Hi Friends! :)
It’s so nice to meet you. This page offers a glimpse into the work I’m stepping into — the heart behind it, and the quiet thread that traces back to where it all began. I’m truly grateful for your support. It means more than I can say.
The Thread of Glory.
My Personal Story
The depth of my story is one I’ve never been able to conjure into a few testimonial sentences or draw along a clean divide of “before” and “after” — for truly, it has been years of God's glory intertwined through moments, zeniths of life, and the valleys of simply growing through the essence of childhood, adolescence, and now adulthood. It is a testimony of a God who was, who is, and who remains. Born and raised in Queens, New York, I’m the daughter of two Colombian teenagers on the cusp of adulthood, who gave everything up the moment they found out they were expecting. My parents are my heroes to this day — migrants who turned what many deemed impossible into the very fuel that pushed them forward, accomplishing dreams that once lived only in whispers. While they were pioneering a life — growing up while raising us — I, like many first-generation eldest daughters, found myself taking on emotional roles that were never mine to carry. I bore burdens and worries no child should ever wear. I was deemed “mature enough” simply because I was present — cultivating pride in being needed, in being the one who held it all. When I look back on the years that could have been the chaotic origin story of bitterness and unforgiveness, there is a filter I’ve always viewed them through: the years I met Jesus. Though my parents didn’t encounter Christ until I was a bit older, He had already begun His pursuit of me. He used everything He could to make sure I knew who He was — even from a young age. One of His most faithful instruments was my grandmother. I came to know Jesus at the age of five, through the supernatural faith of a woman who believed she would see her family saved. What felt to me like weekend sleepovers at grandma’s house were, in reality, sacred encounters. While my parents worked, I was immersed in 6 AM prayer meetings, small groups, vigils, and worship nights. She made sure I was as surrounded by the presence of God as I could possibly be. I’d beg to sleep over every weekend, and even when it was inconvenient, she took me. Every weekend, I fought to be in that atmosphere — and I came to love the presence of God ridiculously fast, simply because it was real. I first understood the meaning of the cross during a Sunday school devotional, and since then, it’s become the meaning behind my life — the reason I live. But coming to salvation at a young age didn’t exempt me from walking through the trials of a fallen world, nor did it shield me from the aftershocks of my own upbringing. In adolescence, I battled an addiction to pornography, wrestled with an eating disorder, lived under the weight of anxiety, and carried a quiet but constant guilt that whispered, “And you call yourself a Christian.” I was painfully aware of my shortcomings. A secret life of sin mixed with deeply rooted people-pleasing, passivity, anxiety, and a perfectionism I could never reach created a cycle I lived in for years. I had seasons where I felt “on fire” for the Lord — where every religious box was checked — but the moment I failed or slipped up, it all came crashing down. My faith was like a Jenga tower: one piece missing, and I was back in the pit, trying to rebuild, trying to save myself again. Real, redemptive freedom came when I was confronted with the crucifixion in a way I never had been before. It started with a conversation — simple, unassuming — with my roommate. I had confessed to her a fear that had paralyzed me: a fear that I could never be a mother. That while it was a desire I deeply held — and one I knew to be good and godly — it was also one I ran from. I told her, “There is so much broken in me, so much I’ve hated in my family line, in my thought patterns, in my temperament. I would rather die than bring children into that — to have them inherit all the things I’ve spent my life trying to survive.” She looked at me — straight into the soul of me — and said, “Madeline, you don’t have to die. Jesus already did.” I didn’t understand at first. I sat in silence. So she said it again, softer but sharper: “It is finished.” Those words — ones I had heard countless times before — landed this time like a final puzzle piece. She continued, “Everything you’re so afraid of — the generational wounds, the chains, the traits, the patterns, the shadows — it’s already been dealt with. It’s finished. You don’t have to keep carrying it. You’re no longer that six-year-old, no longer that 15-year-old. You’ve been made new. And you get to live from that place.” I cried the entire night. Something in me broke — and something else was born. That night, I came face to face with the truth of my freedom. Jesus had taken up my burden. He paid for it all. I no longer had to identify with the cycle of shame that had followed me like a shadow. I was free — and free indeed. That moment began weeks of deep transformation. From then on, I lived with the imprint of His face — bruised, bloodied, crowned with thorns — marked into my mind. Every day felt like Easter. Every day carried a new kind of resurrection. The old had gone. The new had come. For the first time in my life, I understood what Paul meant in Romans when he said: “We were buried therefore with Him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.” — Romans 6:4 From that moment on, I have known nothing but the fullness of freedom — life as He designed it: whole, redemptive, and marked by joy. Not perfect, but anchored. Not pain-free, but purposeful. Not easy, but utterly worth it.
