His eyes were pools of hopelessness. Shoulders sagged, hands shook as he slumped into the chair and stared somewhere over my left shoulder.
Twenty-five years old and he'd already seen the worst life could dish out. Was it worth sticking around for more? Who would care? The only person who had ever loved him died last year.
He'd been through a fleet of psychiatrists, sampled the drug buffet, and ingested reams of worldly wisdom, but here he sat. "They don’t help me. Nobody can help me. I was...I was hoping God could."
Two hours later, tears misting both our faces, he gave me a crooked smile. "Yeah, I can do that," he said and looked at me as though I'd just descended from Mount Sinai.
He held out two scarred arms and studied them as though seeing them for the first time. He was a cutter. "I’d never thought of my arms as belonging to God. I'm glad I came. I was hoping God could help me."
As I watched him walk away, God spoke: "He's the reason I called you to this. There are lots more like him. Keep feeding my lambs."
They come in without options; they leave with a glimmer of hope shining in their eyes. It's not me. I don't know anything. I'm just the tool God uses to pour his love, truth, and hope into desperate hearts. But I get to watch Him work—and nothing compares to a thrill like that.
"Do you get paid to be a counselor?" my son asked last week.
I remembered the trembling lips of a young man not much older than my son. The ray of hope that hadn't been there before. The frantic grasping for the hand of God.
I swallowed hard and smiled at my son. "Yeah, Sam. I get paid."
Twenty-five years old and he'd already seen the worst life could dish out. Was it worth sticking around for more? Who would care? The only person who had ever loved him died last year.
He'd been through a fleet of psychiatrists, sampled the drug buffet, and ingested reams of worldly wisdom, but here he sat. "They don’t help me. Nobody can help me. I was...I was hoping God could."
Two hours later, tears misting both our faces, he gave me a crooked smile. "Yeah, I can do that," he said and looked at me as though I'd just descended from Mount Sinai.
He held out two scarred arms and studied them as though seeing them for the first time. He was a cutter. "I’d never thought of my arms as belonging to God. I'm glad I came. I was hoping God could help me."
As I watched him walk away, God spoke: "He's the reason I called you to this. There are lots more like him. Keep feeding my lambs."
They come in without options; they leave with a glimmer of hope shining in their eyes. It's not me. I don't know anything. I'm just the tool God uses to pour his love, truth, and hope into desperate hearts. But I get to watch Him work—and nothing compares to a thrill like that.
"Do you get paid to be a counselor?" my son asked last week.
I remembered the trembling lips of a young man not much older than my son. The ray of hope that hadn't been there before. The frantic grasping for the hand of God.
I swallowed hard and smiled at my son. "Yeah, Sam. I get paid."
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