We quietly shuffled into the back row as the worship team was already belting out their praise. I fumbled as I laid my umbrella down and settled in. She sat at first. She doesn't easily trust people or environments. She always takes several minutes of (socially awkward) silence to evaluate each new experience to decide what her next move will be. As she watched, she relaxed. She observed the other thousands standing and she did the same. Suddenly came a familiar song and she grinned. Music knows no barriers. She enjoyed the rhythm and the energy in the room.
A child who, months earlier, had zero will to live. Her soul was weary and she had declared full surrender. She had given up. As I sat with her on the floor those many months ago, she lay in my arms damp from the emotionally draining mixture of sweat, vomit and tears. She let out sobs for hours that felt like minutes. When you TRULY stand on the brink with someone, all time and the demands of real-life cease to exist. She had given up, but she knew that I had not, and would not! She could't go on, but I could. I could carry her. I MUST carry her.
At the House of Providence, this is the business that we are in. This is what we've signed up for. We gladly walk into the paralyzing, awful, soul-stealing trauma that has arrested every part of these sweet children, and when they give up, we say: "that's ok, I've got it from here!" We BOLDLY walk inch-by-inch toward the finish line marked by healing, freedom and wholeness.
As the worship service drew to a close, the team of well-groomed singers and musicians gently transitioned into the old, and well-loved chorus, "Nothing But The Blood". I could hardly stand upright as I (only through my peripheral vision, so as not to distract her with my voyerism) watch her clumsily hold her hands high with tears streaking her soft cheeks. All I can make out is her loudly declaring in her best falsetto "What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus!" Asked and answered, dear one! Asked and answered!