“Hey, Dad! If God is all good, why doesn’t He just push a button and make all the evil go away?”
God, I love my daughter . . .
Nalani was in the TV room, obviously frustrated with the way the world is. I rose from the dining room table, non-plussed about having to take a break from paying bills. The rest of the family was out for the afternoon. Nalani and I were home alone. I walked over to my youngest and sat on the footstool in front of the couch where she was seated.
“May I tell you a story? It helped me understand a lot better just how God’s love works.”
Nalani sat up. I had her attention.
I began:
“Once upon a time, there was this poor little girl growing up in a wealthy neighborhood near San Francisco. Her hair was fiery orange and her manner was very straight forward. The girl’s father was handsome and he was a womanizer. Her mother was a community theater actress. Both parents struggled with stability and responsibility. The girl and her brother, a year and a half older, fell victim to verbal and physical abuse, mostly from their mother. Often, the little girl would step in between her mother and brother when the mother would beat the children, absorbing the blows meant for her brother.
“Early in the girl’s life, the mother kicked her husband out of the house. He soon became destitute. As the little girl grew toward adolescence, she would sometimes see her father, through the backseat car window, panhandling or sifting through dumpsters. The beatings grew more frequent and the girl turned her attention to art. Crayons, colored pencils, and water colors became the girl’s passage of escape and expression.
“As she grew older, the girl began spent less and less time at home and to use drugs. She frequented the neighborhood park where she met an old guy who taught her to play tennis. The girl learned quickly she was athletic and picked up the game almost immediately. Through high school, she played on the tennis team. She also got deeper into drugs.
“During this time, the girl began taking over-night baby-sitting jobs. Some of the dads crossed boundaries with the young girl and took advantage of her. She had nowhere to turn. And she desperately wanted a father figure, no matter how abusive the situation was.
“Following high school, the girl went to art school and grew her skills. Painting became her form of choice. Her eyes and thought patterns caught tones and nuances that quietly slipped by most people.
“The girl also began cycling with a group of women. She found refuge with athletic challenge. The girl was invited to cycle across the United States, which she did in six weeks’ time. On her return trip, the young woman began to grow more and more anxious, and a deep depression set in upon her.”
Nalani shifted patiently, waiting for my story to get to the point.
“By the time the young woman returned to the wealthy neighborhood near San Francisco, she was overwhelmed with anxiety. She was now desperate, and entertaining thoughts of suicide. She fantasized of cutting herself and began to carry with her a knife.
“One night, the young woman sat alone in her car in a parking lot. She was caving into herself. The young woman was done. This night, the pain would end. For good. No more anxiety. No more panic. No more depression. She reached into glove box of the car and grabbed the knife she had carried with her for some time now. The knife had become a source of comfort; a gateway to relief from the pain, the sorrow, the shame, the loss …
“Suddenly, the young woman heard a voice say to her ‘Go inside! Get help!’
“She looked around her and realized her car was parked in a hospital parking lot.
“’Get out of the car! Go inside and GET HELP!’
“Jolted by the command, from wherever it emanated, the young woman obeyed the voice. She dragged herself into the hospital. The young woman approached the intake desk.
“The greeter looked up.
“’I need help . . .’ whispered the young woman, barely audible even to herself.
“Eyes widening, the receptionist behind the counter picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. The young woman still carried with her the knife.
“Within moments, the police cruiser arrived, lights flashing. An officer rushed into the hospital with gun drawn. In a skip of a heartbeat, the young woman was handcuffed and marshaled to the back of the patrol car. She was on her way to the county hospital.
“Stunned and scared, the young woman found herself in a holding cell at county, surrounded by thugs and hardened women, trapped and restless like her. Feeling intimidated and apprehensive, the young woman began to kick her chair to convey to the other caged creatures she was not to be reckoned with. This action brought swift response from the attendants who quickly subdued the young woman. They put her in restraints and placed the frightened female in the back of a paddy wagon.
“Twenty minutes later, the door to the van abruptly opened. Two huge men in white garb grabbed the young woman by her elbows and hauled her up to the top floor of East Bay Mental Hospital. There, she was stripped of her clothes and thrown in to a padded cell, to await whatever fate was to come next.”
Nalani sat rapt and bolt upright. I certainly had her attention.
