chosen // Memphis 2015 snapshot

Her hand clung to mine and then suddenly ripped away. She was yelling, and honestly, I don't remember what she was so mad about. Whatever it was, I was annoyed with how she never seemed to listen and she always seemed to want something and she wanted it now. I huffed and got down at eye level with her to sternly tell her that she needed to stop RIGHT this second because I wouldn't have this kind of behavior on the walk home. She pulled her hands from mine again and I could tell she was about to hit me. I would've hit me too.

That's when it struck me (and no, it wasn't her hand; no pun intended). Maybe this little girl with beads heavy in her braids acted this way because people were always yelling at her to be quiet and sit down and just wait and listen to the directions and quit yelling at other kids. Maybe she was desperate for love and she was desperate for someone to notice her hurting heart that knew more than it should at eight years old. 

My hands moved around her soft and pouty belly and I softened my tone. "Listen, sweetheart, I know that's what you want right now, but I can't give it to you. I'm sorry. It's time for us to walk home, and yo mama is waiting for me to get you home safely. Can you trust me and walk home with me?"

She looked at me and with no change of expression, she agreed. She slipped her dark brown hand back into mine and walked across the street and the Rosamond lot for our short trek back to her house.

She asked me questions about what my full name was and how old was I and where was I from. She told me literally 30 times what her address was and pointed out her sister to me, not that she had to; they look exactly alike.

I picked her up and carried her some of the way home because her flip flops were broken and there were broken beer and liquor bottles all over the sidewalk, not to mention the ants that swarmed around any remnant of Takis, and she flung her body weight over my shoulder like I was the safest place she'd landed in a long while. 

When we finally got back to her house, she sighed and said, "Well, here my house. I don't want you to leave me though."

"I know, baby, but I'll be back tomorrow and I'll see you at bible club."

"Lemme take a picture on yo camera before you go."

She took a selfie of us on the camera I bought the night before I left for Memphis. Satisfied with her accomplishment, she turned and squeezed around my neck and then ran to her front door, pried open the iron slat door and then the creaky wooden one, and disappeared.

I can still remember looking at her house for several moments and wondering what went on behind those two doors. I wondered what may be said in between those walls, where the little girl that just ran into her house slept, where her siblings slept; if any adult was home most nights.

I can still hear G's young voice telling her sister, who we will call Cassidy for her protection, "Quit yo' whinin'. Imma tell my granddaddy on you, girl. You gon' get a whoppin' if you ain't stop ya cryin'."

"Stop, telling her that. She doesn't feel good, G. It's okay if she's crying."

"Naw, it ain't. Imma tell my granddaddy on her and she gon' get in trouble. You gon' get in trouble if you don't stop that whinin'," G reminded her sister.

I sighed. The last thing Cassidy needed was to get in trouble. I knew which house we were taking these two sisters to, and I knew it was a popular house for drug sales and prostitution. I knew how brutal it can get when an adult tells a whiny child to shut up and they don't, and my heart sped up thinking of what could happen if G told on her little sister for crying like this.

I was also frustrated with the mentality G had: you aren't allowed to be sad. That mentality is the difference in what is a child raised in the hood of Memphis, and what makes a street kid. Street kids are mean and show no other emotion that toughness--usually. (But that's a topic for another post on another day.) I wanted Cassidy to know that it's okay to be sad sometimes and cry, and it's okay to whimper because her feet hurt, and that I would gladly carry her little body as far as I could before I had to send her home. 

I argued back and forth with G for what I remember as the whole way home, telling her repetitively  that it was okay for Cassidy to be sad and that it was alright if she was carried. I couldn't understand why G cared so little for how her little sister felt. Most of the time, the older siblings are extremely protective over their younger siblings and they are more like parents to them than their real parents are. So why couldn't G care for her little sister instead of reprimanding her and dangling punishment over her head?

It's like she wants to make her cry more so that she can get her in more trouble, I thought.

Fast forward a day or two, and I found myself standing next to G and a couple of other girls. One little girl in the clump was crying for reasons I don't remember (I know, I sound super compassionate and attentive to my kids and their needs) and G started telling her again to shut up and quit being sad.

I clearly remember how I literally opened my mouth and started to tell her to stop saying that. But what Jesus spoke to me next was just as clear as all the other voices of chatter around me: She is sad too. Love her. 

I wrapped my arm around G and I just held her there. And the weirdest thing is that she didn't seem startled. She didn't fight me off or look at me like I had lost my mind. She just looked ahead and then at the ground, and so I bent in front of her.

"Baby, it's okay to be sad. And if you're sad, it's okay. You don't have to be perfect or happy for Jesus to love you. He loves you right now, just like he's loved you since before you were even born. Does that make any sense?"

Her deep brown eyes softly met my blue eyes and she nodded softly. I drew my breath. The moment was so still. It was like I was learning for the first time that if I would just choose love and choose obedience, that--all by itself--would be testament to the power of the gospel. 

The gospel is not something God needs me to share. God does not need me. But God, out of his bounty of grace, chooses me. He picks me today and tomorrow and he picked me yesterday, too. That is LOVE: picking someone even when you don't have to, and choosing to pour out grace over them anyways.

We feel that we are too inadequate and too small and too impatient for Jesus to use us. And apart from him, every single one of those things and more are true. But if we will just submit to God and decide that no matter what may come, we are his, there will be joy unspeakable. 

And whether you sink or swim, guess what? 

It doesn't even freaking matter.

Because here's what I know: God does not trophy our victories that we embark on and complete because we deem it right and good and helpful. Instead, God crowns us for attempts made in obedience because we were brave enough to believe that he is everything he's promised.

So who's about to hit you that you can choose hold the hand of anyways? And who's screaming words that are like sandpaper into your ears that you can decide to choose anyways and pour out grace over their broken hearts?

We get to do this. We get to love people. How can we, being afforded this privilege by the God who created the universe and calls us out of hiding into his marvelous light, not seize this opportunity and let love be both balm and scalpel to gaping wounds and gnarly flesh?