Buying Her Off the Street

If someone would’ve told me that six years after starting Hosea’s Heart, I’d be buying one of my daughters off the street, I would’ve said, “No way. You’re crazy. Count me out! I can’t put my heart through that kind of meat grinder.”

Yet, here I am, slumped in confusion and agony, holding nothing but a chaos of questions for God.

After not seeing her for five months, she finally made contact and said two of the most joyful words over the phone, “Hi, Mom.” She promised to meet me and the kids at church on Sunday. I had prayed and fasted. Numerous others were praying that she would follow through on her word and we could all reconnect as a family again. I was confident she would appear.

I was wrong.

She didn’t come. She didn’t call. She didn’t send a message. I was devastated, as I had felt God was preparing my heart for the past two weeks for this reunion. That my heart was finally tender again, that I could love like the Prodigal Father. I was in hopeful expectation for a beautiful reunion.

Instead, my reunion, my first sight of her after almost half a year, was far from beautiful. It was ugly, painful, shocking, and heartwrenching.

Ours eyes met through a car window as I drove past a street corner at nighttime. Never in my life did I think I would have to see her selling herself. I slammed on the breaks, threw the car into park, and lurched out my door, half-expecting I’d have to chase her down. She stood there in confusion, only recognizing it was me when it was too late.

My hand grabbed her arm and she moaned in agony of her own. “Eish, eish, eish,” she kept muttering and covered her face with her hands, refusing to let me see her. “What are you doing?” I nearly screamed. “You promised to meet me this morning. We were so excited to see you. But instead I have to see you like this?!”

There were no words, and the only thing that united us was our pain. “Get in the car,” I demanded. She shook her head no. “I’m taking you home.” She tried to resist. “You can do this any other night, I can’t control that. But not tonight. I will not stand here and let my daughter sell herself.” I half-drug her to the car and then she got in and silently cried.

I brought her to my apartment, where she could see the kids (I put on a brave face, pretending nothing was wrong, and watched the kids celebrate their mom). She covered them with kisses and “I love yous” but when they asked her to stay, she said no. I offered her old bed back, but she said no. I wanted to make her stay. I wanted to lock her in the house, which I easily could’ve done and she would’ve stayed. But when I asked the Lord, “God, what do I do?” He gently told my heart, “Let her go.”

I popped popcorn, because it was her favorite snack. We sent the kids to bed and I offered her the choice one more time. I knew my words had to be few, so my lecture was brief, “You always have choices. No matter how many bad ones you make, you NEVER run out of good ones. You can always make one right. You can choose to come back. You will always have a place here. We will love you forever.”

“Goodnight, Mom,” she said sadly, choosing to go.

“Here,” I handed her the popcorn. “And here’s what I owe you for your time tonight,” I handed her a large bill. She took it and wept immediately, shaking with sobs. I walked her to the door and asked for a hug before she entered the darkness again.

When she hugged me, she cried and cried, leaving large spots of tear-stains on my shoulder. And in that moment, suddenly I was back in 2009 when she was 13. She had lied about her life on the streets, but then finally admitted to being a prostitute, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. I remember looking at her face, her lips curved in a fake smile but her eyes holding wells of pain. “Do they hurt you? I just don’t want you getting hurt.” Suddenly, the smile evaporated and sounds of agony came from her lips instead. She melted into my hug and cried and cried on my shoulder.

But here I was nine years later, having nearly the same moment. The only difference was that back then, I was the one who walked away (returned to the States), but now I had to watch her walk away – away from our permanent home that we once shared together, away from safety, food, security, and love. To walk back to the very life I “rescued” her from all those years ago.

And all I could do was let her go.

 And then I wept. And wept and wept. I dug my fists into my sheets and wanted to scream at God. So many questions, so much pain, so much anger.

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Yet the only answer was: “Look to the cross. You bought her for the night, but I bought her with my life. The love and pain you have is just a sliver of mine. The magnitude of which I love her and weep for her is the same love I have for you. I won’t leave you, Kate. I will finish the work that I have started. You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you. Trust me now. It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet.”

The Prodigal Heart

~Recklessly extravagant, having spent everything~

I have a prodigal heart.

Prone to wild jealousy, self-justification, entitlement, stubbornness and a reckless pursuit of “feeling good”–

because my heart is made of flesh.

And yet, I have a prodigal heart.

Prone to untamed joy, extravagant self-denial, lavished love, and a reckless spending of forgiveness –

because my heart is consumed with the lordship of Jesus.

I’ve heard the story of “The Prodigal Son” too many times to count; moreover, I’ve experienced the story of the prodigal son too many times for me to find meaning in the message. And it’s still too raw of a wound, since she’s still a runaway and I’m without my happy ending.  

So I brought closure for myself: I’ve forgiven enough. I’ve reached out enough. I’ve prayed enough. I’ve said enough. I’ve helped enough. There is nothing more left to do.

So, like the father in the parable, I simply wait.

And in the waiting, the Father reveals the real heart of the message is not about the runaway son but about the self-righteous heart of the older brother. The one who serves his father faithfully and then has to watch his younger brother (who shamed the family and took off to pursue his selfish desires) get treated like a celebrity. The one who refuses to enter the feast at the end of the parable. The one whom my heart connected with and felt, “I agree with him! That’s not fair! Lord, I’ve served you faithfully! Why won’t you answer me? Why won’t you celebrate me?” The one for whom the parable was intended.

My friend Beth sent me a book for Christmas called The Prodigal God by Timothy Keller. His analysis of the parable has rocked my world and flipped my self-righteousness on its butt. He points out something that we almost always overlook: to whom was the parable given? Luke 15:1-2 says, “Now the tax collectors and ‘sinners’ were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, ‘This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” And then he tells three parables, one of which is the Parable of the Prodigal Son. These “tax collectors and sinners” in the parable are the lost son while the Pharisees are the self-righteous elder brother.

