother of our four beautiful children.

Our relationship was not easy. The woman who rescued me eventually became the target of my anger—physically and emotionally. (We both did things we are not proud of.) She allowed me to stay at her mother’s house without her mother knowing. When her mother found out, she said I wouldn’t last a month. Thirty-five years later, here we are—and God gets all the glory.

My trust level was at an all-time low. I regret the pain I caused her, but today I write this with no shame or regret regarding where this road has led us. Scripture teaches us that God turns bad into good:

“All things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

I could go on and write about the terrible things I’ve done, even during our marriage, but that would require a book. What matters is today—how God makes a way when there seems to be no way, and how His mercy and grace are beyond imagination.

Today, I live for God, my family, and to deliver His Word to the world—just as He told me when I was a child. A job, a home, and a beautiful family are part of the reward, but most importantly, God gets all the glory for my story.

There is so much more I could share, but as I mentioned, it would take a book. To be clear, the struggle with the inner man still continues, but delay does not mean denial. My suffering has only made me a candidate for His mercy and grace.

I pray this testimony encourages you to understand that His grace is sufficient—for you, just as it is and was for me.

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