Going for a Walk

When did my life become such, that I would know this young woman standing before me? That just the very contents of her shopping bag would break my heart? All she owns, stuffed carelessly inside. We are standing outside a drugstore in the middle of the afternoon. Her face is bare, her clothes wanting against the biting wind. Her heart is breaking, as well, for before her stands hope and life -- ambitions from a not so distant past that she is no longer certain were ever hers to achieve. Before her stands the future she so desperately needs; at her feet, her bag, a reflection of the death to which she now chooses to succumb. My companion and I invite her to walk with us and, for a split second, I see acceptance in her eyes. But she declines. She is trapped and our hearts are broken.

My father was born before the start of the Great Depression; my mother shortly after. My father was raised in a conservative rural home in what is known as "Amish Country." My mother remained at home into her 30s. I was taught to go to church and say prayers; I attended a Christian school which required us to wear dresses each day -- "church dresses" on chapel days. Television and radio in our home was strictly monitored until I was in high school. We didn't discuss sex or make jokes about bodily functions. I grew up believing that Christians were always well-dressed, clean, smiling, proper, and helpful. Even among my peers, I was considered a bit sheltered. (Until I grew tired of that.) When I had children of my own, I wanted that same "Ozzie and Harriet" life for them. I wanted to keep dirt and evil at bay; I wanted them surrounded by happiness and goodness. I wanted my children to make good choices and be proper people. I wanted to raise Christians who were well-dressed, clean, smiling, and helpful. I wanted them sheltered.

Fast forward almost thirty years later, to a drugstore and a ravaged young life. She is not mine. I really have "no dog in this fight," as they say. I may or may not ever see her again. But, walking away from her, my stomach begins to churn, my eyes well up, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. I love her and I weep for her because Jesus does. I want her life to be transformed; I want her to know the hope and life I have -- the hope and life of which she dreamed -- because, with Christ, it is possible, no matter where or what she is traveling from.

I know, because I have traveled as well. I have learned that following Christ means following Him to the streets to help those that remain there. Following Christ means getting your "church clothes" dirty cooking for those who are hungry. Following Jesus means being seen with people you never even wanted to know. Following Jesus means weeping for those who are in pain, weeping with those who have not yet found their way to hope and life. Following Jesus is more than what you do or don't watch on television, what you do or don't say before you eat, what you do or don't wear on chapel days. And I am not discounting any of those things, but following Jesus means walking anyone, everyone you meet, straight to the Father's arms.