The Hurt in Helping

It's 1 a.m. and I've just spent two hours on the phone enduring a father's threats to sue me if I didn't reveal his daughter's whereabouts. I hang up, throw myself on the couch, and cry bitter tears. "Lord, why does it hurt so much to help others?"

Ten days ago, I had no idea what I was in for when Todd, a high schooler in my group, came to me for advice. He told me his girlfriend Heidi could no longer endure her parent's abuse, so she was running away -- tomorrow.

I wanted to scream, "I'm only 23. I'm just a volunteer youth worker. I have a full-time job, and I don't know very much. I think you should go ask someone else!" But something in me sensed God was asking something of me. So I took a deep breath and said: "Todd, I think no one should ever run away. It's too risky. Why don't you both come talk to me after school tomorrow and we'll see what can be done. I'll do whatever I can to help, but please tell her not to run away."

We talked a little more, then Todd sighed with relief, promising that he and Heidi would stop by the next day. "Out of all the people I've told," he said on his way out, "you're the first person who's offered to help. Thanks."

The next day, Todd and Heidi were at my door. We talked for a long time about her situation and her options, and Heidi made it clear that she'd do anything but go home. I'd been involved in another child abuse case, so I knew the procedure. We went to the police, who in turn called a social services agency. The agency sent a counselor to talk to Heidi. She set up a conference call with Heidi's parents -- we were there until midnight with the counselor mediating the discussion.

In the end, Heidi refused to go home. So her parents agreed to let her live where she wanted if she'd go into counseling. If she missed a counseling session, she'd be in contempt of court and the police would come after her. Heidi agreed to these conditions, then came home with me.

Two days later, her father starting calling. Heidi and I both feared that he might come after her. So she moved to a friend's home and called me each day. Everything seemed to be working out until a snowstorm hit and Heidi missed a counseling session. Even though she had informed the counselor, her absence opened the door for her parents to have her arrested. They took advantage of the opportunity and sent the police to hunt her down.

And that's the night the father called, threatening to sue me if I didn't help locate her. Through my tears, I pleaded with God: "Tell me why I should ever get involved again."

And then I heard God's still, small voice speak to me. "Don't be discouraged. I am well-pleased with you. You get involved because you love much. And if you stop getting involved, it means you've stopped loving. I know how you feel. I do this every day, all the time. And I'm constantly being rejected and hurt. But I don't give up -- I am love, and I couldn't stop loving even if I wanted to."

I bowed my head. How great the love of God must be if he would continue to be involved in our messed-up lives! And how shallow was my own love if a little pain stopped me from loving?

That night, my cries of frustration turned to cries of praise. And I learned two invaluable lessons:

1. Christlike love means getting involved at the expense of my comfort and security. God chose to help us out of our horrible situation by getting involved personally. And our response was to reject him.
2. When I follow in Jesus' footsteps, I know him better. Through my involvement with Heidi, I could identify with Christ's love for others and with his pain. Thus I could better identify myself with him. I understood Philippians 3:10: "I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death."

"Okay Lord," I concluded, "I'm still yours. And you can still involve me however you wish."

At 6 the next morning, I dragged my groggy self out of bed to meet with the seven high school girls in my discipleship group. One girl, who has a family life similar to Heidi's, asked for prayers: "I'm trying to decide whether or not I should leave home. I'm not sure I can take it anymore. Please pray for my decision."

Laughter or tears -- I didn't know which vent to choose. But I did know I was about to get involved...

Kristy Shewell is a youth ministry veteran in Illinois