I didn’t want to go. I’m not sure about the other ladies or gentlemen who climbed into the three cars we took Saturday night. But for me, it was the last place I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be in the steady rain that was falling. It was the third time in our four initiatives that it had rained. We knew it was a representation of God’s heartbreak. And it was a reminder of the darkness in which we were headed.

I didn’t want the darkness, the smells, the sites, the sounds. I didn’t want to encounter them. See them. Feel them. I didn’t want the lingering smoke in my hair, or images in my mind. I didn’t want the thirty minute shower I would take when I got home to try to rinse off the filth from my mind and my body. I didn’t want the hour I would lay in bed reliving all that had been encountered that night.

But serving God isn’t about what we want is it? Serving God isn’t about the comfortable. The fairy tales. The happily ever after. It’s about the hurting, the broken, the needy. “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” Jesus told the Pharisees in Matthew 9. And sick people are usually in places that reek of their sickness. Tonight was no different. And this was where God had called us.

This night was harder. Longer. Darker than the previous. And yet, it held impact greater than we have had.

She looked like your normal college student. Sweat pants. A piercing. A cute hat. But most college students wouldn’t be found weeping in the dressing room of a strip club. But she was. She had tried to avoid us. I had thought of letting someone else go to her. But I couldn’t get away from it. I grabbed a beautifully wrapped mug and walked in her direction.

“What’s wrong baby girl?”

I held her silent body for a few moments as it shook gently in my arms.

“I don’t want to be here.” She said leaning back. The tears fell hard with no shame.

“How long have you worked here?”

“A week. And when I pulled in tonight and saw you ladies you reminded me of my mom.” The tears turned to sobs.

“What has you working in a place like this?”

She wiped at her nose with a tissue I handed her. “I’m getting a divorce. I married a drug addict and I need 1500 dollars by February. But I feel like I’ve sold my soul.”

“Would you be willing to work anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” She said with a sense of desperation.

Joan walked over and wrapped her in another mother’s embrace. She let her. For a long time.

“I can’t go out there.”  She said as she continued to cry. “Last night a man grabbed me by my throat.”

The righteous anger in me rose. “If we could get you a job would you leave?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want you to leave tonight. We will find you a job. I promise you. We will get you a job. You can leave here and never come back.”

The tears slowed. “You could?”

“Yes. Baby girl you are so valuable. You are so loved by God that He stopped the world tonight just for you. You see this beautifully wrapped mug. We have brought it to you free. No charge. You did nothing to deserve us bringing this to you. And God did the same thing with Jesus. He gave Him to you free as a gift. For your heart. This beautiful heart he is after. And He brought women in here tonight that look like your mom to let you know that you are worth more than this and that He has something very powerful planned for your life.”

“Thank you so much.” She said.

“May we pray with you.”

“Yes.”

We did. We got her number. We left. So did she. Today we are working diligently to get her a job. We both took a step of faith. The rest is up to our Father.

There were other connections that night.

Women prayed for as they shared about their children and their need. Others shed tears. Tears of pain. Tears of hope. Others patted our hands, thanked us for our gifts and wished us well on our way. Others ran to darken corners to hide from the light we brought.

Another girl has called. She wants something more than hollowed out stares and money that leaves you feeling more like pawn shop throwaways than jewelry store gems. God is moving. Mightily. In the dark places. The places our humanness doesn’t want to go. The places our spirit refuses to leave behind.

“And they shall rebuild the old ruins, They shall raise up the former desolations, And they shall repair the ruined cities. The desolations of many generations.” Isaiah 61:4