THE GIRL UNDER THE BRIDGE
Writer’s block. Funny how it attacked at inopportune times. Pastor Thomas Berry gazed at the lines of fluid script, written on the back of an old envelope. The topic had seemed so promising, so inspired and yet the words had run out.
“Don’t forget to put out the trash, Dear.” Eleanor padded past his study door. Thomas sighed. Maybe a breath of fresh air was what he needed. He swept the envelope from his desk-top into the bin and went to empty the trash.
It was a windy day out there. A couple of miles from the dump, a young girl lay sprawled under a bridge. Tossed there like human refuse, eyes vacant, skin ravaged by drug and alcohol abuse. The vortex of addiction and prostitution had sucked life from her bones and drained her soul.
Time no longer had any meaning for her. How long she’d lain in the rancid puddles she didn’t know, but her will to live had gone. “God.” She whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve ended up in such a mess. I’d rather be dead than live like this anymore.” Her right hand cradled a rusty blade she’d found lying under the bridge. “Forgive me, God.”
The bridge shuddered slightly as a garbage truck approached, heavy with its load. A bag, ripped by a shard of glass, lay limp in its jaws, spilling papers, milk cartons, a handful of crusts, and crushed deodorant cans as the truck bounced along. A sudden gust of wind lifted a crumpled envelope from the clutter and like a crippled bird, it flew drunkenly upwards before fluttering slowly back to earth and dipping beneath the bridge.
The blade was poised over her wrist but before she could act, something dropped gently onto her chest. A dirty, stained envelope. The gracefully scripted words on the back jumped out at her, streams of refreshment to the parched wilderness of her heart.
You are God’s handiwork
Created by Him
Formed by Him in your mother’s womb
He has not forgotten you
He loves you with an everlasting love. A love that will not let go
God is a God of second chances
Don’t give up today
Call to God and he will answer you
Pastor Thomas Berry opened the door to find a young girl huddled against the door jamb. A sprite with tangled hair and filthy clothing. With trembling hands, she pushed a muddy, crumpled envelope towards him. On one side was his name and address and on the other, he recognized his own hand writing.
“Is it true?” She whispered. “Am I really God’s handiwork? Will He really give me a second chance after the terrible things I’ve done?”
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