The Messenger


“I am merely a FedEx-type worker on HIS behalf.”

Today I dropped off an application for one of my inmates to start her life over in a different city, while we continue to work and build a refuge for women like her in her city. I also learned of another young lady who wishes to follow in her footsteps and start her life over outside as well.

And in the height of that exciting news (and back-patting), I received a text letting me know that another one of my girls was back in jail and yet another had overdosed at 29 years old leaving two babies behind without a mother, and if I am totally honest I could not even remember her face. I had to look through my files to find her name. I could only find it one time, and next to it was written a prayer request, “Please, pray for the lost.”

Had I? Had I prayed for her and all the lost like her?
Had I? Had I prayed for her and all the lost like her? Had I pleaded enough for her life? If I had, would this have happened? Do I somehow have ownership in this senseless tragedy?

One moment I had been congratulating myself, and the next moment I felt like a complete failure. I failed her. If I had done more, prayed more, fasted more, spoken more passionately. If our home were up and running. If I had done more to raise the funds we need. I could have done more to save her, I thought.

I wanted desperately to wallow in the defeat of her death and simultaneously blame myself for being so prideful a moment earlier. Guilt and condemnation had my number. BUT, I kept hearing a voice inside that I feel certain must be Jesus saying, “You are not a Savior. This is not about you. This story is not yours. These lives are not yours. The gift you offer is not yours. They are Mine alone. The success is not yours and neither is the failure. MY Grace will NEVER depend on your performance.”

The truth of the matter is that pride exists not only when we pat ourselves on the back, but also when we wallow in defeat.
The truth of the matter is that pride exists not only when we pat ourselves on the back, but also when we wallow in defeat. Such arrogance I have shown, thinking this tragedy was mine to own. Thinking that her life and death, success or failure, hung on my provision, skills, access, abilities, resources.

I do not have hope to give. My job is to deliver HIS hope. I do not have the ability to save. All I have is a finger that can point to a Savior. My words have no power, no authority, no life in them without; they are HIS. HE alone is the gift-giver, she alone can receive the gift.

I am merely a FedEx-type worker on HIS behalf.
I am merely a FedEx-type worker on HIS behalf. The gift was sent, I did my best to deliver the package, but she refused to receive it. I am deeply sad that she refused because I know what was inside and how it could have changed everything for her forever, but I can’t even imagine how sad HE is because I know what it cost HIM to send it, and the love that went into it.

My heart aches not just for her loss and her children, but for the ultimate rejection of HIM.

For those of you who think missionaries and pastors are heroes, and for those of us who believe ourselves to be; we are not. I am not. You and I are just the messengers.

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