Something broke inside of me. Maybe it was because of those thugs breaking into the van that night, but I think it was before that. I think it was the words of a man I didn’t know, a man I still don’t know.

Do you believe in the cross of Christ?

He didn’t ask me once, but twice. But that was maybe because I hadn’t given a sufficient answer.

But it wasn’t that question that haunted me. It was the follow-up question.

What are you doin’ about it, son?

I had then watched him brazenly walk across the intersection toward the van the gangbangers were stealing and have a conversation with the driver. I couldn’t tell what was happening and I didn’t want to know, either. I waited and wondered about calling the cops, wondering if I even had time to call the cops, but then the van drove off into the night. And the black man carrying the cross did the same, walking over to the sidewalk and then continuing on his way.

It felt like I had come across some guardian angel who wanted to give me a message. Who needed to give me a message.

This prompted me to do a U-turn and head back the other way. Because . . . I don’t know.

Because of something I saw earlier.

I think it was a hunch. But then again, the more I look at it now, I believe it was the Holy Spirit at work. I’ll agree that as a pastor, the part of the Trinity that I’ve understood least is the Spirit of God. I understand in theory what the Bible has said about it, but there have been times I just haven’t understood. I’ve wondered. Yet I think at this moment, after the prophet-angel spoke to me on the side of the road, I felt a stirring in my soul. Maybe it was the spirit. Or maybe it was just my guilt at having driven by without doing anything.

I still don’t know to this day.

Maybe it was time to start doin’ something.

So I started with driving back to the hospital, back along the same streets I had driven down with the Newtons.

Near the area where I had seen her, I slowed down and scanned the sidewalks and alleys. For fifteen minutes I drove at about five miles an hour, cars passing me and even blaring their horns, wondering what in the world I was doing. They didn’t know I was looking to help. Looking for someone who might need somebody.

I even prayed to God that I might find her. He heard my prayer and answered.

I found a figure in an alley next to a dumpster. It was just a figure reaching over the dumpster—it really could have been anybody. Anybody who needed a helping hand. But I stopped my car and rolled down the window and when the figure popped back out of the dumpster, the dirty face revealed the truth.

It was the young girl I’d seen earlier walking down the sidewalk. She was still alone. Still pregnant. And still had that look of desperation on her face.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

It was such a moronic question. Of course she wasn’t okay. Nothing about this situation looked okay, yet I was simply trying to be friendly and nonchalant. I didn’t want to scare her by saying “you look at the end of a long and desperate rope, hungry, pregnant teen girl.” So I asked the foolish question.

The look she gave me said the obvious.

What do you think, moronic middle-aged man?

“I’m just peachy,” she said.

I took that as a good signal because it showed there was still some fire deep inside of her.

The girl started looking back at the dumpster, already done with me for the moment, not even embarrassed about continuing to scavenge through the garbage.

“Look, I know you don’t know me,” I called out to her, hoping she could hear me. “But . . . is there anything you need?”

Again, asking the dumb and obvious question. But again trying to sound innocent and helpful and most of all safe.

“What are you, some kinda freak?”

She was tough. I knew right away this girl wasn’t someone to be messed with. Despite what she might look like.

“No, look, please,” I started to say. “I’m just someone who wants to help.”

I didn’t look threatening. That’s one thing I don’t think I’ve ever managed to do in my life. Part of being a pastor—part of what people had told me over the years—was that I had a friendly face and a warm disposition. A lot of people had told me I was easy to talk to, that I listened to them when they spoke, that I looked like a nice guy. I once joked to my wife that I didn’t want to look like a nice guy, that I wanted to look like the dangerous and dark hero that came in and swooped women off their feet. But that wasn’t me. I was Matthew, the nice guy. And at this moment of my life, I sincerely hoped this girl could see that.

Don’t most serial killers look like the nice guy next door, too?

I tried to toss that thought out. Maybe this young woman didn’t know that unfortunate truth about our world. Hopefully she didn’t.

The teen paused and stared at me for a long time, considering my comments. Maybe she was weighing her options and trying to figure out what to do.

I waited. Maybe the spirit was still at work there. And if so, maybe it would help stir this young girl’s soul as well.

•  •  •

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I needed that same spirit to try to calm my wife down.

Grace has always been the anchor in our relationship. I know how cliché that might sound, but living with me has probably been a bit like agreeing to set sail on the Pacific when the captain doesn’t really know where he’s headed.

I haven’t always been a pastor. And there are many days when I wake up and wonder what I’m doing and where I’m heading and if I’m really going to stay a pastor, simply because I worry a little bit about everything. Then Grace comes alongside me, and sits and holds my hands, and tells me everything’s going to be okay.

