Below I have copied and pasted a post from Cindy Bodie's blog.  Her son, Chuy, tells his story and it's a story that millions need to read.  I was afraid if I just posted the link that you might not click on it.   Cindy & Chuy have given me permission to post his story here.

E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E. needs to read this.  Please send comments to Cindy's blog because she is forwarding them to Chuy's phone.

Chuy, You are A.w.e.s.o.m.e.!!!

Do not miss a word....

From Cindy:

My 16 year old son wrote this lengthy, gut-wrenching narrative last night.  I have his permission, of course, to share it.  He uses his given name here, not the nickname we call him by.  I am not proofreading, nor breaking it into paragraphs, this is his story, and it's staggeringly horrific, very, very painful to read.

I cried my eyeballs out about it.  Sobbed until late last night.  The only thing I'd disagree about is even though he referred to me as aged, at that time that we met I was only 47.  He thinks he remembers face makeup on me then.  I don't ever wear face makeup.  I must've had on some scary lipstick or something that day.

I deeply, deeply love him.  I admire and respect him.  I am blown away by his words.  I am certain that he will grow up to be an amazing man.

From Chuy:
When he opens his eyes in the morning. He sees nothing but the sky. Sleeping outside. But keeping it all inside. Never telling the full truth of his past. The true hurt and suffering that can't be told, but only experienced. Experiences that he suppresses back in his memories, but is constantly reminded of by his new, everyday life. Like seeing a child with their mom; a child with their father; a brother and sister together; a brother and another brother; smiles on peoples' faces, but that appear to be genuine. Not reminded because he was used to seeing them, but because he has always been neglected and withheld from the true joys of having someone truely care. The unexplainable comfort of a mother's arms. The unfamiliar security of a father. Always seeing families together, yet not knowing what it is like to have one. Always feeling clueless when asked about who his parents are... Or were. Having had seen things in person that his new peers only see in movies; horror movies. Being shocked when someone says "I love you"; since these words were never spoken to him before. Walking in a world that seems to be more cruel than Hell itself. Teachers see just another student, but he has learned things that they can't teach. Friends see just another friend in the distance, but he only sees their outlines, and seems to just see through them. Watching families talk and enjoy each others' company, while being the only one who knows the true bond of family; when family is the only thing that you have. He would never dream of raising a fist to someone else, but he fights tears with every passing moment. Neglected by his parents. Forgotten by society. He alone knows who he is, and where he's been. Knowing where he has been just doesn't seem to serve any purpose to him though, because he never knows where he is going. Always waking up in a new bed, or on a new floor. Never spending enough time in a single house to remember where the bathroom is. Never remembering where he wakes up. Never seeming to care if he even does wake up. He has gotten to the unfortunate state where the riding in the seat of a police car is become a too familiar and common event in his life. He faces the daily struggle of trying to hold his composure. Trying to hold his stability; not for him. but for the family that he still has. Since the cold nightmare of an event, he seems to not speak a word to anyone. Only the light whispers that he says to his little brother and sister before they go to sleep. Reminding them that he loves them. Feeling that he serves little or no purpose in this world as the middle child of a forgotten group of children who cannot even fathom the trials that they have faced, or the new hardships of what is to come in the too near of a cold future. Only being four years old, he finds it to be a normal day A day where he doesn't remember yesterday, but not to his knowledge; a day that he will never forget. Waking up he simply looks at the wall beside him. Then stares at an unusual object above his bed. He looks across the room to see his mother. He then asks her what it is, and gets the memorable reply of "What? Oh that? That is the cross. The cross where a man died to save you. He is also the man that we named you after. Now come Jesus; come out of bed." A man who died to save him? This doesn't seem to make any sense, nor does it matter to him anymore, as a few moments pass and the conversation is forgotten. The memory of today seems to be followed by only one other event, where he hears a room filled with noise and too many distracting sounds to pass his curiosity. Getting up, he begins to make his efforts into more of a rush, as whatever is happening seems to be quite exciting and is very attention-catching. As he enters the room his eyes widen; his body freezes; and his scars begin to form. The horror unfolds as he listens to a very fierce argument between his mother, and the man that he has grown up thinking of as his father. Never knowing what the argument was about, or how it started didn't even matter anymore. He closes his eyes. Then opens them as he recognizes familiar cries; his brothers and sister are in the corner together. All crying and screaming