He always wondered if he was cursed.

Raised in an orphanage. Shuffled through foster homes like unwanted mail. No bedtime stories. No goodnight kisses. Just silence, walls, and the ache of abandonment.

“They never wanted me,” he told himself.

He drifted through life unloved, untouched by anything resembling family.

Then, at forty, a woman appeared.

“I’m your mother,” she said.

Shock gave way to suspicion. But something inside him—maybe the boy who still wanted to believe—asked, “Who’s my father?”

She told him. The man was rich. Prominent. Powerful.

When he met him, he was overwhelmed by the grandeur. Marble floors. Staff that moved like ghosts. A life so far removed from his own.

“I didn’t know I had a son,” the man said.

They began to bond. Fishing trips. Hunting. Long talks over campfires. The man smiled often. “We’re just making up for lost time.”

For the first time in his life, the sun broke through the clouds. A father. His father. Finally.

Then came the illness. The diagnosis was terminal—unless he got a kidney transplant.

Without hesitation, the son offered his.

“I didn’t find my father just to lose him,” he thought. He did it out of love.

The surgery was a success.

But when he woke up, his father was gone.

He waited. Called. No answer.

When he went to the mansion, they wouldn’t let him in.

Then the truth came.

His mother had been paid to find him. The whole reunion had been a setup. The man needed a kidney—and knew blood would give willingly what money could not.

He had been used.

His chest ached, but not from the surgery. It was betrayal, pure and deep.

The man tried to pay him off.

He refused.

They argued. Emotions spilled. Rage boiled. He stormed out into the street—

—and was struck by a car.

The damage was catastrophic. His spine shattered. The doctors told him he would never walk again.

In the hospital, he stared at the ceiling and whispered, “God is cruel.”

He meant it. He hated God.

Why him?

Years passed.

A prisoner in a wheelchair, he became a shadow. A victim of pity. Paralyzed in more than just his body. Hope was a foreign concept. He had stopped believing in happy endings.

Then came the second accident.

The crash was violent—but when he opened his eyes, he felt something.

His legs.

He moved them.

The doctors were stunned. He cried for the first time in years.

“Someone must have been praying,” he said softly. “Maybe God listened.”

Hope returned.

And with it, a spark of belief.

Shortly after, his father died—and left him everything.

He didn't know what to feel. But he knew one thing: life wasn't done with him.

Then one night, during a robbery, a gun went off. The bullet pierced his side clean through.

No vital organs were hit.

Later, the doctors explained—it passed through the exact spot where his left kidney used to be.

The kidney he had given away.

He broke down in tears.

“God is good,” he whispered. And this time, he meant it.

He remembered a quote from Rick Warren he once read during the darkest time in his life:“When you understand that life is a test, you realize that nothing is insignificant in your life.”

Now, he understood.

The pain. The betrayal. The loss.
The miracle. The bullet. The faith.
None of it was random.

Nothing was insignificant.