So, while the main message of the parable is God’s grace, we cannot overlook that the message was actually to call out the older brother, not the younger one. The message was to call attention to the stubborn, unforgiving, prideful heart of the older brother.

Indeed, that has been my heart.

I didn’t realize it in the moment, because I claimed I had already forgiven. But betrayal that deep, for reasons that no one can explain, can’t simply be covered by a claim of grace. It must be the act of grace.

I’ve talked to numerous people, I’ve gone over numerous situations in my head about what to do/say if/when she comes back. I’ve heard numerous pieces of advice like, “Of course you can’t take her back. You’ll just keep teaching her that it’s okay to run” or “How could you not? Aren’t you family?” Some told me to fight for her, to find her. Some told me to forget about her, to move on without a second thought. The only answer I could get from God was Wait.

I thought the waiting was time extended for Him to work on her heart. I was wrong. He told me to wait because He needed to work on my heart.

While I thought I was being gracious, I was truly bitter. I was extending grace only with the expectation that she would come back groveling, weeping at my feet, begging for forgiveness and acknowledging all the wrong-doing. I was expecting her to come back changed, or at least that I would only help her again if she was truly changed. So when that didn’t happen, I got angry. As more months passed, my heart got harder. I ignored the pain, avoided confronting my own heart by justifying how much I have done and how I have served God so faithfully (like the proper elder brother). And slowly, God reminded me to cast out all fear and face the pain. To sit and cry. He craved to take the pain from me, yet at the same time He expected me to extend the same to her.

In the parable, the Father demonstrates the most unconventional love by running out to his son and embracing him even before the apology and weeping. As Tim Keller puts it, the father is saying, “I’m not going to wait until you’ve paid off your debt; I’m not going to wait until you’ve duly groveled. You are not going to earn your way back into the family, I am going to simply take you back. I will cover your nakedness, poverty, and rags with robes of my office and honor.”

I was struck. Before? “God, do I have to forgive her before she comes and asks for it? Do I have to forgive her even if she never comes back or never asks for it? God, doesn’t she have to do something to prove she’s changed? Doesn’t she have to do something to prove she can be trusted? To deserve a place in the family again?”

Tim Keller summarizes the answer like this: The story “demonstrates the lavish prodigality of God’s grace. Jesus shows the father pouncing on his son in love not only before he has a chance to clean up his life and evidence a change of heart, but even before he can recite his repentance speech.”

Forgiveness, then, is not based on expectation or condition. It cannot demand a change. It simply gives. It gives lavishly, extravagantly, recklessly.

Indeed, we should call it a prodigal grace.

Untamed, lavished, uncontrollable, ferocious, fierce – the love of our Father.

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The love in my prodigal heart for her.  

The Wound That Won't Heal

The Wound that won’t Heal

Cover up the pain

Hide the scar

Take the medication

Or you won’t get far

Don’t think, just drink

Don’t cry, just drive

Do whatever you can

To numb the ache inside

“Do what feels right” they say

So, if it hurts, it must be wrong

Avoid pain at all costs

That way you’ll look strong

But I can’t

‘cause I’m not

I won’t

‘cause I’m done

Done believing that feelings

Determine what’s “right”

Done believing that pain

Should be reduced to none

Pain must be felt

Feelings must not win

Ignoring the ache

Only leads to sin

To cover up the pain is to live in fear

To hide the scar is to avoid the mirror

Suffering is not the enemy

To mourn is not to be weak

Pleasure is not the prize

Perseverance gives us peace

So, rip off the Band-Aid

Bare the scar

Unmask the ugliness

Or you won’t get far

Pain must be felt

Fear must not win

The wound exposed

Is when healing begins

“Why won’t it heal?” I asked myself. I wasn’t referring to the bruises on my arm from basketball or the cut on my knee. I wanted to know why I still hurt soul-deep. “I’ve forgiven,” I claimed. “I’m fearless,” I said. “I’ve had closure,” I lied. But my heart knew the truth inside. The truth that it was fear itself that kept me from facing the pain. And if I didn’t have courage to face the pain, how could I claim I’ve had closure; moreover, how could I claim to have forgiven?

“Why won’t it heal?” a girl asked me. She was referring to the cut on her knee. The one that she kept covering with bandaid after bandaid. 

“Because you keep covering it,” I said. “Take the bandaid off so the air can get to it and heal.”

“But it hurts,” she argued. “What if I brush it on something and it stings? What if I get dirt in it? What if ends up being an ugly scar?”

“Fear can’t heal a wound, sweetheart. It might have to hurt more before it heals.”

“Because you keep covering it,” His answer floated back to me about my wound that was soul-deep. “Take the bandaid off.”

“But it hurts. I don’t want to look at it. It’s an ugly reminder. If I can’t see it, I don’t feel the pain.”

“Fear can’t heal your wound, sweetheart.”

“I’m not afraid,” I argue. “I’m just… tired. Tired of that wound being reopened. Tired of the way you won’t heal it. It feels fine when it’s covered.”

“Just because it feels good, doesn’t mean it’s healed. Likewise, just because it hurts, doesn’t mean I’m not the Healer.”

There’s only one wound that won’t heal. It’s the one we can’t face. The one we cover, the one we run from. Perhaps that’s why she’s a runner. Perhaps that’s why I’m a hider. Perhaps that’s why we go through the motions of life, being led by emotions, being tempted to numb any ache. I ache for a world unmasked. Undivided. Unnumbed.

What Band-Aid do you need to rip off today?

So, rip off the Band-Aid

Bare the scar

Unmask the ugliness

Or you won’t get far

Pain must be felt

Fear must not win

The wound exposed

Is when healing begins

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