The Story So Far...
A Called-Out Journey

I've been on a journey for a long time — years upon years of walking with the Lord.

From girlhood to womanhood, through joyful highs and painful lows, I've been growing. Through the hills and valleys. Through turbulent waters and quiet seasons. And one thing that's stayed with me through it all has been journaling. It became my way of processing life with God — of wrestling, weeping, rejoicing, and recording what I felt the Spirit was showing me.

A Foundation of Faith

The fire was first sparked when I received my own Bible — not from a school, but as a gift from my cousin Willie of blessed memory and his teenage friends who were on fire for the Lord. I was always asking them questions about Jesus, baptism, and the things of God. They saw that hunger in me and wanted to nurture it. It felt like God was inviting me personally to go deeper.

I can't talk about my walk without mentioning my great-grandmother, Manten. She was a woman of fire and reverence. A prayer warrior. A mentor to my mother, and a spiritual matriarch in our family. Every Wednesday when she visited, she made it clear: the Word and prayer came before everything else — even before the food she brought, which we loved. I watched her.

I watched my father too — often on his knees in prayer by his bedside. I watched my mother lead us in morning devotions and Bible study. Daddy danced often on the corridor, giving God praise with no apology. That became a part of me. Today, it is how we raise our children. Worship, prayer, and the Word — not just in theory, but in our lifestyle.

Daddy's Girl

Growing up, I felt seen and cherished. My Dad doted on me. I know he loved all his children, but I can only speak of how he made me feel. He was intentional. Protective. Proud. I had a very sheltered life, which was beautiful, but it also left me unprepared for the disappointments, betrayals, and harsh realities of life. I was sensitive. But God used even that.

I strongly believe in modelling what I want to see in my children. That means living out the Word in front of their eyes — right from the time they were babies. Letting them see it. Not just hear it.

The Hidden Gift

I didn't know the word "journaling" then — but even from my younger years, I knew God would use me to speak and write. I'd wake up with words in my spirit, sometimes in the early hours when my girls were babies. I'd retreat to the living room, light worship playing softly, and I would just sit with God. Listening. Writing. Pouring out.

These moments became altars — quiet spaces where the Lord formed me.

And I began to sense it… a calling. Not to pastor. But to impact people, especially women — deeply and meaningfully, in a way that reflects God's love, healing, and truth.

Wrestling with the Call

But the doubts crept in.

"Marian, you're calm. You're not loud or extroverted. You haven't read the whole Bible. You don't have formal ministry qualifications. You're not the typical leader. Who are you to lead women?"

I'd try to shake it off, but the fire in my belly would keep rising again. And again.

But I believe my life lived with the Lord has become my qualification. The things He's delivered me from, the valleys He's carried me through, those are my credentials. My lived experience with Him is rich soil from which I can share, uplift, and encourage other women, young and old, to know Him more deeply. If I can help even one woman become more intentional about her life, if someone can learn from my many mistakes and avoid the enemy's traps, then my journey has meaning.

When Pain Found Purpose

I went through terrible times in my young adult life. I remember Daddy saying, "The enemies, the Egyptians you see today, you will see no more."

At the time, it didn't even make sense. Maybe I hadn't read that part of the Bible yet.

Then came a devastating loss early in my marriage. A pain that cut deeper than words. I felt like I had disappointed him. When Daddy visited me in my room at Korle Bu Hospital in Accra, Ghana, I wept. And he wept too. He held me, and through his tears he said something I'll never forget: "My daughter, if I could purchase joy in this world for you, I would. No matter how much it costs."
That night, I prayed like never before. I couldn't settle. I paced the corridors of the 6th floor, praying into the early hours of the morning.

And still, I suffered a loss.

I couldn't understand it. "Lord, I prayed. Why didn't you answer me?"

Days later, when Daddy came to me again, he looked me in the eye and said, "My daughter, this is so you have something to share with others. I guess other women."

And I said, "What? You mean I went through this just to have something to say to someone else? How does that even make sense?"
It didn't. But now I understand. Now I see.

That loss, that valley, that ache. It wasn't punishment. It was preparation. And I bear the scars of it.

Not in shame. In strength.

I Qualify to Speak

I don't have all the titles and credentials that religious people say qualify you to speak to women. I didn't tick every box. I didn't do church the way some people demanded. But I have something they can't give me. I have walked through the fire and come out with oil. I've been there. I felt it. I survived it. And I own it. That is my qualification.

  
And so I said YES!!​

​

So here I am — not perfect, not finished, but called. I didn't go through all that for nothing.

Every tear. Every delay. Every heartbreak. Every whispered prayer. Every journaled moment. All of it was preparation.

If my scars can speak life to another woman... If my story can help her rediscover her worth, dodge deception, and rise into purpose — then to God be the glory.

This is my obedience. This is my "yes." And this is The Called-Out Woman.