I think the nearest illustration I can give about ministering at the jail is this:

Imagine a tender-hearted woman who volunteers at the Humane Society. She cannot pass a stray without kneeling; she cannot hear a whimper without her chest tightening. She has carried home more abandoned puppies than she can count, pressing their trembling bodies against her own as though her warmth alone could mend what the world has broken. She would stand like a shield between any creature and cruelty.

Then one cold afternoon in the country, a farmer tells her he has seen a litter of seven puppies—half-starved, shivering in a bramble bush, abandoned by their mother. “They won’t last the night,” he says. “They’re all alone.”

Her heart lurches her blood turns to ice. She can almost feel their thin ribs beneath her fingers before she has even seen them. “Take me,” she pleads. “Please—before it’s too late.”

They climb into his truck. The engine roars, gravel spits, and she grips the dashboard as if every second were a heartbeat slipping away. When they finally find them, it is worse than she imagined. Seven small bodies tangled in thorns. Eyes too big for their gaunt faces. Ribs sharp as birdcages. They do not bark. They only stare—afraid even of rescue.

She kneels in the dirt. She speaks softly. One by one, she gathers them into her arms. They resist at first, stiff with distrust, but then—one fragile surrender at a time—they lean into her. The truck ride back is filled with quiet whimpers and the faintest flicker of hope. At the shelter, the veterinarian begins the slow, sacred work of healing: cleaning wounds, warming cold bodies, coaxing them back toward life.

That is the scene I walked into last night.

Except they were not puppies.

They were seven women—of every age and every color—each carrying the same haunted look in their eyes. At first, there were walls: practiced smiles, folded arms, silence that had learned how to survive. But when trust was earned and defenses lowered, the stories came out—haltingly at first, then in a flood. Stories of vicious assaults. Of unspeakable betrayals. Of childhoods starved of tenderness. Of homes where love never lived.

And beneath it all, the same trembling question those puppies carried: Is anyone coming for me?

To sit in that room was to kneel again in the bramble bush. To see ribs showing—not of the body, but of the soul. To realize how long they had shivered without warmth, how long they had learned not to hope.

I cannot explain what a privilege it is to speak words of hope into that kind of darkness. What an honor it is to watch a guarded face soften. What a blessing it is to see a woman, who has survived the tyranny of unloving caregivers and the brutality of broken men, begin—just barely—to believe that she is not abandoned.

There is a kind of holy work in that room. Not dramatic in noise, but in courage. Not loud in triumph, but in the quiet miracle of trust.

Last night, I did not rescue anyone. I simply knelt beside seven wounded hearts and reminded them they were not alone in the bramble anymore. And that, to me, is sacred beyond words.

"And when we do our best, and most strenuously follow 

the duties and responsibilities of our calling (faith or life work), We must not allow a flutter or trace of self-congratulation to hinder the quiet meekness of our heart. 

For when we look up to that which we dare to hope for,

Our mightiest achievements appear dwarfed. 

Mere clumsy attempts to spell out the alphabet of eternal wisdom, but they are signs of a willing pupil, like the upturned look of Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus. 

And these symbols of faith and service God will be graciously pleased to accept them from us, because He sees in them the early efforts of a soul destined one day to grow into more divine dimensions." James Martineau, abridged.  

Original - 

“And when we best and most strenuously follow the obligations of our career, we can permit no flutter of self-gratulation to disturb the quiet meekness of the heart. 

For only look up on that which we dare to hope, 

and how are our mightiest achievements dwarfed. 

All insufficient in themselves, — poor spellings-out of the mere alphabet of eternal wisdom, — they are but signs of willing pupilage, — the upturned look of a disciple sitting at the feet. 

As symbols of faith and service, God will be graciously pleased to accept them from us; and discern in them the early essays of a soul that shall assume at length dimensions more divine." 

 

To the soul filled with the Holy Spirit, 

and freed with an eternal love, 

the Christian hope gives peace and power by 

restoring the broken proportions of the mind; 

and tranquillizes the restlessness of a spirit 

that unconsciously feels, "cabined, cribbed, confined," 

It is this faithfulness to our deepest nature — 

the power we receive from it, 

the quiet we find in it, 

in a waking conscience, 

a self-forgetful heart, 

an ungrudging hand, 

that gives to the Christian view of life 

its most irresistible persuasion upon the heart.

