Through it All

As my time here is winding down, I am trying to gather my thoughts about sharing when I return home. At times, I don't have the right words for everything that I have experienced, probably because I'm still trying to process it myself, but writing helps. My FB is now popping up with "memories" of last year. It's hard to believe that it has only been a year...

The 15-year-old girl that I taught to read and write is forever etched in my heart. How could any of us forget her? She was smart. She was beautiful, and she knew it too. She was prideful, but that came with the terrain. She had no filter on her mouth and always said the first thing that popped into her head. Even though she was strong, both physically and emotionally, she had a soft spot. She could be challenging to work with, and I remember one day, after having a challenging week with her and a few other girls, I asked God to give me even more compassion for her. I broke, and I cried for her. A few days later, I recall coming downstairs to find her singing "Perfume a Tus Pies." It's a beautiful song about desiring to fall more in love with God. Every time I hear it, I think of her…

That same girl, after only being in our care for a few weeks, escaped. It was bound to happen. As social services told us, "it's not if it happens, but when it happens." She was a girl from the street, and as much as she wanted to change, she had yet to reach her "breaking point." The streets still called her. I think that was the first event that "scarred" me, and I cried. She returned three days later. I called it the "prodigal daughter" moment, but it was short-lived as she again escaped one evening while we were at church. After this incident, we had to give her an ultimatum: to stay and abide by the rules while taking advantage of everything we offered or removing her from our care. She was removed. It broke me, but I knew we had made the right decision. You can only help someone so much until they are ready to help themselves. She wasn't the only girl that we had this ultimatum with. There were others. And every time, I knew it was the right decision, but every time it scarred me because I knew what they were going back to.

There were beautiful moments with the girls in our care:

• talking to them about their value and worth

• teaching them why it is crucial to guard your heart

• seeing them blossom and indeed find peace from within and from Him

I loved hearing them sing worship songs at the top of their lungs. There was never a dull moment with pool outings, movie nights, and trips to the ice cream shop.

Then there were "the five." They were only in our care for a week. They were a joy to have, full of laughs and vibrant personalities, but it was the week itself that sticks out in my mind because it was a long one. It was physically draining. Every night that week resulted in a late night at the Home, which meant arriving at my apartment at 11 PM or 12 AM. I would wake up the next morning already feeling exhausted, but it would fade away as soon as I arrived at the Home. I knew the Father showed me that "He had me," that He would sustain me for the task at hand and that this wasn't going to be the only occasion where I would feel exhausted and almost pushed to my limit because it wasn't.

There was also spiritual warfare. Some of it was subtle, probably more dangerous, and others were very forthright where a girl specifically ordered another girl to keep her demon quiet. But those were also opportunities to see girls be set free. Many of the girls who came into our care had spiritual oppression or dabbled in santería. A few didn't believe in God at all. I remember one girl, who was only with us briefly, told me before she left, "I will never again say that there isn't a God." It was a seed that had been planted.

When I think of July, I think of a reality TV show. I'm still trying to sound humorous when I say that, but it's true. It was filled with drama: fighting, yelling, name-calling, a few death threats, and repeat. By the end of the month, things had calmed down, and the girls attended a two-week youth camp. Three of our girls accepted Christ. It was beautiful to note the change in them and the peace that now saturated them.

When one of the girls came into our care, she started to call me "Jessi." It is not a nickname that I'm fond of, but hearing her and the other girls use it always brought a smile to face.

A few months ago, while we were having a morning of worship with the girls and staff, the song "Cuán Grande es Dios (How Great is Our God) started to play. I sat there in silence, taking in words and listening to everyone else sing. Then, my eyes wandered to the girls as they were situated around the room and singing along. I bowed my head, closed my eyes, and asked God, "Do they know just how great you are, God?" His reply came softly, "Yes, Jessica. Yes, they do." Tears started to fall from my face because it was something that my heart needed to hear.

Through it all, the Father has continued to demonstrate His faithfulness, His grace, and His love. Not just to me, but also through me and to the girls. He has shown me--even more--how He shines in the darkness and how He restores and brings hope when it has been shattered into a million pieces. I have seen Him become a Father to the fatherless and turn ashes into beauty. He has strengthened me and, at the same time, has challenged me. He continues to prepare me, equip me, and saturate me with peace even though sometimes I do not know what may lie ahead. He has made my heart's cry to reach out to the brokenhearted, to be a voice for the voiceless, and to see "justice roll down like waters" (Amos 5:24) even stronger. He has taken me--and continues to bring me--deeper than my feet could ever wander. He has always been--and will always be--my Abba Father. I continue to stand in awe of Him as He uses me because I know that He has made me for such a time as this.