At 16, she clearly had more street smarts than I do at 38. On the surface, she was really kind of a mess to look at. Her skin bore the evidence of darker days, as numerous superficial scars covered her wrists and thighs. She had hoped that causing pain on the outside would alleviate the pain on the inside, but it did nothing of the kind. She also sported a couple of not-very-well-done tattoos, and several piercings that I could easily see. She grinned a little and mentioned that there were others, but I left that subject alone.
I just had to know more about her, and she was kind enough to humor me with her story. Her parents were drug addicts, high on whatever they could buy or steal most of her life. At age 7, she was living with them in a tent by a lake, and it was at that age that she would sneak leftover cigarettes when her folks were passed out. By 10 she was an alcoholic, and by 13 had used nearly every street drug known. At some point she could no longer self-medicate her reality, and she began to think about ending her life. The thought of death was somehow much more peaceful than the thought of continuing to live. By anyone’s standards, her life was a mass of shattered pieces.
Then she met this boy. A really good boy. Who told her she was smart. And funny. And beautiful. And who believed in her.
One by one, with patience and care, he began to glue her life back together. Piece by shattered piece. Until she was off drugs. And alcohol free. And in a GED program. And thinking about the future, and marriage, and being a mom someday. “My life is a mosaic,” she told me. “There are still a lot of pieces, but now they fit together to make a picture.”
Not just a picture. A beautiful work of art. A masterpiece.
There are lots of broken and shattered people living in our neighborhoods, in our communities. Works of art that are unrecognizable until someone takes the time and effort to glue the pieces together. Are you willing to play a part in creating something beautiful?