at the two who are fighting to stop, but none of them looking up even once. The forceful pull of a man he doesn't know throws him against the wall that his brothers and sister are. An officer. An officer, who unknowingly, had come just a second too late. His little sister and little brother are behind the two of his older brothers, but they all face the corner as they cry with what seems to be no resistance. Looking up, he sees the man who had pulled him to the wall beginning to yell at his parents, but with absolutely no meaning. With the quick reach of his mother's arm; the closest weapon is grasped tightly and fiercely; giant blade as tall as he was. Finding his will to divert his eyes seemingly impossible, he witnesses the most scarring event that he will have ever experienced as the blade finds its way to the man he called his father. After witnessing this, the young and frightful child then joins the flooding waters in the corner of the room. The wailling screams of 4 children, as they look up to hear the sounds of the brutal argument come to a halt, are only replaced by a silence that only deepens the memories. Time freezes as the next moment passes. Then it slowly creeps back up as the faded voices of many policemen crowd around the murderer; their mother. The ground that they were barley standing on becomes unrecognizable as the new thick, red carpet covers the it. The fuzzy sounds of the officers are muted by the shock and horror of what he had just seen. Not even noticing that he is the only person left where he had joined the rest of his family in the corner, he finally comes back to reality when he is rushed across the room to the cold streets that are filled with flashing red and blue lights; across the room covered in blood. Before he passes under the doorway that led to his new future, he turned around, looked at the scene, and fell completely silent at the sight of his small footprint in the blood stained room. Having no other family, the first place that they were sent to was with their grandparents. Not a bad decision you could suppose. But you would be very wrong. Greeted with a smile as the police officers just handed the five children over they had no choice but to accept them as their new family and this as their new home. A very rugged and worn down home that would hold as many dreadful memories as his past. A quick wave as the cars with the lights on the top of them drove off was the moment that the greeting smiles left his grandparents. Many shoves and forceful gestures later and they were in their new home. A step to the side, and they had crossed the entire house it seemed, or should I say the very crammed and unwelcoming trailer. What they had thought would be a new start was just another dead-end. A place where complete neglect and child abuse held an absolute presence. The first night was the worst. It was the worst, not because of what happened, but because they were not yet used to what would keep happening. A cold night outside, and the only slightly heart-warming touch of his older brother as he had laid himself down on the splintering porch, was only the beginning of a series of some very dark memories. All laying side by side. All having the same thought: Why? Why must we be forced through so much? Why must there be so much cruelty in this world? Why must this be the worlds I live in? What must this be the very opposite of "living"? Sleeping outside with an old rug found as their covers for the night. Only able to sleep because of the completely wearying crying that had taken place only a day before. As morning crept up there was a silence across the entire horizon in every direction. The quick realization of having had been put in a secluded area in the middle of nowhere came over him. As Jesus woke up, he could find nothing to do; nothing to do, but cry. Awaking his older brother with this only made him all the more aware that he was not asleep. It made him aware that although he was not sleeping that he was living a nightmare. An old trailer filled with two hateful people that could, but would not, take care of him and his family. He found himself completely unable to even consider them as his parents in any way. After more searching in the horizon, The now five year old child saw that the only thing around him in walking distance was a bus. He knew it was a bus because he remembered seeing one as it would pass the outside of the window in his old home. It took the older kids to school. After an eternity, everyone was awake. They decided, for some odd reason, to venture into the trailer to see what was for breakfast. "Whatever you can find over there!" That was the only reply they got as an arm extended with a finger pointing at a very old looking cupboard. Well they got to eat breakfast; if that's what you can call it. Some leftover, crushed, and unrecognizable mixture of what was supposed to be their food was found inside a box. It wasn't much, but it was at least edible. This was a daily routine. Day after day the same this was what was expected. Everything predictable, until a night filled with dark clouds covered the skys. Flashes of light scattered here and there, followed by the violent echoes of thunder as it shook the unstable boards. A click, a sudden thought came to mind. The bus. Why not go to it? It provided more cover than they had where they were, and it for some reason seemed to never move. The rush of five figures ran across the dirt, none of them seeming to ever