The day was warm and sunny, so the door to the school, (our leased on Sunday church location), was open to the beautiful day. The set up crew was straightening chairs, setting up classes for children’s church, making sure all was ready for the service that would start in about half an hour. The worship team was up front going through that morning’s songs one more time.
That’s what drew her in the door, the music. She came right on in, sat down, and started sobbing. She was young, maybe twenty something, disheveled, pregnant, hungry, and obviously high. She was broken and messed up, and she knew it. No one there had to tell her she was a sinner. She knew that too. I walked over to her, put my arm around her, introduced myself, asked her name. She grabbed me like a drowning person going down for the last time, buried her head in my shoulder, and sobbed her heart out all over my Sunday dress. All I knew to do was to hold her, let her cry, and pray for her quietly, my tears mingling with hers. I felt a divine flow of love for her. I knew it was His love, not mine. We sat like that for quite some time before she mumbled out a brief explanation of the messed up situation she found herself in. I told her of a God who loves her, even in the midst of her mess. I told her we were here to help her. She said she was hungry so we found her some doughnuts and some milk. She didn’t even stay for church. I’ve never seen her again. But I remember her, and I wonder if she remembers the Sunday morning that Jesus hugged her with my arms.