And All of This for Him.

She fell in, and he fell out, but it doesn't matter anymore. Because she needed him to catch her, but he was no longer there. He was off doing other things. And the promise he made is a kind of lie now. And in her opinion, lying is the worst. But how he acts, and what he says, and what he does, and who he is. They don't line up anymore. She doesn't know him anymore. She has so much left to say to him. And all she ever wishes was that things were different. The envy is killing her, and it's obvious. Someday, she's going to cross his mind. But he'll brush the thought away, like it was dust on the desk in his room, and in the drawer of that desk, hides all the things she's ever given for him. The Cd's, the letters, everything. He hid them so he'll never have to remember. His secret is that deep down he misses her. Her secret is hidden in an envelope that she wrote his name on in big black letters. She hid it in her desk, where she knew no one would find it, not even her. She hid it so she wouldn't have to remember either. But unfortunately, all she can remember is all she can't forget. Everything she was afraid of happening, happened. The things she loved became the things she misses. And she wonders how many times people forgive, just so they don't have to loose someone, even if that person doesn't deserve forgiveness. And after all of this, she doesn’t know much. But she does know that, someone doesn't have to be perfect, to be everything you need. And even if that person doesn’t deserve forgiveness, you will forgive them, because in your eyes, they are perfect. She has known such great pain; nothing like self inflicted wounds, but in her opinion worse. She has been unloved and unwanted. Let down and stabbed in the back. She has cried countless tears over one boy or another. And she just wishes that someone would understand. She has forgiven everyone that has ever hurt her because she believes that being nice to someone is easier than being mean. She believes that the world would be so much simpler if everyone could just be nice to one another, but that would only happen if life was perfect. Unfortunately, life is not perfect and the real world is an unforgiving place. Don Miller says "we are called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding." But it is a peculiar nature of this unforgiving world to go on spinning no matter what sort of heartbreak is happening. She fell in, and he fell out, but it doesn't matter anymore. He is off doing other things and forgetting to remember all the good memories but selecting to remember all the bad. All she can remember is all she can’t forget; both memories good and bad. Broken paper hearts and fallen angels. And at times, she can't see right in front of her. Wasted moments, trying to be someone she never wanted to be. And all of this for him. -written by me.

"To Write Love on her Arms."

Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."

I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.

Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.

The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.

She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.

I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes.

Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.

She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.

On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.

Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.

After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.

She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.

As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."

I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.

We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.

We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.

I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.

-written by Jamie Tworkowski

"And I Never Did Stop."

she rides her bike more,
now that the weather is getting cold.
she's found a shortcut to his house,
and she finds she goes there more and more.
she sits though, just watching the house.
not actually letting him know she's there.
but as the world has rejects her, more and more.
she walks up his lawn and bangs on the door.
he opens the door with a confused look on his face.
he steps outside as it begins to rain.
"do you ever think of me anymore?" she wispers.
pretending he didn't hear her,
he asks to repeat what she said.
"do you ever think of me anymore?" she says a little louder.
he just looks at her and stairs.
she shakes her head and turns to walk away.
"i'm so stupid," she says as she turns.
he grabs her arm, still says nothing.
it starts to rain harder.
she looks at him and he looks at her.
he knows he should say something, anything,
but he doesn't.
it rains harder.
she cries, harder than she ever has before.
"look at me, and tell me you don't love me anymore,"
she screams over the rain.
"LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME ALL WE HAD WAS NOT FOR NOTHING."
he begins to cry as well, but he still says nothing.
"I'm sorry," she wispers again. "I'm sorry for everything."
she turns to leave once more.
he grabs her harder now and pulls her face twards his.
he looks her in the eyes and kisses her pationatly.
"I still love you," he says. "and I never did stop."
-written by me.