get any further than an arm's length away. After reaching the bus they realized why it never moved. Because their initial thoughts were right on the first morning that they awoke in this Hell-hole: they were in the middle of nowhere. This bus was broken down with busted out windows and rusty metal scattered all around it. Whatever. It was still better. It did have a roof after all. This was something that brought at least the slightest of joy to them. It was away from the abusive couple, and it was much more protective from the harsh elements of the weather. None of them thought to think about the morning though. About the couple who was supposed to be taking care of them. What they would think of the sudden disappearance of them. In all honesty, probably nothing, If not nothing, then it would strike a slight jolt of joy at the riddance them. And that was right. When they finally returned to the house after awakening, they greeted with two faces that showed much anger. That anger wasn't just anger, but multiple beating waiting to happen. Quite reluctantly for them though, there was a visit from the all too familiar police officers a few days after. Looks of horror and a very shady excuse was all that was needed to remove the five children once more to, yet another, "home". All memories appeared to be the same for the next year. The repeating memories of the silent rides in the police cars. The sleepless nights at the new places that he was somehow expected to call "home". Why would he call any of these places "home"? He only knew one place to be his home, but that place seemed to be covered in horrifying memories that seemed to be written out by Satan himself. Everywhere he went there seemed to be a group of new faces. There was always a house for him and his torn apart family to go to, but there was never a place that they could call home. The continuous rides and greetings came to be almost second nature to him; greetings that would very quickly become departing words. This happened over and over, until there seemed to be a place that they could call their home. A man named Issac and his wife took him and his family in. They cared for them. And although they were always awaiting their time to leave, this seemed to never happen. He even started to go to school. He made friends, and seemed to completely forget what had happened. He even seemed to accept the new couple as his parents. Almost as if they had always been there for them; as if they were...family. Time passed. Jesus was beginning to accept them as his parents. They seemed to act the part, and they showed compassion to his family. Everything was going all too well, of course. He should have known be now that all good things must come to an end. Those people came again. The people dressed in their matching uniforms. POLICE. Heart break was not even a start to the feeling that overcame him. He didn't cry though. Not even a tear. Not because he didn't feel like it, but because he felt the familiar lump in his throat that wouldn't let him speak, or utter a single word. He simply waited until he saw who had come with them. A white lady. There were few white people that he had seen before, but she was accompanied by a few others. They were children, but they weren't white like her. He just went ahead and accepted the fact that it was time for another trip to another house after another ride in another police car. But he was wrong. It wasn't to a house. The ride was to a giant building that read HOTEL. A what? Who cared? It looked very nice! There were many people who greeted them with smiles as they entered, regardless of how terrified they seemed, and were. The lady seemed nice, and very oddly, she even spoke Spanish. She made some small talk to them behind her slightly aged grin, Her eyes appeared slightly dark behind the face that was covered in makeup, but they appeared even more bright than dark. They seemed hopeful. They gave that light look that was just enough to allow me to at least force another fake smile to another stranger. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten everything. They were all about in the hotel room. Some watching T.V. Some laying in the bed. Others scattered across the floor with a quickly emptying bag of many plastic toys. He didn't know how they were able to so quickly adjust to what had happened and to what was happening, but just made the quick decision to join everyone. Somehow this was something that could; even after the darkest of moments, behind the deepest of scars, under the most covered and neglected of emotions, have him force a smile. A smile that had not happened in far too long for a child. A smile of true happiness. The next morning after having had been used to eating the garbage that was supposed to be food, Jesus was overwhelmed by shock as something of a sweet aroma came to him in his awakening. This was slightly uncomfortable, but in a good way. In a way that would set a very jagged, shattered, and torn apart heart in the direction of recovery. A quick ride, and a flight through the skies was all that had separated him from being able to pursue something that he had only heard the word of. A word that he had never quite known the meaning of. A word that could only be defined by having had experienced it. The word: Living. Not having to go through a day in fear of the shadow of death that always lingered in the air. Not having to wonder if there would be food that day. Not having to worry about the only