Thoughts ever earnest for the truth; in a perpetual outlook of hope from our lowliness toward an infinite glory.  

For myself, I confess it is the only evidence that seems to give me true, serene, steadfast faith. 

Yet when, in darker moods of thought, 

I search for some narrower, intellectual ground of trust

and try to believe by argument alone, I sometimes doubt whether I do more than imagine I believe."

Abridged James Martineau.

“Beyond the company of the great and good 

stands a vast and varied crowd: 

no line must forbid their passage; 

some span of sympathy must embrace them too. 

No proud mysteries or secret rites guard the Christian brotherhood; 

even wandering guilt must be sought and brought home, 

and penitence lingering on the steps must be invited within. 

Christ will not remain head of the “whole family” 

if its forlorn members are cast off in selfish shame, 

and no gentle care is given to smooth their path of return."

Here is the beauty of the original – 

"Beyond the company of the great and good, a vast and various crowd is scattered round: 

no line must be drawn which they are forbid to pass: some span of sympathy must embrace them too. 

No proud mysteries, no secret initiation, 

guards the entrance to the Christian brotherhood; 

even wandering guilt must be sought for and brought home; and penitence that sits upon the steps must be asked to come within the door. 

Christ will not remain at the head of the " whole family," 

if its forlorn and outcast members are simply put away in selfish shame, and no gentle care is spent to smooth the pathway of return." James Martineau. 

This story has been circulating and it’s definitely worth a share—whether it’s true or not.

Biker Bought Teenage Girl At Gas Station Human Trafficking Auction For $10,000

My name is William "Hammer" Davidson. I'm sixty-nine years old. Vietnam vet. Been riding for forty-four years.

I've seen evil. Real evil. The kind that wakes you up screaming fifty years later.

But nothing prepared me for what I heard through a bathroom wall at a gas station outside Kansas City at 3 AM.

I'd been riding for twelve hours straight. Coming back from my brother's funeral in Colorado. Cancer took him at sixty-five. Too young. I was running from grief, needed coffee and a bathroom break.

The men's room shared a thin wall with the women's room. That's why I heard them so clearly.

"Fifteen hundred. She's damaged goods. Tracks on her arms."

I froze.

"Two grand. She's young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Still profitable."

My blood turned to ice.

Then I heard her voice. Young. Terrified. "Please. My mom's looking for me. Just let me call her."

They laughed. One slapped her. The sound echoed through the wall.

"Five thousand. Final offer. I'll have her working in Denver by sunrise."

I stood at that sink with my hands shaking. This was human trafficking. Right here. Right now.

The door opened. Three men walked out. Behind them, a teenage girl. Thin. Bruised face. Dirty clothes. Her hands were zip-tied.

She looked right at me. Mouthed two words: "Help me."

They were heading to a white van in the parking lot. I had maybe ten seconds before they'd be gone forever.

I pulled out my wallet and stepped in front of them.

"How much for the girl?"

They turned. Hands moving toward weapons. Sizing me up. Six-foot-two biker in leather.

"Ten grand," one said. "Cash. Right now."

I showed them the money. Fifteen thousand I'd withdrawn for my brother's burial expenses. "I've got it. She's mine."

The girl's face crumbled. She thought I was another monster. Another buyer.

They took the cash. Walked away. Got in their van and drove off.

I turned to her. She backed away.

"Don't touch me."

"I won't. I'm calling the police."

"No!" She lunged for my phone. "They'll send me back! To the group home where this started!"

I lowered the phone. "Tell me."

Her name was Macy Rodriguez. Sixteen. Foster kid since age eight. The woman running her group home had been selling the girls for years. The ones nobody cared about. The runaways. The addicts.

"She got me hooked," Macy said, showing me the track marks. "Said it would make it easier. I've been clean three days. Since I ran. But they caught me in Topeka. Been passing me around since."

Three days. This child had been trafficked across state lines for three days and nobody noticed.

"Your mom—"

"Dead. OD'd when I was seven. I don't have anyone."

Of course. That's how they chose victims.

I looked at this broken sixteen-year-old with dead eyes and track marks and bruises. The system had failed her at every single turn.

