Names have been changed for privacy. This story is not shared to slander or harm anyone personally, but to bear witness to God’s faithfulness through injustice and loss.
Things Are Just Things.
Have you ever lost everything or nearly everything? I have.
When I was about twenty or twenty-one years old, I lost nearly everything in my apartment due to water damage and a dishonest landlord who took advantage of my situation, lied about me, and had me illegally evicted. It was one of the hardest seasons of my life—but also one of the times when I felt God’s presence the clearest.
As a young woman who had aged out of foster care, I was still learning how to navigate adulthood and trust God in every circumstance. Let me explain a little: although I was adopted, I didn’t have stable housing once I turned eighteen, so agencies still categorized me alongside aged-out foster youth —because in reality, I was facing the exact same circumstances they were.
This was my second apartment. My first place had been at nineteen, through the Achieving Independence Center (AIC), which helped place me in an independent living program for former foster and adopted youth who had aged out of foster care. I was grateful for that opportunity and followed every rule. The program that placed me in this new apartment was different—a separate nonprofit privately funded by a wealthy donor who lived just outside Philadelphia.
Ironically, she was the one who invited me to join her program—I hadn’t asked or even sought it out. At the time, I was in college with nowhere stable to go during school breaks. I usually stayed on campus and even worked a summer job that allowed me to remain there year-round. All I really wanted was to connect with other former foster youth for mutual support. But she took a liking to me and offered to place me in an independent living apartment. The program would cover my rent and furnishings, while I took care of utilities, food, and daily needs. It truly seemed like a blessing.
My little junior one-bedroom apartment was in historic Germantown, and I would take the regional rail each day to St. Davids, PA, for college at Eastern University. The lease was technically in the nonprofit’s name, but I was listed as the occupant. Utilities were under my name.
Everything seemed fine—until the enemy stirred up chaos.
One week, I traveled to California with my godmother’s nonprofit for our annual ministry trip. We sang and served people experiencing homelessness. When I returned home, I opened my apartment door to find large fans, soaked walls, and water damage about six inches up from the floor. My furniture, most of my clothes, and my belongings were ruined. Mold and mildew touched the bottom of nearly everything.
No one had called or warned me—not the property management company, not the nonprofit that placed me there. I couldn’t stay in the apartment because of the smell and moisture, so I went to my godmother’s home temporarily. When I called the property manager, the woman I spoke to was shockingly rude and condescending. I calmly explained the situation, but she accused me of making false claims about mold and spoke to me as if I were beneath her. It was humiliating.
When I returned to grab a few clothes from the top drawers of my dresser, I found that the property management company had changed the locks. I could not get in! No notice. No call. Nothing.
I contacted the police, showed my utility bill as proof of residence, and filed a report. But I still couldn’t access my home. That’s when I realized they were trying to get me out of there—counting on the fact that someone young, low-income, and formerly in foster care wouldn’t have the means to fight back.
I found a free tenant advocacy organization in Center City that advised me to go to the property office with police support. The same rude woman acted clueless, claiming she couldn’t find the new keys. The police documented everything, but it became clear this was intentional.
Later, during a meeting with the tenant advocate, we called both the property manager and Lydia, the woman who ran the nonprofit. The property manager lied, claiming I had cursed her out and even pulled a gun on her—things so absurd they are laughable. I had never even touched a gun in my life. My caseworker knew I was being truthful; I had kept her updated through every step, even providing police report numbers.
But the lies didn’t stop there. Lydia went on to tell my tenant advocate that I had already been compensated for all my destroyed belongings—another complete fabrication. I was sitting right there on speakerphone when she said it. Hearing those words left me stunned and deeply hurt.
Soon after, Lydia removed me from the program altogether. She claimed I hadn’t met certain requirements and referenced the lies the property manager had told about me, as if she actually believed them. When I asked her, “Have you ever heard me use profanity or treat anyone disrespectfully?” she couldn’t answer. I reminded her that if I had really pulled a gun, I’d be in jail. I believe she knew the truth but chose to protect her partnership with that property management company—because they were the only ones willing to rent to her program.
Eventually, they “found” the missing key and let me enter the apartment, escorted by police, my godmother, and a staff mentor from the nonprofit. The sight was heartbreaking—ruined furniture, water-damaged belongings, and only a small handful of clothes and personal items I was able to salvage. Most of what I owned, including the furniture they had purchased and the pieces I’d bought myself, was beyond saving. My godmother confronted them calmly but firmly, calling out the injustice, and the mentor could only nod in shame.
Afterward, my godmother took me in. She gave me a safe place to heal, save money, and rebuild. I remember one day sitting on her couch, working on my laptop, when it suddenly slipped off my lap, crashed, and broke completely. That was the moment I finally broke down and wept. I had lost nearly everything.
I didn’t have the money to sue the property company or pay court fees, so there was no justice—at least not the kind you see on paper. But I clung to God’s promise: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay.” (Romans 12:19)
I don’t wish harm on anyone, but I do pray that accountability comes so others won’t be treated that way. And through it all, God was faithful. Within a year, I was able to move into my next apartment—one I paid for entirely on my own.
Losing nearly everything taught me that things are just things. They can be replaced. Yes, it hurts to lose items with sentimental value—I still feel that—but the memories remain even when the things are gone. God restores what’s been taken, but He also refines our faith through the fire.
In that season of loss, one truth was deeply reinforced in me: no matter what happens, God is always with me, and I’m ultimately going to be okay. I’ve learned that through many hardships—the tragic loss of my adoptive mother, the pain of childhood abuse, and other terrible experiences. What the enemy meant for evil, God has continually turned around for my good. Now I carry a testimony that I can share to lift and encourage someone else.
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