When I was a child, my world was shaped by movement—between homes, between countries, between people I loved. My parents, both born in Haiti, separated while I was still young. My childhood was then divided between time with my mother in Haiti and time with my father, who later met my stepmother during his visits to the U.S. Eventually, he married her, and our lives began to shift. I moved to Seattle with my dad, older sister, and eldest brother, leaving behind the rest of my Haitian family, including my mother, cousins, and lifelong friends. I remember crying many nights—not just because I missed my family, but because I didn’t fully understand what was happening. My life in Haiti—the family house, the laughter, the chaos—was gone in an instant. The move was necessary, but the emotional impact was immense. It felt like I had been cut in half. Worse still, I began to fear my own mother. Not because of anything she did, but because of things I had been told. Subtle lies. Misunderstandings. Half-truths. They filled the silence left by the adults in my life who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—explain the full story. I started believing that my mother had abandoned me or that I wasn’t safe with her. And once fear takes root in a child’s heart, it grows fast—and deep. For years, I kept my feelings buried. I didn’t know how to ask the right questions—or even if I was allowed to. As a child, you don’t say, “I feel betrayed,” or, “I’m scared of what I don’t understand.” You just act out, shut down, or carry around a weight you don’t have the words for. But then something began to change. It started with my sister. Jennifer, who had always been more than just a sibling to me—she had become a mother figure. She began to speak truth into my life, gently replacing the lies I had believed with compassion and clarity. She encouraged me to reconnect with my mom, and over time, I did. First through guarded conversations. Then, slowly, with laughter. With honesty. With healing. Rebuilding our relationship wasn’t quick or easy. It took courage on both sides. There were moments that broke me open—and others that stitched me back together. But in the end, something incredible happened: I got my mother back. Not just biologically, but relationally. I no longer feared her—I saw her. And I knew she saw me too. Divorce doesn’t just separate parents—it fractures a child’s sense of belonging. It replaces certainty with ambiguity. It forces you to make sense of things you were never meant to carry alone. But through the pain, I found purpose. Through silence, I learned to speak. And through division, I discovered reconciliation. Now, as I prepare for college, I carry this story with me—not as a wound, but as a scar. A mark of survival, yes—but also of restoration. My family is not perfect, but it is real. And in reclaiming my place within it, I’ve also reclaimed my voice.

Since beginning my walk with Christ, I’ve come to understand that faith isn’t just something we live internally — it’s something we must be ready to communicate clearly, compassionately, and boldly. While my journey has involved many personal battles—moving from legalism to confusion, and eventually to clarity through the Spirit—God has used every step to shape me into someone who doesn’t just believe in truth, but someone called to speak truth with love and conviction. Speech and debate gave me the tools to do that. Through multiple speaking opportunities during high school, I’ve seen firsthand how communication can become a vessel for Kingdom work. I’ve had the privilege of giving a speech at our school’s Mother and Son Brunch for seniors, sharing gratitude and celebrating the impact of motherhood. I was also invited to speak to our entire student body, where I shared my personal testimony and journey of transformation—how Christ brought me out of empty religion and into a real relationship with Him. I encouraged my classmates to pursue the light, not just within themselves, but through Christ, who is the true Light of the world. At Encounter Retreat 106, I gave a speech about what it means to be a friend of Christ, drawing from John 15:15 to show that we are not just servants, but sons and friends. Each time I stood up to speak, I realized that God wasn’t just using my words—He was forming my voice. Speech and debate taught me how to organize thoughts, build arguments, and remain composed. But more than that, it taught me how to listen, empathize, and speak from the heart. These are the exact skills needed to be an effective ambassador for Christ in today’s world. The impact of my speaking experiences has shaped my calling. I believe I’ve been commissioned to be a pastor, counselor, teacher, and evangelist—to boldly proclaim truth, disciple others, and defend the faith. I plan to pursue this calling by attending Biola University, where I’ll be trained in theology, apologetics, and Kingdom leadership. I don’t take this journey lightly—I see it as a direct continuation of what God began in me through every speech, every retreat, every message He gave me to deliver. Katherine Vogan Springer’s legacy is one I deeply admire. She lived a life of service, humility, and faith, values I want to embody in my own life. She poured into youth and women, modeled selflessness, and raised the next generation with love and truth. I desire to live that same kind of legacy—to teach, encourage, and build others up in Christ. This scholarship would help me walk further into God’s assignment for my life, not just by supporting my education, but by empowering me to reach others with clarity, purpose, and Christ-like love.

