Joy Emmanuelle Ravoahangy – Baptism Testimony

On June 15th, 2025, the day of her 15th birthday, I had the privilege of baptizing my daughter Emmanuelle. I would like to share the testimony she gave before getting baptized as it gives you an insight in the life of a PK (Pastor’s Kid), a MK (Missionary Kid), and a teenager dealing with being different and lonely. I hope it will be a blessing and encouragement to you.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Emmanuelle Ravoahangy, and many of you know me as the eldest daughter of Pastor Faly Ravoahangy. I was born into a Christian home, surrounded by teachings and love. I’ve had a life that many would call fortunate—I’ve traveled, I have a roof over my head, two loving parents, opportunities to grow in my gifts and passions, and I have been given too many blessings to count. Yet for most of my life, I’ve felt a deep emptiness and loneliness as if I were unloved by those around me. 

No matter where I go, my life has always stood out. I never quite fit in, but that’s often the reality of being a missionary kid. My dad once told me that when you choose to devote your life to God, there’s always something you have to give up. For me, growing up homeschooled meant sacrificing friendships and a normal social life most people take for granted. 

I remember one Christmas when I was about eight years old. We had just come back from the States the year before, and I had forgotten almost all of my Malagasy. I struggled to communicate, and I only knew the simplest phrases and words. And when I tried to speak, my broken Malagasy would often lead to laughter or insults from those around me. That’s when the fear, the social anxiety, and the shyness started. I became silent, scared of being mocked. 

Because I was homeschooled, and because of that fear, I had no friends. And so, on Christmas Day, at just eight years old, I looked up at my dad and told him my only wish: ‘Dad, for my present this year can I please get a friend?’ I still remember so vividly the expression on my father’s face. He smiled at me gently, but there was such sorrow in his eyes. And when he told me, half-jokingly, that he couldn’t just kidnap a little girl and throw her under the tree, I nodded quietly, blinking back tears. 

With time, I grew used to being alone. Whenever I faced pain or struggles, I kept it all inside and cried in silence. I shut myself off, hiding my emotions until they built up too much to contain—and then, when someone pushed me too far, it all came out as anger. My anger became something I couldn’t control that resulted in violence towards my sisters, either verbally or physically. I was like a ticking bomb, carrying pain I couldn’t express, too scared to open up, yet too proud to change. 

I used to believe my family was placed in my life to hurt me. I resented my parents and their teachings, and I grew bitter toward my siblings when they didn’t say what I wanted to hear. Then, when I finally made my first best friend, I changed in ways I deeply regret. She and I grew close, and I clung to her desperately, doing whatever she asked, even if it meant gossiping and spreading lies about my own family just to earn her approval. I had never known what it felt like to have a best friend, and the thought of losing her terrified me. 

Although some memories of us are still kept close to my heart, I let her take advantage of me because I was desperate for the love I thought I wasn’t receiving. But then, one day, she replaced me, discarded me when I had no more use for her. That night, I cried until the tears wouldn’t fall anymore. A deep emptiness settled in, and the pain was so sharp that I pulled away from everyone even more. Losing someone you relied on more than yourself leaves a scar that no one should have to carry. 

Ever since that day, I began to hate my life. There were moments when I begged God to take me, because I didn’t have the strength to keep living. Every day felt heavy, filled with misery. I was overwhelmed by loneliness and an anger I couldn’t control. My parents scolded me often, and each beating was etched into my memory. Every word spoken in anger echoed in my mind, and I came to truly believe that my parents didn’t love me. No matter what I did, it never felt like enough. I felt rejected, unwanted, and maybe that’s why I believed I was so unlovable. 

So I chose to live a double life. In real life, I became ‘the perfect daughter.’ I ate whatever my parents gave me, did every chore my mom asked, studied hard, and built a knowledge of the Bible and theology that surpassed most. I wanted so badly for my parents to be proud of me, to finally love me. I made them believe that I had accepted God at a young age, hoping they’d see me as an angel. 