The Call.
My Ministry Work & It's Roots.
Unlike my personal journey with the Lord, I can pinpoint the exact moment He ignited a fire in my heart for this generation. I had grown up in the faith, and from early on, there was a distinct hunger — a reverence and curiosity for the Word of the Lord that always set me apart. Sunday sermons became my favorite teachers; so much so that, at the ripe age of seven, I proudly “graduated” myself from Sunday school and transitioned into “adult church.” Not long after, my family walked through a major transition that led us to a new church — one that would become our home. Ekklesia New York welcomed us with open arms: a weary family in desperate need of grace. I was ten when we began attending consistently. Before I knew it, my siblings and I had been baptized, my parents had stepped into leadership, and — after much pleading (being two years shy of the age limit) — I had found my way into the youth group. I was thirteen when everything changed. It was a regular Sunday, and truthfully, besides the theme of carrying the life of Christ, I don’t remember much of the teaching itself. What I do remember is the moment of ministry. I was sitting somewhere in the middle of the rows when a quiet prayer welled up in my heart: “Break my heart for what breaks Yours. Let me be a carrier of Your life.” It wasn’t dramatic — no tears, no shaking. Just a longing to see Jesus, to glimpse His heart. Almost immediately, I began to hear weeping — wailing, even — the sound of desperation. I opened my eyes in confusion, assuming someone around me was crying, but everything looked the same. Worship was still going, nothing around me had shifted. I closed my eyes again, and the weeping intensified. I could feel the anxiety, the ache. Then I heard a voice say, “That is the cry of a generation, and My heart breaks for them.” It was my first vivid encounter with glory, and in that moment, the burden became unmistakably clear: the youth need Jesus. Gen Z needs Jesus. The following Sunday, I was called to the front during ministry time. Our pastor anointed my head and released a prophetic word over me — a sending — about leading a generation, about being a voice in the wilderness. The fire dropped into my heart that day, and it has yet to subside. A few months later, our church walked through another massive transition — one that left us with almost no youth and even fewer leaders. It was then, at thirteen years old, that I was asked to begin teaching. From that moment on, I stepped deeper and deeper into ministry. I began leading a group of high school students, working alongside our youth pastor — and ten years later, I have watched God’s faithfulness unfold in ways that still leave me breathless. I’ve seen the staff grow, our student body multiply, and the birth of a college-aged young adult ministry take shape. I’ve had the honor of walking with girls from their middle school years into their freshman year of college — watching students step into leadership after high school and giving their lives fully to the Lord. Over the past decade, we’ve hosted events with 100+ students, summer camps with 200+, and seen inner-city youth in New York City discover their identity, their calling, and the unwavering love of God. I am not the reason for any of it — I simply said yes when the Lord asked. What I’ve witnessed is the fruit of a Father who hears the cries of His children. I’ve taught youth groups, camps, and more recently, full Sunday services, but my greatest privilege will always be seeing young girls — regardless of their upbringing, background, or past mistakes — fall wildly in love with Jesus, and have their lives completely transformed by Him. In the end, the calling was never about ministry. It was never about a platform, stage, or influence. It’s always been about Him — and the things that weigh on His heart. The past decade isn’t a testimony of my ability, or my strength — I was a teenager, walking through doubts and growing pains of my own — and still, He saw me fit to carry the grace of revival. What began as a simple “yes” in the heart of a thirteen-year-old girl has unfolded into a decade of watching God’s faithfulness up close. Ministry, which I once thought would look the same forever, began to shift — because with God, it’s always from glory to glory. The chapter I had known so well began to close, and I realized: He was sending me out. He was sending me into missions. Not away from purpose, but deeper into it. My only desire is to keep saying yes — to carry His heart into every room, and to lead a generation not toward me, but to the feet of Jesus.
The Sending.
Missions & Tomorrow.
