the scars on her arms tell the story

But it’s more than a story. It’s a soul. And meeting her did something to me.

She first crossed my path last week on a morning run. I was running. She was walking. But she wasn’t exercising. As we passed one another I looked into her eyes and saw the heaviness. She couldn’t return my smile.

There wasn’t even a shadow of a smile on her face.

The burden for her laid on me. And with each step I prayed for this young woman. If you want me to say something, Lord, I will. Just show me. As I rounded each curve I wondered if we might meet again.

But we didn’t. And I forgot about her…

flickr photo credit: nick

until Thursday night.

I was heading to my sister’s when I saw her. She was stumbling down the road with a bag of beer in her hand, wearing the same clothes from two days prior. And I remembered the words He had prompted me to pray — intercessions for this soul.

For a few moments I just watched from the stop sign while conversing with Him. But God, what can I possibly do for her? She tripped over the grass and dropped a can from her bag. Then she started down the busy street and fell in a man’s yard.

He came out to corral her. So I drove over. “Do you know her?” I hollered out of the window wanting him to hear me over the passing cars. “No, I just came out to check on her.”

I asked her where she was going and she slurred a partially understandable response. Then I told her to get in. What am I doing? She smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her lips were dry and cracked. And just as she began telling me pieces of her story, I interrupted.

Our God faithfully interrupts our agenda that we might be alive in Him. Dependent. Abiding.

“I have to tell you something,” I began, “I saw you on my run the other morning and God pricked my heart. So I prayed. And I promised that I would say something if I saw you again. And here you are.” She sat staring at me in shock. “It’s no coincidence you are in my car,” I continued, “God wants you to know that He is very real and He created you with a purpose.”

With her head slightly bobbing while she tried to stay focused on my face, she said, “You’re *bleeping* kidding me!” “No, friend, I’m not.” We talked for the next twenty minutes. I shared how Jesus transformed me from being chained by addictions to being quenched by Him.

While she shared of her desire to die. Her desire. To die.

Her arms were scarred with remnants of the despair. And that heaviness I saw in her eyes a few mornings before, now weighed down in the same minivan that typically sounded of squealing, happy children. The interaction was surreal. Yet it was divine.

He’s always moving and working and pursuing. The question is whether or not we see.

She listened intently and couldn’t stop staring at me in amazement. She said there was a light in my eyes that she had never seen before. That’s Jesus. I asked if I could pray for her. She reluctantly agreed, for talking to God was a foreign concept.

I arrived where she wanted to be dropped off. But before she got out, she asked for my number. So I gave it. Then she closed the door and I drove away with an ache in me. An ache for this woman’s soul.

It’s more than a story. It’s a soul.

I can’t quite figure out why I’m telling you. It isn’t that I want your praise. God forbid. In fact, I’m ashamed at how often I walk right by the desperate. I’m ashamed that I’ve had thoughts of wanting to avoid her road. I’m ashamed that I like the easy and predictable and have something in me that wants to keep my hands free from the messy.

So I suppose I tell of this woman for one reason. I want to point at Him. He is real. He sees the broken and speaks the words that mend. He graciously gives His vision. And then uses the willing.

I’m not sure if my role in her life is over. I’m not sure if He will call me to step out even further. But I pray I’m willing. I pray I hear. I pray I obey.

Fill me, Lord…