She liked to have her nails painted and to wear dresses. She enjoyed reading stories and playing board games. She carried hot pink lipstick in one pocket and a couple pieces of candy in the other.
On the surface, she just seemed like your typical ten-year-old girl.
But sometimes she fell apart. Sometimes she wept uncontrollably, screamed out of a dark ache that was fixed in her soul.
Sometimes memories from the past wrapped around her very being, and images of abuse and rape and locked doors seized her. And her young heart flailed—longing for freedom, for healing, for justice.
And sometimes thoughts of her future gripped her, too. Most of the kids in her foster facility had a list of contacts—people they knew and phone numbers they could call. Sometimes it was a grandma or an aunt or a foster family or a mentor who’d come alongside of them.
But her contact list had zero names on it. The rights of her biological parents had been legally terminated, no other relatives had shown interest in her life, and her last foster family had abused her. And what would the future hold for a ten-year-old “ward of the state” who had zero people in her corner to cheer her on or give her hope?
She was totally alone in the world.
And one day, as goes the life of a foster child, she was unexpectedly moved to a new placement. A taxi picked her up from her foster facility, and she (a girl with a history of severe abuse) road alone for three hours with that driver (a man she did not know).
When she arrived at her new placement, she stepped out of the taxi into a new city, in front of a new facility, before the faces of new strangers.
She’s a real name, though I can’t tell you what it is.
She’s a real face, though I can’t show you her picture.
She lives in a real city right here in America, though I can’t tell you which one.
And so her story continues. And the little girl with the painted nails and dresses with candy in the pocket hopes for change—and today, we hope with her.
Have you seen this yet? Take 3 minutes. Watch. Pray. Join in.