I said, “God has a
plan for your life.”
Her voice grew
excited. “That’s
exactly what I keep
saying!”
Her curiosity was
peaked, “You’ve been
through some hard times?”
I began divulging my
own story. My history of
being a cutter who used
hard drugs, my pregnancy
at age 17, and how in a very
dark time, I finally saw my desperate need
for Jesus. I spoke of forgiveness. I spoke of
Jesus. Suddenly, the walls came crashing
down. As though she had found a distant
relative or perhaps an old comrade in arms,
she too began sharing her own personal and
broken story. She opened up about living
in Chicago and other places. She admitted
she was a runner. Moving from place to
place. Her cell phone would ring intermit-
tently. Repeatedly. She explained it was her
boyf riend, calling her from jail.
Showing me the marks on her arm
from her addiction, she admitted to being a
heroin user.
At one point in our conversation I said,
“God has a plan for your life.” Her voice
grew excited. “That’s exactly what I keep
saying! I can’t die! I’ve overdosed 5 times
and I can’t die!”
As the wheels of my civic turned tire-
lessly, she revisited her past with rehab
facilities, where she did great while in the
program but would start right back up when
she got out. My new friend spoke of the men
in her life. Also, casually mentioning past
crimes and how her boyfriend was taking
the charges for her. As the trip progressed,
she confided of a time when a man of ill
report had picked her up.
Rehashing the trauma of
fighting him off, in order to
escape his car. It had shaken
her. I was now thankful for
the longer ride. For the extra
time I had with my Chicago
friend. But our drive was
quickly drawing to a close. “Thank you for
picking me up. You saved me from a lot
of walking. Well, actually, someone would
have picked me up. Just probably the wrong
person.” More nervous laughter.
During our moments in the car, I had
told her again that God had a plan for her.
That He loved her. But time with my new
friend was slipping away. “You can drop me
off here, if you want.” It was a Chevron gas
station. On the south-side of town. As she
hopped out, I encouraged her with one final
request.
“Read the book of Luke”.
“I will”.
And then she was gone. Just like that.
In and out of my life like a whirlwind.
Everything calm again. My day back to
its normal routine of kids and day to day
household tasks. But my mind was still on
her. Would she be using this afternoon? And
even if she did, wasn’t it so glorious to serve
a God who loved her this much? A God who
sent me to the post office at just the right
moment to give her a very personal and
inexplicably urgent message? To tell her that
He loved her, that He had a plan for her,
and that He forgives? Our Father has not
grown weary of His search for the lost. His
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