On this late night, however, hours after I left the house unexpectedly to take the Newtons to the hospital, I had woken her up with another problem on our hands. Well, really, it was on my hands, and she was trying to figure out what in the world I had been thinking.

“You can’t just do this,” Grace said in disbelief, standing in the entryway to our living room.

“The girl needs a place to stay.”

Grace opened the blinds and could see the Prius parked in our driveway, still running, the headlights on. The girl’s name was Maggie. She was sitting in the passenger seat waiting. Waiting and surely wondering what was going on.

“Then take her somewhere,” Grace ordered. “But not here.”

I started to try to make my case, but Grace stopped me before I could even try.

“You promised. This is our home, Matt. I need a refuge, too. A place outside the storm.”

I didn’t need to ask what she was talking about. I knew it well. Too well, in fact.

I thought back to our ten-year anniversary last year. How a celebration had gone downhill. That had been when I had promised Grace. I had to keep that promise, too.

I exhaled. “I know, I know. I should’ve called first. But we can’t just turn her away.”

Grace only shook her head and looked away. This had been my decision and it was now my responsibility. I didn’t want the girl in my car to have to wait any longer. I knew I needed to do something about this quickly.

“I’ll figure something out, okay?” I said to Grace.

She moved away from me before I could give her either a hug or a kiss.

The first thing I did next was see if Maggie wanted something to eat. Again, I didn’t really wonder whether she was actually hungry or not. I knew she was. The point was to see if she was comfortable enough letting me buy her dinner. The White Castle we passed was enough to do the job.

It took us about ten minutes to reach the motel. It wasn’t in a bad area of the city and it didn’t look too run-down. The Starlite Motel was very close to our church, and I knew some others who had stayed there.

As we parked, I thought about how this might look. The middle of the night. A forty-year-old guy checking in with a pretty and pregnant teenage girl carrying a small pink knapsack. The woman who ran the place knew I was the pastor of the local church, but the guy at the front desk didn’t. I might get some looks and some judgments. I might also get a visit from the cops. So I decided to get the motel room on my own while she waited in the car.

I wasn’t surprised to find Maggie already finished with her four sliders and fries. I wanted to ask her when was the last time she ate, but I didn’t. A hundred other questions filled my mind about her. Especially what in the world is a young woman like her doing on the street?

But it was late and it wasn’t the time to suddenly get a biography of this girl. She needed a place to stay. A safe place to stay.

I opened her door but made it a point to stay outside.

“Look—I’ve paid for two nights,” I told her. “I’ll be back tomorrow or Monday and we’ll figure something out.”

She brushed back the thick, curly hair that hid her innocent and unblemished face. She was still trying to figure me out, still trying to be careful about every step she was taking. She hadn’t really said much to me since agreeing to get in the car. I didn’t blame her, either. Yet she finally offered up a window into her thoughts.

“You lied. You are a freak.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Nobody helps people just to help them.”

There was an adult tone in her voice. It didn’t match that face and her age. But for some, being a child didn’t mean they were treated like one. For some, God had other plans.

“Yeah,” I said, knowing her sense of disbelief. “Well, I’m a Christian.”

“So are most of the people who ignore me.”

She took the keys and then walked into the motel room. I pulled the door shut and then heard her lock it. I stood there for a moment, just staring at the worn and weathered handle.

God, please be with this young woman. And be with the child she’s carrying.

The drive back home felt longer than usual. Maybe it was because I was driving at a snail’s pace. Not worrying about getting home to dark silence. I was more worried about Maggie.

An hour ago you didn’t even know her name or if you’d ever see her again.

Yeah.

But now Maggie was my responsibility, which was fine, but this was the sort of thing Grace and I had talked about.

It was another weight to carry. Another burden to pray over and wonder about. And God knew that I had enough of them already. My church alone had enough troubled souls inside it to tend to.

Hello, Matt. James 1:27 calling your name. Seriously. It’s almost as popular as John 3:16.

I uttered the words aloud. Sometimes it was good to do that. Not to prove I could memorize Bible passages but to hear them in a fresh and unique way.

“Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you.”

I didn’t think the world had corrupted me just yet. It tried. Yes, Lord, it tried daily. It beat me down and tried to break me. But this didn’t mean I needed to forget one of the most obvious and easiest requests that God ever gave his children.

So there was Maggie in her distress. I prayed that I could do something for her and the life she carried. But for now, I had made the first step. I didn’t need to worry anymore. I needed to trust God.