She's lovely, in her way, with her slicked-back dark hair and scars. She looks at me defiantly,her pain masked. Wondering who the heck I am. But God knows who I am and she'll know soon. If she even cares.......
It's hot out this morning, blazingly blue hot. Not a cloud in the sky, a perfect pure Sunday, you would think. That is until you step through the doors of the Juvenile Jail. It's not for wimpy folks. So what in the world am I doing here? I'm scared. I don't want to screw up. Jesus help me, I pray. Give me the words to say. You not me, certainly not me. I sit and wait to go back, and sit and wait. It's hard, that waiting time; praying done, nothing but nerves and a dry mouth left. Finally they call me back to Hotel, yes Hotel. That's what they call the young ladie's section. Far from luxury accomodations. Today as I wait for the guard to unlock the door, I watch as she goes to each cell to ask if anyone wants to have church. I guess that means me. Scary. There is one taker, one orange jumpsuit to greet me as I enter the dim, gray room. It's stinkin' cold in here and she pulls her arms inside her sleeves as she takes a seat in a chair in the back. I sit down beside her, taking the opportunity to have an intimate conversation instead of having to stand up front like a preacher that I'm not. She makes it easy for me, bless her, telling me she needs all the church she can get. I tell her this will not be like any church she has ever attended. It's just gonna be about Jesus. She looks at me kind of strange, but she's starting to listen. I pray, asking God to bless just about everything. I need help. She does too. So do these guards in here, with their guarded faces, never able to share. Then she begins to tell.
I never get over their stories. I tell them mine, but mine seems so lame compared to theirs. Her life is heartbreakingly sad. It's just got to get better. A life of emotional, physical and sexual abuse. She was left at 13 to fend for herself. Had a child and lost a child at 16. She pulls up her pants leg and shows me scars from bullet wounds, car wrecks and love gone wrong. She's 18 now, lucky not to be in the big house. She tells me she will get her life straightened out one day and do everything right and then get baptized. She says she heard about that in a church. Wait a minute, I tell her. Let me tell you about the Jesus I know. We talk about the Woman at Well.
About forgiveness. About grace, amazing grace. Before you know it, she's looking at me through liquid brown eyes, believing my story has a good ending and hers can too. There is hope. His name is Jesus.