thing that he cared about; his family. The new life that was placed before him was a great blessing. A blessing that he had absolutely no idea how great it was, and still is. A blessing that he still has no idea how amazing has been to him. To me. To Jesus. I, Jesus, had finally been able to live an entire day where everything seemed normal; or at least for me. When the plane finally touched down in Georgia, I was unaware of where I even was, and I didn't even care. Me and my family took a drive through a new environment. A new area of the world. New surroundings that I would would unknowingly come to call an actual: HOME. Unfamiliar faces greeted us as before the car had even stopped in the driveway of a very large house, as if they had known us all our lives. With that new feeling that I hadn't yet experienced too often, a smile came upon my face as other children came to us with warm welcomes before we had even made it to the doorway in the garage. A very friendly environment is enough to make someone feel out of place when they have been used to just the opposite. When all we knew was hostile environments that were ever changing before us, and before we even had time to blink, in an awakening of another household almost every day. But it seemed that that had changed. Real bedding, real blankets, and a real home had finally been presented. All I could do was wonder in awe as I wondered how long this would last, just as every other house had only become a distant memory that came to haunt me when I awake to more new faces. But I didn't know. I didn't know that this would become the place that I would call home. The place that I would be able to become emotionally attached to, and not then have my emotions simply thrown aside. But what else was I to think? It was just a habit. Days passed, and a six year old boy soon became seven. The day seemed no different than most others. The "Happy Birthday" greeting somewhere in the day. But I was awfully thrown off when I was confronted with presents. With gifts. I had never received a gift before. Overwhelmed by joy, I had completely forgotten that I was holding an unopened, wrapped box with a surprise. After a few moments of a cheerful grinning, I recollected myself and set my attention, once again, on the present. I don't remember what it was anymore, but I do remember cherishing it for a very long time. The first gift that I had ever gotten. And then came Christmas, which came with more gifts. The simplicity of a gift to a child is something that most parents have to the point where it's not even a gift anymore. To where it is just an expected item that they wanted, decorated with a bow and paper that would soon be in the trash. But a real gift is something that surprises someone, and is something that they then build a quick attachment to. Not because it's a something else for them to have, but because it is something from someone that they care about and that cares about them. And, although it took me a while to realize this, I WAS cared about for once. I was LOVED for once. And it was something that cannot just be given. It is something that takes time and patience to prove that it is true. It takes true compassion to build the understanding that they are loved to that individual. It is something that most people don't ever come to realize until it is too late. Until there is a time of passing. But after spending so much time testing this lady. After spending so much energy trying to see if she cared, setting off tears, emotional breakdowns, and temporarily becoming someone that I had despised for ruining my childhood; a hateful person, I finally came to realize that she really did love me. That I was loved. When vacations come, and we left the house, I would confide to my older brothers. I would ask them where we were going this time. I would wonder where we would sleep now. I would have a mind full of thoughts that were stains of my memories of the childhood that I never had. Much time passed. Many attempts of trying to prove to myself that this white lady was just the same as everyone else in my life had ever been. But only to disprove my own theory every time. After much time, when I finally became thirteen, I had felt the understanding that this would be where I were going to be living from now on. I came to the reality that I actually had a place to call "Home", and that I could feel a sense of security when I fell asleep at night. Where safety, joy, and family weren't just dreams in the distance. Sixteen. I am now sixteen, and although I still have moments of doubt, I still hold it to my heart that I am loved by someone that I can call my mother. Whether or not it is a biological relation between us, I know that it is a REAL-ation that we have. Despite the arguments we have, the cold eyes that gaze across the room when caught in moments of anger, I know that there is only one person who I can call a real mother to me. And that is you. So thank you for everything that you have done for me and my brothers and sister. This is something that I just feel has been needing to be said, but I could never find it in myself to confront you myself to tell you. Not without breaking down into tears as I did in my past. Though not the same tears, but tears of joy. The, still odd, ability to realize how much you care you really do care, whether you can fit it into your busy schedule to show it, I still know. So thank you mom. I love you. Sincerely Chuy (Ellis Jesus Bodie). -Jesus Montes-