My name is Chrisler St Thomas, and I’m a student shaped by both struggle and service. I was raised in Haiti, where school felt like a place of pressure, not possibility. Mistakes were punished, not learned from. Encouragement was rare. But through my father—who worked tirelessly to provide for us—I saw what resilience looked like. He taught me to show up, no matter what. At six years old, I witnessed a motorcycle crash that left a man dead. My father tried to help, but it was too late. That moment stayed with me. I developed anxiety around trucks, panic on hills, and nightmares that followed me for years. On top of that, the fear of failure at school was constant. Between harsh discipline and earthquakes shaking our home, I started to associate life with danger. When I moved to the U.S. at eight, everything shifted. For the first time, I learned that getting something wrong didn’t mean I was a failure—it just meant I had room to grow. I learned English, graduated early from ELL, and began to believe I could do more than just survive. But fear didn’t disappear overnight. I had to work to rebuild trust in myself and my surroundings. Bit by bit, I began walking near trucks again. I learned how to stay calm under pressure. That emotional growth is what drives me now. At O’Dea High School, I’ve poured what I’ve learned into others. I played soccer all four years and led pregame prayers during my senior season. I served at Saint James Cathedral’s meal program year after year, helping distribute food to the homeless and hungry. Every time I volunteered, I saw the same thing: people’s faces light up—not just from the food, but from being treated with dignity. It brought me joy to know I was making someone’s day a little lighter. Now, I want to take that same spirit of service and turn it into a lasting impact. I plan to study Business Administration at Biola University and use what I learn to build faith-centered communities where education, economic opportunity, and healing can thrive—especially back home in Haiti. I want to create programs that give young people the tools to grow: leadership development, entrepreneurship training, and spaces where mental health is taken seriously. I’ve seen what fear can do to people. I’ve also seen what hope can build. My dream is to open a counseling practice where people can feel safe and supported, and eventually combine that with business and ministry to build holistic, Christ-centered communities. I believe my purpose is to walk with people through hard things, to help them grow like I have—from fear into freedom. The adversity I’ve faced—moving countries, battling anxiety, growing up in an under-resourced system—didn’t defeat me. It shaped me. It taught me that leadership doesn’t come from always having answers, but from being willing to serve, stay humble, and keep showing up. Receiving the Valerie Rabb Memorial Scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be a shared mission. I want to honor her legacy by becoming someone who uplifts others with consistency, compassion, and care. I want to help people feel seen, known, and capable of becoming more than what their fear or past might tell them. This is the impact I hope to make with my life—turning pain into purpose, weakness into leadership, and service into something that lasts.

I was only six when a motorcycle accident in Haiti changed everything. My sister and I watched in shock as the rider lost control on a steep hill. My father rushed to help and took the man to the hospital. But it was too late. That day planted fear within. Steep hills and trucks triggered panic. I had nightmares of falling and waking up breathless. My sister found purpose—she wanted to become a nurse. I wanted the fear to stop. Even then, I saw something else: my father’s strength. He didn’t panic. He acted. That’s who he’s always been. My father grew up in a home where survival meant responsibility. With his father absent, he cooked for his siblings and worked hard to attend school. He didn’t have a proper bed to sleep in. Even after being accepted to mechanical engineering school in Haiti, he couldn’t find the 20 goods needed to enroll. So, he worked, taking on multiple jobs, asking for help, doing whatever it took. Eventually, he became a mechanic and built a home for our family with his own hands. His sacrifice gave me the foundation I stand on today. Haiti was beautiful but difficult. There were earthquakes, unstable systems, and schools where mistakes meant punishment. Still, I remember joy—playing soccer with a bottle, going on school field trips, and watching my dad model perseverance. His resilience was planting something deep in me. When we moved to Seattle, I entered a new world. Quiet streets. Classrooms where making mistakes was part of learning. I graduated early from ELL and started seeing education as something that could build me up, not break me down. But fear didn’t disappear overnight. Like my father, I took small steps. I walked near steep hills. I breathed through the anxiety. I kept going. Seattle also opened my heart to faith. I used to wrestle with extremes—trying to earn God’s love or taking grace for granted. But over time, I discovered something better: a real relationship with Christ that transforms how I live. I poured that faith into action at O'Dea, serving over 25 hours a year at Saint James Cathedral’s meal program. Standing face to face with those in need reminded me of home and my father, who always showed up and gave. Now, I want to carry that legacy forward. This scholarship would help me attend Biola University, a place where I can grow in wisdom, leadership, and faith. I want to help kids in Haiti—not just through better education, but through planting schools and churches where they can learn and grow without fear. I want to create places where mistakes aren’t punished but used to build character—places where God’s love is known and shared. What once filled me with fear now fuels my purpose. My father's story lives in me. And with the opportunities I’ve been given, I’m ready to work hard, just like he did, to bring change to my home country and the world.

