Renee Yohe was ninteen years old when Jamie met her. And the night they met, a combination of cocaine, pot, pills, and alcohol was coursing through her bloodstream. Her arms were scarred from trying to let her pain escape through the sharp edges of blades and glass. Jamie and his friends desperately wanted to take her to rehab, but she said no. Not that night. Maybe the next day.
She was tormented that night, haunted by the ghosts that had been following her for years--abuse, depression, and addiction--yet hope was holding on to a tender corner of her heart, pleading with her that her rescue was possible. Taking a razor blade and a drink, she wanted to quiet the voices again. She engraved a name in her arm--it's not her name. but it's how she identified herself.
"F*** Up."
Sometimes when people come across that word--the F word that is starred out in the sentence above--we think of it as profane.
Vulgar.
Inappropriate.
In this case, it's not.
Renee saw this word as her name. Her identity.
The following morning arrived, and Renee went to the rehab clinic. The nurse there turned her away. She was too much of a risk. Too many drugs were in her system; her wounds were too fresh.
"Come back later," the nurse said.
Over the next five days, Jamie and his friends became Renee's hospital. Her respite. Her place of healing. It's both tragic and beautiful. They immersed her in life and music and love.
The sunrises and sunsets mixed together, and a few days later it was time for her to go to treatment.
Jamie writes about those days:
'We became 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...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 invisble 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.' "
Remember. We are all in need of rescue.
No comments:
Post a Comment