“The young woman holed up in the padded cell for 18 hours, 24 hours, 30 hours, she wasn’t sure. She was finally allowed to dress and taken to the floor below, which was a large room filled with many beds and many people. Since the young woman was deemed a danger to herself and those around her, she was given a bedpan and was chained to her bed. There, the young woman remained, for twelve endless days.
“Finally, she was allowed to leave. She was released into the care of her mother, with whom she desperately wanted nothing.
“The young woman sought refuge from a baby-sitting client with whom she felt safe. She was offered a place to stay. A few weeks into her new environment, the young woman was asked if she would like to attend church with the family. Hesitantly, the young woman acquiesced.
“Almost immediately, she met a young man with whom she quickly fell in love. He was kind, attentive, patient, and safe. The young woman could not believe her luck. She very much wanted to make this fairy tale come true. But, alas, the young woman had too much to still resolve. Continually battling anxiety and depression for two years while wanting things to work out, she told the young man she just could not make it work. Sadly, he disappeared from her life and moved on, leaving the young woman to continue to fight the demons that incessantly tormented her life.
“Fifteen years of desperation slowly inched by. Gradually, the woman found her footing. She joined a circle of friends, painters and musicians, who, like her, had emerged from their own dark pasts to find the Light. The woman contracted to paint large, intricate murals in and around East Bay. She even bought a modest two-bedroom/one bath house not far from where she grew up. She eventually landed a job teaching English to adults. And, it was there, at class, the woman met a new student, who we will call Jonnie.
“’When can we be friends?’ asked Jonnie, after the first day of the semester.
“Taken aback, the teacher invited the new student to coffee following class.
“Seated at the corner coffee shop just down the street from the school, the teacher and pupil exchanged surfacy pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation, the woman asked the student what brought her to the United States. Contrasting her ebullient, ever-smiling temperament, Jonnie told the teacher, in broken English, her story.
“The girl was from a poor village in China. Her family had forced Jonnie to come to America to earn money to send back to the household. She understood she would never return home again. The family was indebted to a ‘coyote’ $25,000 for providing the girl a student visa and transportation the States. When Jonnie arrived, she found out the visa was no good. The girl knew she could not go to immigration for help. She would just be classified as an illegal immigrant and deported. So she took a job at a restaurant in Chinatown, working for pay well below minimum wage, unsure of what her next steps should be. She was barely 20 years old.
“One month in and two weeks before Jonnie started at the language school, she met a huge man named Pablo who promised to fix her student visa problem. He also told Jonnie he would teach her unconditional love. The man was a trafficker.
“Without a heartbeat’s hesitation, the teacher invited Jonnie to come home with her. The woman quickly moved her art supplies out of the second bedroom. She told Jonnie that this was now her home, free of charge. The next day, the teacher tracked down the trafficker and told him Jonnie would no longer be able to ‘work’ for him. That same day, the woman paid for the girl to enroll in a self-defense class.
“’We will figure this out,’ the woman told Jonnie.”
“That was nearly nine months ago, Nalani. Nothing has been resolved regarding the Jonnie’s status. She still is here in the United States illegally. The teacher is still housing the girl at the risk of being fired and prosecuted. But, Jonnie now works IT and, each month, she is able to send a few hundred dollars home to her family. And, most importantly, Jonnie is safe and thriving, her infectious smile and laugh lighting up all those who she meets.
“All this, because a little girl with fiery orange hair grew up knowing what abuse was and, very straight forwardly, took action to help a young woman who was so close to caving into herself.
“This is how God’s love works, Nalani.”
My daughter sat still for a long time, replaying over and over the extraordinary story I had just told her.
“You were that guy, Dad. Weren’t you?” You were that guy at church.”
“I was that guy at church, Nalani. And if the young woman and I had been a little more well-adjusted, we probably would’ve married and I would have never known you nor Keona.”
My youngest looked off and just nodded slowly.
Four weeks later, on the last night of a two-and-a-half week solo road trip, I received a text from Nalani that read:
“Goodnight Dad! I started a journal tonight! But instead of my daily experiences, I’m putting different ways I see God at work in my life. Thank you for telling me the story of your friend because it has helped me so much. I am just so grateful that I can finally see God’s work and recognize it!”
God, I love my daughter . . .
