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The first time I saw Maggie she was selling herself on the street like hundreds of other runaway teenagers I had seen before: small town, rural and suburban kids, lost in the big city, doing what they had to do to survive. For many of them this was better than what they had left behind. Stories of physical, emotional and sexual abuse were common, if you could get the kids to talk. Mostly it was what they didn't say, what the emptiness in their eyes revealed: deep hurt, unspeakable betrayals by fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, grandpas and grandmas, teachers and pastors who should have protected them, should have loved them, but didn't. These were the used, abused and neglected of the world - throw-away kids in a throw-away society - the children whose experience had convinced them they were unloved and unlovable.

Our staff from the Abundant Life Center offered them hot coffee, sandwiches and a safe place to sleep if they wanted it. The van from the center was usually full by the time we had completed our nightly rounds. But some just took the coffee and the food and went straight back into the night. Maggie was one of those. We could never convince her to come back to the center. I don't know where she slept, maybe in the back of somebody's car or in the motel room where she turned her last trick.

There was one night when Maggie hung around the van for almost an hour. She seemed to need to talk, so I sat beside her on the curb and listened. She missed her brothers and sisters. Maggie was the second oldest of seven. She worried about her sisters. She had warned them about their dad and older brother, what they did when they got drunk. She had protected her sisters when she was at home, until she couldn't take it anymore. Her mom didn't seem to believe her, or was too frightened to do anything about it. She told a teacher at school and the pastor at her church, but neither of them believed her either. The pastor was one of her father's best friends. So she had just packed her bags and left. Nobody knew where she was and that was the way she was going to keep it. "I can take care of myself just fine," she said.

The next time I saw Maggie was on a cold Saturday night. I caught a glimpse of her as she started to cross the street at the intersection about two hundred yards from where the van was parked. I knew immediately that it was Maggie. You couldn't miss her. She had an unforgettable face, a rare beauty, and lush red hair besides. I called out her name, but she was too far away to hear. I had just turned away when I heard a screech of brakes and screams. I ran to see what had happened. Maggie's body was lying in the middle of the street. She didn't move when I touched her and she was barely breathing. I squeezed her hand. Maggie's eyes opened and she gave me a look of recognition. "Don't talk," I said, "I'll stay with you." I mouthed a prayer and I held her until the paramedics arrived.

I visited Maggie every day in the intensive care ward at the hospital. She was unconscious for almost a week. When she did come to, it was a long time before she was able to talk. It was after she was released from intensive care and moved to one of the rehab floors that we had our first real conversation since that night before the accident. She thanked me for staying with her. I was surprised when Maggie told me she remembered that I was there with her at the accident. I asked her if she wanted me to call her folks, but she said no thanks.

It was then that Maggie dropped the bombshell. "I saw Jesus," she said. At first I thought that I had misunderstood her. "He was with me in the ambulance," she went on. "Jesus called me by name, looked into my eyes and told me that he loved me. I wanted to go with him, but he said no, it wasn't my time yet and he needed me to stay here for a while. So I stayed."

Maggie smiled at me, as if she had just told me something quite ordinary. Then she squeezed my hand and said it was time for her nap. Maggie never mentioned her strange vision again, but I could tell that she was a different person. There was a peace about her that was almost tangible. She had the glow of a small child who knows that she is adored by her parents, or that of a bride happily preparing for her wedding. For the first time in her life, Maggie knew that she was loved.

Maggie and I lost touch for several months after she got out of the hospital. Then, one day, I spotted her on a street corner in the same neighborhood where we met. She was surrounded by a small group of street kids, some of her old friends. I was disappointed at first. What was she doing back here? I had hoped that she had found a better life for herself. Had she forgotten her vision?

Maggie picked up a guitar that had been leaning against the street light. As she began to play and sing in a soft, sweet voice, I knew that her transformation had been complete. My soul soared as I listened, enthralled by her music:

I am the resurrection, I am the life - He who believes in me shall never die; Jesus is calling to you, looking in your eyes. Do you believe? Do you believe?

____________

Author's Note:

Lyrics and music to "I Am The Resurrection" by Cheryl Kirking Kilker. Reprinted by permission. Cheryl's tapes and CD's are available from Mill Pond Music, PO Box 525, Lake Mills, WI 53551. The story was inspired by Cheryl's song.