It was about a year ago.
She was 17 years old when I met her.
I didn’t know her personally at first.
And she didn’t know me.
She had been attending for 5 years.
We attended for nearly 10.
And yet, it took a common ground of suffering for us to meet.
But we shared more than that.
She cared too much about the hurting people around her.
She was only a child herself.
A young girl.
And yet she deciphered the discrepancy.
Something was wrong.
When she vocalized her concern she was ostracized.
Penalized.
Corrected by youth leaders from their platforms in front of her peers.
Isolated.
Bullied.
It was arranged for her to meet with church staff without her parents present.
So that they could manage her.
Pummeling her heart with discouraging phrases.
Reminding her of her place.
She was told who she could and could not talk to.
And to report back what she’s heard.
Control.
An authoritative effort to strong-arm her spirit.
She resisted.
She told them good news.
She had just led another student to Christ.
That was worth something, right?
No.
Not in light of submission.
God didn’t need you, they said.
She went away with an injured spirit.
Confused.
She only wanted to help.
Why would they say these things to her?
She loved her church.
But their instructions did not align with the Bible.
Or her convictions from God.
To care.
To share the gospel.
To be used.
She saw her peers were desperate for support.
Everything in her wanted to return.
Return to her church.
She was suffering.
It took weeks.
She finally mustered the strength to attend a Sunday service.
There was a spark of hope that she just might be able to forget these wounds.
And move back towards her community.
But that spark would soon be trampled on.
No one had sought after her in her absence.
But with her presence, she was swiftly contacted.
They notified her that she was not allowed to come back.
Not unless she took their offer.
The offer was for her to meet in a room with those who had harmed her.
She had not been sinned against, they told her.
She was just misunderstanding their actions.
Everyone loves you.
They said.
It was all in her head.
They implied.
A group of church leaders, along with her parents, would be in attendance.
Then they could explain her error to the room.
No sense of ownership.
This idea made her physically ill.
More spiritual abuse.
The oppressive anxiety.
She couldn’t bring herself into another room with them, only to be humiliated again.
Could she?
In front of a group of adults.
Who had the authority.
The power to rewrite the narrative.
The narrative of her pain.
They had the correct understanding.
She didn’t.
It became clear.
They were not offering to reconcile.
They were requiring submission.
There would be no admittance of harm; intentional or not.
Oh, the heartache.
She was losing her grasp on what was once the best part of her life.
Her parents stepped in.
This was their beloved church too.
They would seek repair.
But their communications fell flat.
They were met with defensiveness.
No indications of health or authentic humility.
They watched their daughter in turmoil.
They would not allow them access to further crush her soul.
Thank God.
But there would be consequences to declining this meeting.
The girl’s hurting heart would become the reason why things didn’t work out.
She would be the one at fault.
She’s the one who chose this.
They’d say.
The weak one.
The difficult one.
The unforgiving one.
The confused one.
They’d say.
The powerless one.
The younger one.
It was only one.
They’d say.
This is where I met her.
In the pit.
When I heard of her I reached for her.
She didn’t know me.
I was a stranger.
But I had to risk it.
I knew the consequences of this treatment.
She needed support.
Now.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to save her.
My faith was already limping.
But I could sit with her.
I could be there.
When the judgment and blame had given birth to isolation.
I introduced myself.
I texted her a picture of the large sofa in the nursery.
I sat on it most of the day holding my young babe.
I let her know there was always a space for her.
She accepted my invitation.
So we sat.
The weakest of the weak.
Attempting to navigate confusing new realities.
How did we end up here?
I listened to her story.
I found conviction.
I found obedience.
I found miracle-sized courage.
I found a heart wanting to please her Heavenly Father.
She held my baby.
We played board games with my sons.
My dog became familiar with her scent.
We walked.
I visited her when she was on shift at the local coffee shop.
By Spring, my maternal-like love had grown for her.
She invited me to go prom dress shopping.
My boy-mom heart melted into a puddle.
Soon enough she was leaving for college.
She had to go.
It was time.
I was so happy for her.
But boy, would I miss her!
It’s only been a year but in that year,
I watched her heartbreak.
I watched her grow.
I watched her heal.
I watched her reach for a new community.
I watched her break, again.
I watched her persevere, again.
I watched her cling to His truths, again.
I watched her fight for joy.
I watched her be brave.
She’s so brave.
I watched her resilience.
I watched her repent.
I watched her apologize.
I watched her have hard conversations.
I watched her release a life she loved.
I watched her embrace the next season God had for her.
This next season has been different.
In phone calls squeezed in between busy class schedules.
She updates me on the fresh seedlings of opportunities.
Acceptance.
Community.
Social events.
New relationships that value her most authentic self.
And her heart being cared for so intentionally by spiritual leaders.
To bind up her wounds.
To speak truth over her.
Gradually dissolving the lies.
After we hang up, a deep sigh of relief encompasses my heart.
It’s a good season.
A redemptive season.
A season of restoration.
I’m so grateful for this past year with her.
To have been a witness.
To the preservation of her life.
The resilience of her faith.
Despite her young age.
She’s a testimony.
Of what God can do.
With just one.