My heart was racing, my mind creating every kind of bad scenario for me and my friend, Rachel. The house we were in was incredibly dirty and the smell of sweat and alcohol filled the heavy air. In the back bedroom I found an old, tattered mattress on the floor. At seven, I was the leader, pulling my friend under the mattress with me and grabbing her hand.
I prayed for us. She prayed for us. We squeezed each other tight and prayed we would not be found by any of the men doing drugs that night in what later became known as the “crack house.”
Hopeless? No.
“So the helpless has hope, And unrighteousness must shut its mouth.” Job 5:16
I have no memory or conclusion to what happened to Rachel and I that night, but I do have many memories of what would follow --peace and a hand much bigger than the adults around me floundering about trying to make their own way.
He did not have a name to me, but His invitation included mine. His hand was that of a hearty, working man yet soft and warm. As I curled up with Him in my heart, I knew I was safe. Guarded from what was happening around me, guarded from the uncertainty and confusion that my world had always been to me.
