It’s been well over a decade now since I met the little girl who dressed all in black.

She seemed so sad, and her walls were high and thick. She did her best to remain invisible, cloaked in a black hoodie with a hole worn in each sleeve where she’d nervously pushed her thumbs through.

Those long sleeves hid more than her hands.

I’ve wondered since then if I had not tried so hard to hide my own scars, maybe my students wouldn’t have felt they had to hide theirs from me.

But I was a new teacher who didn’t yet know how to love my students. I was trying to make the most of my education, lording grammar over children like it was reason enough to live.

I didn’t know how brave they are, how they’re armored with happy faces so no one asks hard questions.

Students giggle and dart, a whirl of jitters, many times so no one can catch their eyes and see inside… but this cherub, the one in black, looked up at me and when she did, I saw a story.

After a long time when I was privileged to earn a bit of trust, she told me some of her story. She told me enough of it to break my heart for good.

I just wanted her to feel loved, so I invited her to where I felt loved, which was church on Sunday evenings.

Her initial response was to point out that she had nothing to wear, but I assured her she’d be welcomed and could sit with me and my husband. Against all odds, she agreed to meet us there.

Sunday night came and to my surprise, there she was.

She looked like a vision. She had shortish raven-black hair, and somehow she’d found a long, flowing rainbow-colored skirt. That skirt-of-many-colors spilled down the steps where she was sitting, and all I could do was pray thanks to Jesus for blessing us with her presence.

But once we were inside, she leaned over and whispered that while she waited on the steps, a man in a suit had said to her, I suppose after you’ve rested a while, you’ll be moving along.

I was dumbstruck.

My faith family welcomed everyone—Trust me, I’d tested their limits—but somehow, one solitary Pharisee with his pockets full of rocks had found my guest.

She was a wise little girl, well-acquainted with the voice of the enemy, so she was not so easily insulted. She smiled knowingly.

Jesus’ sweet words breathed through my mind: It’s not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I’ve not come to call those who think they’re righteous, but those who know they’re sinners …

And I knew I was witnessing a parable.

 

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But the Samaritans wouldn’t let Jesus enter their town.

So two disciples asked Jesus, Lord, do You want us to call down fire from heaven to consume them?

But Jesus rebuked them, saying, What? No! Of course not! You do not know what kind of Spirit you are of!

{Luke 9:54-55}

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This coin is a gift she gave me a couple years later. I keep it with me at all times as an enduring reminder of what Spirit I’m supposed to be of… Love.

Always, always and only Love.

1 John 3:24