Eloi, Eloi, Lema Sabachthani XI

The last hitch-hiker I picked up was a native American woman.
When I pulled over to let her in the car, I saw that half of her face and one of her arms was badly scarred from burns.

In a very short time she was telling me her story. Her boyfriend had gotten mad and threw some gas on her, and then threw his lit cigarette at her.

“He was drunk,” she said. “I’m still living with him.”

She explained to me she had to live some place.

I asked her if she had any support network, like a church.

At the mention of church her face became red with anger. For five minutes she told me what a lousy place this church had been to her when she had asked for help.

I felt very for bad her. 

“Have you ever asked Jesus for help?” I asked.

She beamed a big smile. “Oh yes,” she said. “I know Jesus. I love Jesus.”

This poor poor woman.
So forsaken.
She knew Jesus, who also had been so forsaken, would not turn her away.