angst-ridden punk rock teenagers,
she with her multi-colored mohawk and
I, bleach blond hair and torn clothes,
arms wrapped tight around knees and
locked deep inside my weary self.
She was beautiful and I,
I was wretched.
Gentleness poured forth from her mouth
I spouted self hatred.
Loneliness consumed the young girl that
depression filled teenager running from all
to I knew not what but
desperate to get there.
she came close with a holy calm and
pulled me in,
this girl younger yet so. much. wiser
asked the non-christian, God ignorer that I was
with a whisper that rang like sweet song,
"can I pray for you Amy?"
With profanity spewing all around us,
punk rock music blaring in our ears,
she invited the Holy Spirit to visit us,
and visit us He did.
I don't remember the specifics of her prayer,
but I do remember the awe I felt in that
broken yet holy moment and
I will admit I forgot all about her prayer in
the turmoil of the next few days but
I remembered after my heart had been torn open,
when I had nothing left of myself and reached out to
He who had been calling for oh. so. long.
I remembered when His peace entered me,
who had been gasping for breath and barely able
I remembered when I had long been reading my own Bible and
found in a box of my old things a small Bible with
an inscription from her and a note,
a note telling me how she loved me and
her and her mama had been praying fervently for me,
I remembered when I already knew how
that story ended and
I couldn't breathe just for a moment
when I remembered.
Because I knew.
It brought me to Him.
After she prayed began a whirlwind of teenage
oceans of tears...
all leading to a breakdown of self and
Christ lifting me up.
It began with a prayer.
A prayer of simple faith,
prayer in the back of a truck with
punk rock music and obscenities,
safety pins and leather jackets,
Wherever you are,
don't forget to pray for someone.