By His Stripes

She drifted in during our closing worship session on the final day of DemoCrew, as we met privately one last time with a group of teenagers who had spent the past four days with us at The Mustard Seed in Calgary, learning about root causes of homelessness and getting to know our guests. Somehow, she had wandered through the doors undetected, unnoticed, unseen, and now, this very intoxicated young woman appeared and dropped her bags on the table at the back, a few feet from where I was standing. She precariously lowered herself into a chair in the corner to observe the young students singing praise songs at the front of the room, all of whom were unaware that she was sitting behind them, swaying back and forth, not from the music, but from the effects of too much alcohol and too many drugs in too short a span of time.

I could have escorted Riley (not her real name) out, as we had experienced disruptions and incidents from intoxicated guests during worship before, but something – Someone – spoke into my heart and told me it was more important that she stay. So I casually crossed the room and silently took a seat next to her. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her turning her head to look at me, but I continued singing and looking ahead, wanting to give her as much space as she wanted or needed.

The music stopped for a few minutes as the group prepared for communion, and Riley seized the opportunity to ask me a question. If I hadn’t been listening for it, I probably would have missed it entirely; she spoke so softly that I had to lean in and strain with everything in me to catch what she was saying, ignoring the strong scent of alcohol on her breath.

“Are they talking about Jesus?”

I turned to respond to Riley, and studied the person in front of me. She did not look at me but instead stared straight ahead, into emptiness, her eyes registering no emotion. Her long, punk-styled black hair hung almost to her shoulders; she was clothed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, not unlike what I wear when I’m putting together new dance choreography or teaching a dance class. In fact, there were several similarities between us, including the fact that she couldn’t have been far from my age of 21 (I found out later that day that she was, in fact, just 19). She had her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, a tiny, frail figure who looked like she might actually break if you were to touch her.

I have worked at The Mustard Seed for over a year, and in that time, my heart has hurt many, many times for the guests whom I serve. But never before had I felt my heart completely shatter ­into what felt like a million tiny pieces as I registered the complete and total brokenness of the beautiful girl sitting before me.

“Yes, they are,” I replied quietly. “Do you know about Jesus?”

Riley slowly nodded her head, still staring at a point on the wall. Okay, I thought. That’s a good first step. I said a silent prayer that God would use the next moments to touch Riley’s life. The music started again, and I quietly asked her, “Would you like to listen to some more of the music?” She nodded again and the lyrics of this song in particular could not have been more perfect, as they spoke of grace, and mercy, and a new life in Jesus.

Worship ended and the DemoCrew participants said their goodbyes, but I did not leave with them. Instead, I continued sitting with Riley quietly, asking the occasional question which she would reply to after a delayed silence. As the hours passed and our conversation continued, I could see that the effects of the alcohol and drugs she had admitted consuming were wearing off, and she was becoming more articulate and comprehensible. In jagged sentences, she asked me first why such bad things had happened to her throughout her life, and then, how God could love her after all the times she had screwed up.

And then came the moment. Riley slowly laid her hands on the table and rotated her wrists, and I saw the scars.

So many scars.

“Are they recent?” I asked softly.

She nodded, fighting back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. “Older,” she said, pointing to one. “Newer,” she motioned to another. “Newest,” she whispered as she nodded to the cartoon bandage covering one spot.

In that instant, I suddenly realized the difference between "fixing" people and "helping" people. When you try to fix someone, you assume the ball is in your court, and that you get to call the shots in somebody else's life. But when you try to help someone, you put the ball back in their court, and simply put yourself in a position to walk alongside them should they choose to grant you that privilege. Everything in me was screaming to try to fix Riley's life for her, to somehow make the scars fade and the pain disappear. And then, just as quickly, God reminded me that fixing people isn't my job -- journeying with them, through their triumphs and their difficulties, is.

With her permission, I invited my co-worker, who works in chaplaincy, to join us so we could pray for Riley. He spoke words of God’s love over her, and we hugged her, and we watched the walls come down as she cried, and cried, and cried some more, shoulders shaking, as she finally realized and accepted the truth that we as Christians call “grace”: nothing she could ever do could make God ever love her more, and nothing she could ever do could make God ever love her less. He knows every hair on her head, and in His eyes, she’s not the screw-up she thinks she is. She is a beautiful child, and best of all, she is His – forever. She accepted God’s forgiveness, and finally, she forgave herself as well.

Several hours later, after I had made sure Riley would be safe for the night, I finally left work, drained, walking through the downtown streets, praying as my mind recalled the scene of those scars on her arms. As I prayed, the images in my head transformed in a stunning picture of Jesus, reaching out to wrap Riley in His arms…and as He did, I saw them.

The scars covering His body.

The holes in His palms where the nails had pierced Him the night He hung on the cross and died for us.

And suddenly, I remembered the promise given to us, in Isaiah 53:5 (NKJV), which says:

“But He was wounded for our transgressions,
 He was bruised for our iniquities,
The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, 
And by His stripes we are healed.”

I continue to pray for Riley every single day, begging God for restoration of her life, but trusting that she has always been His child, and will always be His child. And I have promised God that for as long as He allows me to, I will do my best to walk alongside her, not with the goal of fixing her, but with the belief that He will work in her life in a way that I, a human being, never could.

By His stripes we are healed.

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