Recycled Women, by Rosemary Fisher and Kristin Jordan,  is a collection of 27 true inspirational stories from women who experienced war in the battlefield of life.  Whether it was a battle to defeat sickness, rape, witchcraft, abandonment, divorce, adultery, abortion, rejection, suicide, addiction or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, these women understand what it is like to struggle and what it takes to WIN.

These personal transparent stories encourage women to understand that the greater the struggle….the more glorious the triumph!

God is in the Recycling Business and He will take what the enemy is trying to destroy and make it useful for His Glory.  If these ladies could do it…So  can YOU!  Order your copy today!

Here is one testimony from the book.

A Beautiful Recycled Woman

By Sonjalyn

Recycled Women … at first I didn’t like that term. It conjured up images of disappointed dads, angry boyfriends, and disenchanted husbands lined up at the recycling center waiting their turn to have their “woman” recycled. I felt hurt, disappointed, and dehumanized. Those feelings, however, were quickly replaced by excitement when I discovered my own meaning for Recycled Women. It happened while I created invitations to a bridesmaids’ tea for my niece. I found the most wonderful art paper for those invitations … recycled art paper. And it was perfect! As I worked with that unique paper, it all became quite clear to me. Recycled Women, like that recycled art paper, are not women who have been “traded in” for something better. No! Each and every piece of our former lives—each page of our individual stories—has been artfully transformed, reformed, and recreated into something exceptional … something extraordinary … something beautiful. At first glance, the recycled art paper I worked with was creamy, beige, and mundane. But when I looked closer, I discovered the beauty. Each sheet contained thousands of subtle colors and shapes. Each had a unique texture and weight. Each sheet of recycled art paper was an individual work of art. Like the recycled art paper, recycled women are distinctive. Each one is filled with thousands of small, intricate, and unique parts that make the whole woman. Each recycled woman has her stories, her goals, her passions, her dreams. We are disfigured, flawed, and imperfect, but it is our imperfections that make us rare beauties!

I was born into an exceptionally warm and loving Christian fam­ily. My dad was a southern gentleman, and my mother was a per­fect lady. It was fascinating growing up during the 1960s and ‘70s in Florida. Daddy worked for NASA on the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo projects and Momma worked for the Chamber of Commerce. Life was an adventure; but I had my fears. America was in the midst of the cold war, and we routinely participated in bomb and fallout drills. Daddy had a bomb shelter built in the backyard, and Momma kept survival kits for all of us, even for the pets.

I learned to shoot before I started kindergarten and could speak at least some Spanish. I, the oldest of four children, was the adventurer, the rule breaker, the one that questioned everything, and the humani­tarian. I knew with certainty that it could all end any day! As a re­sult, I developed an unquenchable thirst for life—an atypical need to experience everything life had to offer and an overwhelming need to nurture and protect those weaker or less fortunate than I was. Those traits have brought me indescribable pain, as well as unimaginable pleasure.

One Christmas, we gathered around the tree to open our gifts, and Momma began to read off the names attached to each package and stocking. When all the gifts and stockings had been distributed, I had none … nothing … not even fruit in my stocking. My younger siblings were concerned and tried to comfort me. I remember telling them, “I’m ok. I know why I didn’t get anything from Santa. It’s because I’m too old, and I don’t believe in him anymore.”

I remember that Momma and Daddy offered no comfort, but asked me to come help them in the kitchen. I walked to the kitchen to help Momma with breakfast, and Daddy asked me to take the trash out. When I walked out the back door with the trash bag in my hand, there stood my grandparents next to their car. My grandmother had something in her hand … a bridle! Grandmother Cecil was holding a bridle with a big red bow tied to it!

“Jump in baby,” Granddaddy John hollered!

The whole family rode out to a friend’s farm, and there he stood. To my momma he was a dangerous wild beast … a menace to her family … a mighty and imposing force … but to me he was an un­tamed beauty … terrified, anxious, and abandoned. I ran to him, and suddenly my family, the fences, the whole world were swallowed up in a great abyss. There was nothing on earth except us—me and my beautiful wild mustang, Frisky. He needed me! I knew he needed me.

He was everything I had ever wanted. He was an adventure to be had … a handsome renegade, wild and untamed. He knew no rules and respected no boundaries, and yet there he was, abandoned and frightened. Yes, he needed me!

Several years later, my friends and I were laughing, joking, and eating too much pizza … doing what teenage girls do, when from across the room I saw him. He was tall, muscular, and athletic, and he was staring directly at me. With long blond curls that framed his face like a lion’s mane and dressed in black like a gunfighter in a Clint Eastwood movie, he crossed the room toward me. As he came, I sensed he was dangerous and a menace. I felt his imposing strength … but I also saw that he was a beautiful and arresting beast. When he reached me, he kissed me! Just walked up, leaned across the table, took my face in his hand, bent down, and kissed me. I instantly knew he needed me!

