When I was 19, I had a daughter.
I do not know why I feel this deep urgency to share this story now, months off the field, nor why the first sentence seemed to write itself in that form.
When I was 19 I had a daughter.
Kathleen.
I will never forget the day she and I locked eyes. Hers, wandering, mine, wondering.
There was something about this girl.
Something beyond the way she looked 12 though she claimed she was my age, beyond her dress that revealed her underwear. Something even beyond her obvious signs of abuse, illness, drugs in the way she communicated, beyond the suspicion, fear, protective front that showed in her every glance and move.
It was something so beyond.
Daily, I close my eyes and go back to the moment I met Kathleen. I try to pick apart that moment, try to grasp what drew me into her heart so instantly.
Maybe it was her eyes. Those eyes that became to precious to me as I stared into them again and again, watching the defiant walls fall with every passing day I spent with her in her “home” on the street corner right next to the local bars.
Maybe it was the way her eyes could transform. Hard and angry to soft and afraid, to joyful. Trusting. Desperate.
Maybe it was the way she would jerk away from the slightest touch, and then gradually let herself fall into our arms or interlock her fingers with ours.
Above all, though, I believe that Kathleen captured my heart in a way not of this earth, for reasons beyond this world.
The story of Kathleen that became so intertwined with mine is a broken one. Every day we would go to the streets to find her, unsure of where she would be and what state she would be in, physically, mentally, emotionally.
Somedays she would walk up to us beaming, grab our hands, and skip down the street.
Others, we would find her partially naked sleeping on a street corner, detached, afraid, angry.
Sometimes she would run away, other times she would run towards.
I have hundreds of notes in my phone complete with millions of question marks that were made while trying to piece together her story.
Sleeps in mens hotels?????
Abuse, drugs??????
Has a family?????
Mental illness???
Rape????????
Age??????? Real name?????
The question marks were unending.
But still, no amount of question marks, no amount of times I would have to chase her down the street as she ran, no amount of moments of rejected love from her or outside rebuke could draw me away from this precious girl.
They only drew me further towards.
Moment after moment, day after day, my heart became a giant space for Kathleen.
“Daughter” I would whisper as she hugged me or held my hand, as we colored and laughed, danced in the street, picked flowers and tried on outfits in the mall.
“Daughter” I would declare as we sat on street corners or in social work offices, as she slept in church pews or on sidewalks next to me, as I held her in my arms for the last moment before having to let her go and walk away.
“Daughter.”
Precious, beautiful, beloved daughter.
With everything in me, I loved that girl. I have never so fiercely wanted to protect someone, to take them in my arms and never let go. The feeling was unexplainable, and day by day it grew, taking root in every part of my heart.
The brokenness of letting go felt like nothing short of a shattered heart, and I wept. Bitterly, angrily, brokenly, I wept for Kathleen. For what was behind and in front of her, and for the fact that I couldn’t be there with her in it anymore. Sometimes, I still do.
What I got was a glimpse.
The most raw glimpse of her story.
What a gift.
I began to write this after finding a picture of her, I had no idea what words would come, or how I could possibly try harder to understand her story with mine, and how this ache in my heart for her could ever be touched.
Yet, here I am, months later, sitting on an airplane heading home for the weekend, in awe as Abba reveals His take on the story.
I’m leaving this unclosed, like my story with Kathleen, but if I end this with one thing, it is this.
Our stories aren’t much different than a young Filipino girl I met on the side of the road. In fact, in Abba’s eyes, they are pretty similar. Unique, yes. But different? No.
Oh, how He loves.
