All the reasons in the world were still not enough to make me
back out. Something was going to happen there—I just knew
it. How did I know? For about two weeks, once or twice a day,
whenever I thought about these boys and girls, I would
instantly choke up and cry. I didn’t even know them and yet I
was filled with a deep love and compassion for them, much like
a mother would feel for her daughter or son. I became
convinced that God had something specific to say to these
hurting teenagers.
The night before the chapel service, I sat down once again
to try and write my talk. It was as if the time was finally right
and I wrote out these words:
If you went to bed crying last night, angry at God, blaming Him for
why you’re here, He wanted me to tell you that He’s not the reason
for your pain or your problems. He’s the answer. And He loves you.That was it. That was all I wrote.
The next morning, I took my little piece of paper along with
family, friends, and band in tow, and we entered the prison. We
waited quite a few minutes for over a hundred kids in chains
and two dozen security guards to be situated before we could
begin.
The four-man worship team—one of my church’s finest
bands—brought their very best playlist to this meeting. And
they sang and played so loud you would have thought a
thousand kids were in the room.
Then my pastor introduced me. I still felt stupid for being a
mom-type person rather than a weight lifter–type speaker, yet
shaking from head to toe, I headed to the front of the room with