Building Purpose Through Business My journey has taught me that some of the most meaningful leadership comes not from strength, but from weakness—when you’re forced to rise, to rebuild, and to choose purpose over fear. At six years old, I witnessed a motorcycle accident in Haiti that left a man dead. My sister and I were nearby when it happened. My father rushed to help, but it was too late. That moment stayed with me. It planted fear that followed me for years—panic when I saw trucks, anxiety on hills, nightmares that woke me breathless. At school, I felt pressure too. In Haiti, wrong answers led to punishment, and failure felt dangerous. Life was unpredictable—between the strict school system and earthquakes shaking our home, fear became normal. At eight, my family moved to Seattle. Everything changed. I discovered that mistakes didn’t lead to punishment—they led to learning. I started to breathe again. I learned English, graduated early from ELL, and began seeing education as something that could empower me, not silence me. But even in a new place, fear didn’t disappear overnight. It took courage to face it. I started walking near steep roads, staying calm near trucks. Little by little, I reclaimed peace. In that weakness, I found resilience. That emotional struggle is what fuels my purpose now. I’ve realized I’m called to lead—not just spiritually, but practically. I want to pursue a degree in Business Administration at Biola University and eventually build Christ-centered communities where faith, support, and opportunity can thrive. I’m passionate about using business as a tool for restoration, especially in my home country of Haiti. I want to create educational programs, development projects, and entrepreneurship initiatives that help young people build their own futures. I’ve already seen the power of showing up for others. I played soccer all four years of high school, ran cross country in 9th and 10th grade, and led pregame prayers during my senior season. I also volunteer yearly at Saint James Cathedral’s meal program, where I’ve learned that leadership doesn’t mean having all the answers—it means serving faithfully, even when it’s hard. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to those goals. It would allow me to focus more on developing as a student and future entrepreneur without the full financial weight on my shoulders. But more than that, it would affirm that the journey I’ve walked—through fear, weakness, and growth—is seen and supported. My dream is to combine faith and business to bring lasting change. I want to help others heal and build, just like I’ve been helped. Whether through mentoring, launching initiatives, or returning to Haiti to spark opportunity, I’m committed to using what I’ve learned to serve others. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education—it would help shape a life dedicated to turning pain into purpose, and weakness into strength.