But online, I became someone entirely different. I created multiple identities, wore different personalities, and did things I now deeply regret. I thought no one would ever find out, and for a while, that secrecy gave me joy. I met people from all over the world, and for the first time, I felt like I had friends. To keep them around, I did shameful things but I didn’t care. My parents believed I was a golden child, so what did it matter what I did in secret? 

Eventually, my parents found out what I had been doing, and they disciplined me. But in my mind, it felt unfair, after all, I had done everything else perfectly. Why couldn’t they just let me have this one thing? That mindset trapped me in a cycle. I would return to the same sins, chasing temporary joy, friendship, and the illusion of love. Then I’d be disciplined again, stop for a while—maybe a month—only to fall right back into it. 

Two years ago, stuck in the same cycle of sin and shame, God finally opened my heart. I had been caught once again in the very sins I had promised to let go of, and once again my mom found out. After confronting me, she left me in my room to go talk to my dad. Fear and panic took over. Without thinking, I decided to run away. 

I left barefoot, without a jacket, even though the air had started to cool. I was careful not to let any sibling, neighbor, or even our guardian see or hear me as I slipped out. It was late afternoon, maybe four or five on a Saturday, and I was running in fear. I started pounding on random doors, hoping someone would open up. But each unanswered knock only made my fear grow. 

I decided to use my brain. If I couldn’t find someone right away, I’d outsmart my parents. I’d stay somewhere they’d never expect and stay just until Sunday morning. Then, when my family left for church, I’d sneak back into the house, grab what I needed, and leave permanently. 

The family I stayed with was kind. They gave me dinner and gently asked me what had happened—why I had shown up at their door, shaken and sobbing. Through tears, I told them my version of the story, and they listened. They let me rest in one of their beds for the time being. 

Surprisingly, my plan seemed to be working. The family told me they had seen my parents and siblings pass by, clearly searching for me. I begged them not to say a word. But as the evening grew darker, I lay in that bed—half-relieved, half-scared—and then I heard footsteps approaching. Suddenly, my father was being led into the room. I broke down completely, backing away from him in fear. My whole body trembled. 

But even though he looked tired and worn, my father brought me back home. No shouting. No anger. Just a quiet, exhausted plea not to ever run away like that again. Later, I learned that my mother hadn’t told him the full story—he was simply too tired to fight. He just wanted me to apologize to my siblings and to my mom for the trouble I had caused. 

That night was one of the lowest points in my life. I walked back home in tears, weighed down by shame. Every step felt heavy with regret, and I was embarrassed by how I had acted. When I finally reached my mom, she looked angry and exhausted. Without saying a word, she motioned for me to sit beside her. 

The room was silent, except for my sobs. Then, she began to speak. She told me how selfish I had been—each word was like a blow to my chest, causing even more tears. Her scolding was harsh, and I couldn’t stop crying. Looking back now, I understand that her words were necessary, but in that moment, I felt my heart tighten with fear. My whole body trembled, and I looked at her with resentment. I think in that moment, she truly saw the condition of my heart. 

But then she retold me the Gospel. The same Gospel I had heard all my life. Normally, I would have shut it out—mentally plugging my ears out of pride. But this time I listened. I had memorized the Gospel, I knew all the right answers, and I thought I was already saved. But something was different. The Gospel touched my heart personally. 

That night, I cried—not out of anger, but out of relief. Out of shock. Out of conviction. And that’s when I truly accepted Christ. I saw that everything He allowed in my life had a purpose. My pain wasn’t pointless. My parents’ discipline wasn’t hatred. It was love. The love I thought I didn’t receive. 

My sanctification had many highs and lows. Letting go and changing was difficult and it took time, but as I look back, I thank God. I thank Him for He truly does love His children no matter what we’ve done. Psalm 118:5 (ESV) “Out of my distress I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me free.” God set me free from years of loneliness and hatred. And now I can say proudly: Psalm 118:21 “I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation.” God truly loves me.”