Salvation from a Prostitute

Her voice cracked through the New England accent, "I would give my right arm if my daughter would talk to me again." I lowered my head to keep the emotions from showing. There was an uncomfortable pause, then her voice quavered aloud again, "No, I would give both my arms." There was not a dry eye in that AA meeting.

Her story was that of a young mother, just 16 years old. She had been a waitress, prostitute, hotel hostess, and most recently a janitor. She had put her only daughter through college. Her daughter now works as a journalist for the New York Times. She even told us her daughter's name, which shocked me. I looked her up and she really is a journalist for the Times.

I listened to how she had been on a bender of alcohol and heroin. It was in December of 2012 that she had an interaction with her daughter that she couldn't even remember. It was after this incident that her daughter refused to communicate with her.

I looked at this woman, who appeared to be close to my age. I too was a young parent. I thought of my life struggle and fight for my kids. I remembered how I decided to fight for my son through what I knew. At first it was running and working with the homeless. My PTSD got in the way; carrying my son into an emergency room after an overdose, while he begged me to let him die; his drowning of our family dog; a brutal physical fight that ended in the ER; visiting him for years in psychiatric facilities, and finally prison. I had given up hope, waiting for the day I would die, not caring.

I sat with bowed head, tears streaming down my face; she would give both her arms. Why, of all my mornings, did I decide to go to an AA meeting today?

I'm not alone. I'm not the only fighting these struggles. I owe it to my son and my life to stay clear and fight this battle of life.

What would I give to be able to talk to my son with a clean healthy mind? I would give my right arm; no, I would give both of my arms....

I think that is what Jesus did for us. He gave both his arms stretched wide on a cross so that my son might someday be healed. I also think that He stretched His arms wide so that they could embrace me some day.

I often think that I want proof from God, showing me His nail-pierced hands. I now know the proof lies in His outstretched arms in a comforting hug.

He was the descendent of a prostitute, I believe her name was Rahab; or was it 'Rehab'? Who are we to judge?