Living, Loving, Laughing, Learning: Continuing a Legacy Reflecting on my story—from a steep hill in Haiti to soccer fields in Seattle—I see a journey marked by resilience, faith, and a growing desire to serve others. At just six years old, I witnessed a fatal motorcycle accident that left me with years of fear and anxiety. Haiti was full of raw beauty, but also unpredictability: earthquakes, unsafe roads, and a school system where mistakes meant punishment. Still, there were moments of light—barefoot soccer games, laughter with friends, and quiet sunsets that reminded me God was with me. At eight, my family moved to Seattle. Life became more stable. Streets were organized. Teachers encouraged questions. Slowly, I began to heal. I graduated early from ELL, fell in love with learning, and found strength through my faith in Christ. But what impacted me just as deeply was stepping into the community through sports, volunteering, and prayer. I played soccer all four years of high school and ran cross country in 9th and 10th grade. Sports taught me more than just discipline—they taught me how to lead. During my senior soccer season, I led pregame prayers, encouraging my teammates not only to play well but to play with love, unity, and faith. Like Kalia, I wanted to be someone others could count on for strength, encouragement, and joy. I saw my role as more than just an athlete—I saw it as a chance to reflect Christ. Outside of sports, I’ve stayed active in my community. Each year, I’ve volunteered over 25 hours at Saint James Cathedral’s meal program, serving unhoused neighbors. It's one of the places where I learned how powerful kindness is. Sometimes, a warm meal and a genuine conversation speak louder than anything else. I’ve learned to show up for people the way God has always shown up for me—with compassion, consistency, and grace. Kalia’s story moved me deeply. Like her, I strive to live with excellence—not to earn worth, but to honor the gifts God has given me. She was disciplined, kind, joyful, and driven—and that’s the kind of legacy I want to continue. I’ve never met her, but I see parts of myself in her story: the love for people, the faith, the hard work, and the joy in simple moments like dancing with family or watching a sunset. That’s the kind of life I want to live. This scholarship would help me take the next step: attending Biola University to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in Business Administration. I hope to use business as a tool to serve others, return to my home country of Haiti to invest in sustainable development and education, and one day step fully into my calling as a pastor and leader in the faith community. I want to create communities that reflect the kingdom of God on earth—places full of people like Kalia, who uplift one another, love deeply, carry joy, and live with purpose. Receiving this scholarship would not just lighten the financial burden—it would remind me that stories like Kalia’s don’t end. They keep going in the lives of others. I want to carry her light forward by living a life that encourages others, serves others, and points back to God.

I was in chains, bound by fear and hopelessness. I longed for freedom but saw no escape. My faith was suffocated by fear, my vision was limited by uncertainty. I believed I understood love through my family’s support, but my heart remained restless. Then, clarity came—a fresh breeze of wisdom and revelation. Fear could be transformed into faith, and faith into purpose. The weight of my chains began to lift as I realized that Christ had been calling me to step out of my self-imposed prison. I hesitated, but His sacrifice showed me a profound love that reshaped my understanding of everything. Born in Miami and raised in Haiti, I grew up surrounded by the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of nature. The rooster was my morning alarm, and my days were spent exploring the beauty of my homeland. But Haiti’s struggles were undeniable. One day, I witnessed a motorcyclist crash and lay injured on the road. My sister and I stood frozen, unable to help. When my father arrived, he rushed the man to the hospital, but it was too late. The man’s death left an imprint on both of us. My sister found purpose in nursing, while I found myself haunted by fear—fear of motorcycles, fear of steep roads, fear of the unknown. That fear followed me, manifesting in recurring nightmares and an overwhelming sense of limitation. In Haiti, fear was a common companion. Earthquakes rattled our home, and school was a place of anxiety, where wrong answers led to punishment. Yet, I also experienced moments of joy—playing soccer with friends, going on school field trips, and seeing Haiti’s raw beauty. But deep inside, I knew my potential was constrained. Moving to Seattle at six was more than just a geographic shift—it was a step into a new life. Here, I thrived in ways I never imagined. I graduated early from ELL support in school, surpassing expectations. The orderly streets, the green landscapes, and the culture of opportunity gave me a new perspective. Education became more than just a requirement; it was a path to freedom. No longer was learning something to be feared—it was a gift. Yet, despite this newfound freedom, I wrestled with my faith. At times, I thought I had to earn God’s love through effort; other times, I believed grace required nothing of me. It wasn’t until I truly surrendered that I found balance. Christ wasn’t calling me to strive endlessly or to sit passively—He was calling me to walk with Him. This shift in my faith transformed my view of education. It was no longer just about personal success, but about equipping myself to serve others. I see the potential of a greater nation in the U.S., and I long for the same in Haiti. My education is not just for me—it is a tool to serve others. I want to extend my yearly 25 hours of service at O’Dea High School into a lifelong mission of impact. Through ministry, mentorship, and community development, I hope to uplift young people, especially in underserved communities. In Haiti, where instability limits opportunity, I want to help provide education and faith-based outreach to empower the next generation. Whether through leading youth programs, supporting Christian missions, or one-day creating faith-driven initiatives in Haiti, I will use my education to bring lasting change. Every step I take is an act of love—love for God, for my neighbor, and for the world He has called me to serve. This is not just my journey; it is my purpose.