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As far back as I can remember, my mother would have me down by the bed at night with her, praying. I can still hear her voice calling my name to God and telling him that she wanted me to follow him in whatever he called me to do.

When I was little, my grandmother would take me to church with her, and she would introduce me to people.

When I was a kid and I'd be in trouble. I'd ask God to help me, and then once the fire was out, I wouldn't talk to Him anymore. When I got older, I began to find I needed some help spiritually, just to function.

From a very young age, I would fall off the bed and wake up on the floor because of dreams. I have a memory from the age of four in which I felt God.

I knew all of the childhood prayers I uttered on my knees at the side of my bed. Many years of Sunday-school attendance had etched certain Psalms and rote prayers into the fibers of my brain. However, somewhere deep inside of me, I had the secret belief that I did not know how to pray, and that frightened me.

My mother was truly my saving grace, because she would take me to church with her. I would see my mother smiling in the choir, and I wanted to know this God that made her so happy. If I had not had that faith in my life, I don't know where I would be right now.

As a kid I would be put to bed when my parents had guests and because I was such a show-off I would go to my mum's room, put on her nightdress and Jackie Onassis shawl, run downstairs, go outside, ring the doorbell and pretend to be one of the guests. I'd say, 'Hello, I'm Mrs. So-and-So.'

I remember being a kid and praying in the hell of my house to have somebody love me and somebody that I could love.

Praying privately in churches, I began to discover that heaven was my true home and also that it was here and now, woven into this life.

My dad used to sit me on his knee and read from the Bible to us. We were a praying family. Ours was a family of love and a family of prayer.