This speech is about a story, and a response to a story.
The story is about a princess held captive in a tall tower.
And a few good knights who saved her from her captor.
The princess is named Renee. The knights are Christians. The evil captors, are the powers and principalities of this dark world.
The story is called TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS. It was written by a knight named Jamie Tworkowski.
This is a true story and the power is real.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to writeSomething Profane large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center found the wound several hours later. The centerhad no detox, names her too great a risk, and did not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become 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.
So we took a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, gave her the best seats in the house. bought her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Told her something true when all she's known are lies. Told her God loves her. And her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, we told her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
It’s Renee’s last night with us, She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it.
The instant I read that I knew that this story will stay with me forever. That moment, that gift is why I am here today.
There in the story I was convicted by the fact that healing is possible, and all I have to do is reach out to the broken and love them the way Christ loved me.
Renee’s story is powerful, but it is not alone.
I also dealt with depression and pain.
My father left when I was three years old, and with him left any belief I may have had in Gods benevolence. I never doubted His existence, but I could not understand how God could allow such pain. In my mind, twisted by self pity, I blamed all things dark, or painful, on God. And I hated Him. It hurts me to say it now, but it is the truth. For a long time I hated God, believing that He only existed to bring me pain. I never struggled with substance abuse, but I did engage in a kind of self injury, and thoughts of suicide. When I was young I turned my pain into rage, lashing out at anything that made me feel vulnerable. Needless to say I had few friends growing up, I wouldn't have wanted to be my friend. I remember every-time I saw anyone with their father envy and rage would well up from the depths of my soul, and I would cry, and scream, and hit whatever I could reach, or go where I could reach something hard. I remember one day when I was about five, punching, punching, punching, the exposed brick walls of our house until my hands where bloody and I couldn’t stand the pain any more. In my warped mind I was the victim of a god that chose a few to torment, and left the rest to rub in the faces of the few, Not with my mind, nor with my heart could I believe that God was good. I have a great mother, and had a good church. I didn’t hate people just God. I longed for love, even in my hatred, and there where those who gave it freely. In the end I would not have salvation today if it weren’t for a few great role models.
My road to Christ was not at first voluntary.
As I grew older the pain dulled a little, and I was able to feel love, not only lust after it. As I grew my mom was wise enough to make sure that I was surrounded by good Christian men. Over time I began to realize that every-one I looked up to, every one I admired, trusted the god I hated. They showed me over time, that the god that I hated was not the real God at all. Their love of me, and sacrifice for me, brought me out of that darkness. I was not saved by those Christians, but I still wold not be saved if they hadn’t come down into the fire where I lived, and raised me up before Elohime, the maker of all things new. He not them saved me, but He was at work through them. God is not invisible when His body does His work. Today I am saved, but I was not saved by the Word alone but also the body.
This is my challenge to you.