In complete honesty, missions was never on my radar — and it definitely wasn’t an easy yes. Unlike many who step into it effortlessly, my yes came slow, wrestled, and heavy with reality. It was the summer before my senior year of college. I was deep in full-time ministry but completely lost about life after graduation. My friends were landing internships or signing with their dream companies. I was earning an English degree, hoping writing might become a career. But deep down, I longed for full-time ministry — to give myself fully to sermon prep, discipleship, and event planning without cramming it in between school and work. Still, in my mind, ministry and career were always separate — never both, never one. And as the oldest daughter of Colombian immigrants, the expectation was clear: stability, security, and a job that made sense. Ministry, while noble, just wasn’t sustainable. So missions? It couldn’t have been further from what I imagined. But the Lord had other plans — and He wrecked every box I put Him in. That summer, I spiraled. I applied to dozens of jobs, sent out cold emails, did everything right. One day, I landed a Zoom call with the head of publishing at my dream company. It went even better than I’d hoped — until the end, when she smiled and said, “Madeline, you’re incredible. But I just don’t think it’s your time.” I closed my laptop and cried. In that moment of desperation, I finally prayed: “God, I know I have Your favor. I’ve done the work. So why is every door closing?” And then He answered, soft and clear: “I can’t give you what you’re asking for — because what you’re asking for isn’t what I have for you.” I sat there in holy silence, conviction flooding in. I realized I’d been chasing things He never promised. Striving for the wrong treasure. Then came one more word: “Be still.” So I stopped striving. I sought Him — not answers, not direction — just Him. The first half of that semester was quiet and simple. But in that stillness, the fog started to lift. And I learned something I’ll never forget: when you seek Him — not just His answers — clarity comes. Then, one night in late November, during prayer, He said two unexpected words: Missions. California. It made no sense. I’d never considered missions, never even been to California. I shook my head, laughed, and said, “Lord, if this is really You… confirm it. Show me where. Show me how.” A few weeks later, an email landed in my inbox — from Circuit Riders. I wasn’t subscribed, hadn’t signed up for anything. Still, I clicked it. At the very bottom it read: Huntington Beach, California. And just like that, the same gut feeling returned — and a voice: “This is it.” I spent the next three months asking for confirmation like Gideon. This was no small move — it would mean leaving the ministry I’d grown up in, moving across the country, and stepping into the unknown. But every confirmation I asked for, He gave — through words, dreams, visions, and the unity of my leaders, pastors, and parents. The final confirmation came at The Send in Nashville. I hadn’t gone seeking answers, but I left with my clearest yes. It was my Isaiah 6 moment: “Woe to me, I am undone… for my eyes have seen the King… Here I am. Send me.” By August 2024, I was on a plane with nothing but a suitcase and a yes — and I stepped into the most life-altering adventure with Jesus. I thought it would be six months. But on tour, the voice of the Lord came again: “If I asked you to leave it all again, would I have your yes the same way I did the first time?” I knew exactly what He meant. What was supposed to be a sabbatical was turning into something deeper — an invitation to return to Circuit Riders, this time as a staff member, a full-time missionary. It felt like senior year all over again. But this time, I had more peace, knowing that whatever He chose would be best. Still, I had my list of excuses: God, what about ministry back home? Finances? My family? My brothers? The cost felt high. But every time I brought it to Him, He’d whisper, "How much more was the cost of Jesus’ life on the cross?" He walked me through the deepest dive into Hebrews. Day after day, I was undone by the life of Jesus — the radiance and splendor of God, who left glory for the joy set before Him. And I was that joy. He knew the cost of obedience — to leave what was familiar, to lay it all down. The more I saw Him, the smaller my excuse list became. One of the last times I brought it up, His response was simple: "What makes you think I don’t care about these things as much as you do? What makes you think you can take better care of them than I can?" Conviction hit. I laid down control again and said, “Okay, God. You have my yes.” A few weeks later, at a tour stop in San Antonio, a stranger came up and asked to pray for me. As she prayed, she said, “I see you like an arrow — in the hands of God, getting ready to be sent out.” I was stunned. I rolled up my sleeve and showed her my forearm — where I had an arrow tattooed after The Send in Nashville. That season’s prayer had been simple: “Send me. An arrow in Your hands.” We both cried. In that moment, I knew: missions wasn’t just a season — it was my next yes. I could tell you stories from tour that broke my heart for Gen Z in ways I can’t unsee. I might write them down one day. But this is what I’ll say for now: the craziest adventures, the answers, the ministry, the platform — all of it flows from one thing: abiding in the true vine. I never thought I’d be here. Not with “missionary” on my resume. Not with stories that sound too wild to be real. But it was never striving that got me here. He did. And all I want — now and always — is to keep saying yes. To carry His heart into every room. To lead a generation not toward me, but to the feet of Jesus.
Thanks For Reading!
So as I step into this next chapter — not just as a missionary, but as a laid-down lover of Jesus — I carry this truth with me: revival doesn’t start on stages; it begins in surrendered hearts. If my yes has stirred something in you — whether a prayer, a question, or a desire to partner — I invite you to sow into the harvest with me. Let’s build the Kingdom together, one heart, one room, one generation at a time.