Our marriage lasted almost six years. Six years of turmoil and turbulence … six years of disappointment and distress … six years of abuse, neglect, fear, and humiliation. From the beginning, he took ev­erything he wanted—all that I had—and he gave nothing in return. From the beginning, he never apologized. Why should he apologize? It was always my fault. I made him angry. I didn’t try hard enough. I was too emotional, unreasonable, ignorant, and just plain stupid! I was distant, frigid, and the worst sin of all, I had let myself go!

Whenever he beat me, he would stand over me and say, “Go, leave, take your stuff and get out … but no one will want you. You will be alone. You’re worthless. You’re not worth the price of the bullet it would take to put you out of your misery.” He would then storm out of the house until his money was gone and he needed clean clothes; then he would come back. Back to me … because he needed me I didn’t leave him, but one night he just walked into our home and told me to get out. He said he had filed for divorce and was keeping everything. “Take the kid and go to your momma’s,” he said. “They still love you, but I want you out of my house!” He threw our child and me out just like trash thrown along a highway.

By the time our divorce was final, I didn’t recognize myself. I weighed a little over 300 pounds, my hair was prematurely gray, and I was filled with hatred. I was filled with the self-loathing type of ha­tred that fills every fiber of one’s being. I was lost. The adventurer, the rule breaker, the one that had questioned everything, the humanitar­ian was all gone … and what was left was a tired, bitter old woman. I couldn’t even cry. I had no tears left. All I had was hatred.

Hate was my companion until something miraculous happened! I began to talk to God. Well, to be honest, I began to question God. On one particular day, I was sitting out at the end of a long dock watching the day turn to-night, and I was asking, “Why me? What did I do?”

When I looked down, I saw a snake under the dock. It was a coral snake—small and beautiful, but deadly! I remembered an old story. Some say it is a Native American tale; others say it is a tale from Africa brought over by slaves. I don’t know where the tale originated, but it was what I needed to remember, and God knew it. God used that beautiful, venomous little serpent to help me find my way home.

The tale goes something like this: A child finds a beautiful snake. The snake is cold and hungry and asks the child to help him. The child knows the snake is venomous, but it is beautiful, and it is asking for help. The snake needs the child, so the child helps the snake. By the end of the tale, the snake has taken everything from the child—his home, his family, his friends. Finally, the snake bites the child and leaves him to die. When the child cries, “Why?” the snake offers no apology, but says, “You knew I was a snake when you brought me into your home.”

At that moment, I experienced an epiphany—a comprehension of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization. I knew God had not hurt me and He had not filled me with hatred. So, I could stop hating my ex-husband. My ex-husband had not locked me in a cell; he had not forced me to stay and endure his wrath. I had made my own choice to stay.

I had known what he was like before I had married him. I knew what he was before I dated him. I knew what he was before I let him kiss me. I had allowed this to happen because I thought he needed me. I had given him all of me, everything I was, and he was not worthy of that gift.

My eyes were opened, and by the grace of God, I had been saved! Saved in every since of the word. And I was free. I was free to live and to love … I was free once again to seek adventure, to break the rules, to question everything except God’s love, and to be a humanitarian.

When I got home, I sat down and made a list … a list of goals. And I began to work on those goals. I still have my list. It is a work in progress, a living entity. My list is constantly growing and chang­ing, but it is “My” list. And the number one, unchangeable, constant on the list is pray: pray for forgiveness, pray for healing, and pray for opportunities to help others. I also thank God every day for everyone and everything in my life.

Let me assure you, God hears and answers prayers! I’ve been led to serve on several active committees and boards; driven to champion unpopular causes; and provoked into alliance with the “underdog”! The most challenging task; however, comes on occasions when I find my hands and my tongue tied. On these rare occasions I know God. I feel God. God holds me; keeps me still; allows me to linger; take note; to just be there!

I now possess an unquenchable thirst for life—an atypical need to experience everything life has to offer and an overwhelming need to nurture and protect those weaker or less fortunate than I. Those traits have brought me indescribable pain, as well as unimaginable pleasure … but I have my story, my goals, my passions, and my dreams. I am disfigured, flawed, and imperfect, but it is those imperfections that make me a rare and beautiful “Recycled Woman.”

Due to the direct link between animal neglect and cruelty and violent crime including domestic violence, Sonjalyn is an advocate for neglected and abused pets. In Sonjalyn’s spare time, she lobbies changing laws within the State making animal neglect and abuse a felony with minimum sentences and fines. Proverbs 12:10 (NLT) says: The godly care for their animals, but the wicked are always cruel.