Missions

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My heart pounds inside my chest, sending extra blood to my furious legs, racing through unfamiliar streets of dirt and grime. I think my body must be redirecting its blood flow to give speed to my escape because my head is so light with fear as cold sweat continues to dampen the back of my neck. They’re going to kill me, and I don’t want to die! Fear and despair combine their dark forces in my soul as I seek to wipe the blur of endless tears from my line of vision. Yet, I have no idea where I’m running.

“Please, God, just let it be away from those who tortured me and burned me.”

I’m fooling myself. There is no escape. I only succeeded in enraging them more by tearing off into the night. Just as plainly as I ran out, so did hope. I’m alone, hated without a cause, despised, spit upon, slapped, punched, kicked, raped, burned, and yet kept barely alive for them to continue another day. Oh, how I wish for eternity that another day would never come! Oh, how foolish I am to wish anything!

I’m tired. I’ve been running as if the devil himself was grasping at my heels every step of the way. And I’m drained. The breaths of my sobs have left my lungs almost as desperate as I am. Water for my tears has gone arid. Fresh wounds trickle warm blood down my face and thighs.

“What’s the use?” I whisper to myself, “If they’re going to kill me, would it just be better to take my own life?”

I’ve never thought a thought like that before. Would anyone care? Would anyone notice? Would anyone even…

Just then, I noticed I’m not alone. Someone had seen me running, or rather, falling forward, sobbing. I give up. If this is God’s will for me, so be it. I’m too tired to fight. I just hope I lose consciousness, quickly, so as not to cringe in pain. I grow faint, collapsing among the gravel stones, then do faint.

As it happened, that “someone,” who had seen me running, was like my guardian angel; a ministry worker who already saw more cruelty and death up close than the average civilian on the edge of a war zone; a ministry worker overflowing with the love of Christ, endangering her own life, because she sought the welfare of another, me; one who, with joy, uttered loud thanks to God because this child escaped alive.

Hours later, I awaken to odd sensations; I am clean, I am warm, and I am on something soft. My wounds are freshly bandaged. I am wrapped in warm softness. I slowly draw a full breath of clean air, and sigh. My ‘guardian angel’ smiles at me signaling the rest of my life’s journey will be different. Someone cares.

Want to help make the most impact in a situation like this? If, for whatever reason, you cannot be the guardian angel, please find it in your heart to support those who help our neighbors in all lands to be loved, just as we ourselves are loved by Christ.

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They do the research so you can be confident that your money goes where you want it to. One Hundred Percent (100%) of your money goes to help women and children in crisis.

Would anyone care? Wellspring International does.

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