The Way of Things

One

One

Thirty years ago . . .

"Experience is a brutal teacher" is a very understated truth.

Thinking back on my childhood has never been an enjoyable experience. Like so many other young souls whose names and faces were as forgotten as my own, I was raised in a housing project in Orlando, Florida by two drug addict parents who took turns abusing me for years before mercifully overdosing by the time I turned sixteen. With their departure from this life, I became well-acquainted with the streets and had survived on them for quite a while, managing to hide from the system. The nights were tear-filled and achingly lonely. But then again, loneliness had been a part of my life from the day I was born.

During that first phase of my young independence, I did odd jobs during the day–from collecting shopping carts for the neighborhood grocery store to shining shoes on the corner–and I slept on the beach at night. I was never afraid, thanks to martial arts lessons given to me at thirteen by a neighbor who once lived in our apartment building, and I had learned how to defend myself well. The old man knew the hell that had been my life and had taught me for years. He made me promise not to use those skills unless my life was in danger. At the time of those lessons, my young mind had thought, "When is my life not in danger?" Still, because the perpetrators were my parents, I'd kept that particular set of skills to myself.

When I finally turned seventeen, I felt nothing would ever change for me. Because I was still underage, getting a job, even at a fast-food place, was impossible without a home address. I couldn't very well say I lived on the beach and risk being picked up by the system. And I was determined to never be placed in a foster home. I'd heard too many stories from kids I knew, and I could not imagine a stranger's home being any better than the one I left.

One night, I was too hungry to sleep. The small bit of money I'd managed to find as I scoured the beach earlier that day wasn't even enough to purchase a simple burger and my empty stomach ached. I walked the beach for a while, hoping to exhaust myself enough to sleep. The moon was full, the bright light illuminating the water, making the ocean waves shimmer like a sea of glass. I stopped for a moment and took in the sounds, then I offered up a few words of gratitude for the view. Prayer was not something I learned from my parents, or anyone else for that matter. It just happened. The instinct was just there, buried deep inside me, pressing upward and causing the words to just come. There was never an answering response. I didn't expect one. I could only hope the desires of my heart were known.

It was on my way back to my sleeping spot next to a large flowering bush that I heard His voice.

Hadassah, you are most loved and cared for. And you are never alone. Then I saw Him walking toward me in the distance, and I immediately knew Him, felt His goodness and warmth.

"Oh, Yeshua!" I tearfully said as His arms came around me, drawing me in. Immersed in the shelter of His embrace, I cried like the lost child that I was.

Pressing His face against my hair, he caressed my wet cheek and said, "Your life is in the palms of my hands and it will soon change."

When we reached my spot, He sat on the ground next to me, allowing me to hold His hands in mine and I examined the nail prints in His palms.

"Despite all the trials in your young life, you have been ever-faithful to me without truly being taught of me."

I smiled. "I remember going to church once with a neighbor. I think I was nine at the time. I remember seeing the large painting of you in the entryway, and it affected me in a way I can't explain–or at least, I couldn't at the time." Raising my eyes to His, I squeezed His hands and said, "But I can see now that you look nothing like that painting, nor any other depictions I've seen." Pausing, I took in His features, awed that He was there, and that I was actually seeing and touching Him! "I believed in you, Yeshua, and I knew you were real because . . . because after that day, you were always there during the times that I hid, and you didn't let them see me. I don't know how I knew. I just did." I paused again, thoughtful. "Sometimes I wasn't quick enough and they came home before I could hide. When I turned thirteen, I started staying away for as long as I could, trying to wait until they'd fallen into a drunken, drug-induced sleep." My lips twisted bitterly as I remembered. "Then you sent my neighbor (the martial artist) home with me and he threatened them, promising to take care of them if they ever hurt me again." I looked into my Savior's kind eyes. "They believed him, and never hit me again after that. And my father didn't –" I hesitated. "He didn't –" I couldn't finish the sentence, but I didn't need to. Yeshua already knew. Nothing was ever hidden from Him, no matter how hard people tried to hide their evil deeds.

Gathering me again in His comforting embrace, and reading my thoughts, my Lord said, "Yes, I know." He smiled. "Your faith in me is sure, my beloved, and now you KNOW me." Pressing a strong hand against the crown of my head, He looked into my eyes, waiting a moment before speaking again. "You are mine, precious one, and there is a plan for you. Love will come to you in time, and one day you will walk a distant shore. Soon you will no longer walk through this life alone. Just continue to trust in me. Cling to my hand and I will never let you go."

"I will, Lord. I promise."

Satisfied, He urged me to lie down. Removing His red robe, He spread it over me. And resting my head in His lap, I quickly drifted to sleep to the gentle touch of His hand caressing my brow.

When I awakened the next morning, Yeshua was gone.

And I wasno longer on the beach.