Just Like We All Do

Monday. 7:15 a.m. The November air was brisk, but pleasant.

Up ahead, two figures. A man. A woman. Each carrying black plastic bags.

A barrage of yelling pummeled the morning air. Spewed words I couldn’t hear but recognized as hateful, angry, demeaning—in a word, abusive.

I kept my distance—watching and praying, knowing that I shouldn’t, couldn’t close my eyes to what was unfolding in front of me. The weaker of the two was clearly evident.

The man veered to the left, the woman to the right. She sat on the curb, lit a cigarette. When I walked over to her, the man screamed at both of us, then disappeared.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I don’t think you’re fine,” I answered.

Her face crumpled.

“Are you homeless?” I asked.

“Sort of.”

“I think you're being abused by that man,” I said.

“He calls me names. He won't leave me alone,” she explained.

“He's a bully.”

“I know. That's what I tell him,” she said.

“No woman deserves to be called names by a man. That's not love. When a man loves a woman, he wants to do what's best for her.”

“I never felt like I was worth it,” she said. “People have always hurt me. My mom. My brother, even though now I’m good with him. Only my dad treated me kindly, and he died five years ago.”

“You are worth it,” I assured her. “God loves you.”

“I had a baby,” she said. Now her tears were flowing.

“Where's the baby?” I asked, recognizing the mother-love that pumped in her heart.

“With his grandmother. But then this guy—he’s not the father—came and did terrible things. I don't want my son to see that. I don't know what to do. I'm 35, and my life is a mess.”

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Callie.” She paused. “Well, it's Callie Belle*.”

“I'm going to pray for you, Callie Belle. Right now.” She nodded, open to divine intervention or whatever her view of God and prayer entailed. “Dear God, let Callie Belle know you love her and you have a better future for her. Take care of her and keep her safe.”

“Thank you,” Callie Belle said. “What's your name?”

I told her.

“Thank you, Sonya.”

“You need to get help,” I urged.

‘I have an appointment to talk with someone at a woman’s shelter,” she explained.

“Until then,” I said, “try to be in places where you can get help. Don’t be alone. Do you have any money?”

“I don’t. And my credit card is expired.”

“I don’t have any cash to buy you food,” I said, “but why don’t you go to the coffee shop over there and warm up and be around other people? I’m going to pray that someone will notice you and buy you a coffee.”

“OK.”

“Do you want me to walk you there?”

“No, just watch me till I get around that corner.”

I kept watch as Callie Belle half-walked, half-ran, till her form grew smaller and, in the distance, I saw her turn the corner. She was out of sight, but not out of my heart.

I looked around. Was the man nearby? No, he wasn’t. But I knew he was out there somewhere, lurking, stalking, waiting to strike Callie Belle again. He was out there—a bully who needs Jesus' love, redemption, and transformation. Just like Callie Belle does. Just like we all do.

*Name has been changed