"Macy, I'm going to help you. But you have to trust me."

She laughed bitterly. "Trust the biker who just bought me?"

I pulled out my knife. She flinched hard.

"I'm cutting the zip ties." I did. Then handed her my phone. "Call whoever you want. Run if you want. I won't stop you."

She stared at the phone. "I don't have anyone to call."

"Then let me call someone who can actually help."

I called Luther, our club's lawyer. Woke him at 3 AM. "I need help. Trafficking situation. Sixteen-year-old victim. Need safe placement."

Thirty minutes later, two cars arrived. A woman from a trafficking victim's advocacy group. A social worker Luther trusted personally.

Macy panicked. "You said you'd help!"

"I am. These people specialize in this. They know what you've been through."

Jennifer, the advocacy director, approached slowly. Rolled up her own sleeve. Track marks, faded but visible. "Fifteen years ago, I was you. Someone helped me. Now I help others."

Macy broke down sobbing. Jennifer held her.

The social worker pulled me aside. "You know you committed a felony tonight? Participating in a trafficking transaction?"

"Yeah."

"The police will have questions."

"Let them ask."

I gave my statement. Described everything. The men. The van. My bike's dashcam had captured footage. Partial VIN visible.

"This might crack open a case we've been working for six months," the detective said. "What about you? You paid ten thousand dollars."

"I don't want it back. Use it for her. Whatever she needs."

Macy went to the safe house that night. Started the long road of detox and healing.

I visited three days later. She was in withdrawal. Shaking. Sick. But alive.

"Why'd you help me?" she asked.

"Because you asked me to."

"That's it?"

"That's everything."

"Other men saw me that night. At different truck stops. They looked away. Or they—" She couldn't finish.

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

I thought about Vietnam. About times I'd looked away. Times I'd known something was wrong and chosen silence. It had haunted me for fifty years.

"Because I've looked away before. Different war. Different evil. I wasn't doing it again."

The police arrested Mrs. Patterson and two other group home staff members. Seventeen girls testified. Seventeen children she'd sold.

The trafficking ring fell apart. Five men arrested, including the three from the gas station. My dashcam footage helped identify them. They're all serving twenty-plus years.

Macy's recovery was slow. Painful. Detox. Therapy. Learning to trust again.

I visited once a month. Brought books. Helped with homework. Just showed up.

On her seventeenth birthday, she asked, "Why do you ride?"

"Freedom. You're in control. You decide where to go. Nobody owns you."

She understood that immediately. "Can you teach me?"

"When you're ready."

On her nineteenth birthday, she called. "I'm ready."

I taught her on a small Honda. She was terrified, then determined, then joyful.

"I'm flying," she said after her first solo ride, tears streaming down her face. "I'm actually flying."

She got her license. Bought her own bike. Started riding everywhere. To campus. To therapy. To the safe house where she now volunteered.

"I'm going to be a social worker," she told me. "The right kind. The kind who actually protects kids."

"You'll be great at it."

"Because I know what it's like to need saving?"

"Because you know what it's like to be saved by someone who didn't look away."

Macy's twenty-three now. Has her social work degree. Works with trafficking victims full-time. Testifies at trials. Saves girls who were her six years ago.

She still rides. Purple Harley Sportster covered in trafficking awareness stickers.

Last month we organized "Macy's Run for Freedom." Two hundred bikers. Raised fifty thousand dollars.

At the end, Macy gave a speech.

"Seven years ago, I was sold in a gas station bathroom. Three men bidding on me like livestock. I'd given up. Accepted I'd die young in some hotel room and nobody would care."

She looked at me. Her eyes full.

"Then a biker overheard. He could have walked away. Called police and let them handle it. Instead, he stepped in. Put himself at risk. Bought me so he could set me free."

"People ask why I trust bikers. Why I call them family. It's because when everyone else—the system, the police, regular people at truck stops—when everyone looked away, a biker didn't."

"He saw a sixteen-year-old mouth 'help me' and he helped."

Two hundred bikers were crying.

"So when people tell me bikers are dangerous, I tell them they're right. Dangerous to traffickers. Dangerous to abusers. Dangerous to anyone who hurts the innocent. Because bikers don't look away."

She's right. We don't.

That night changed me. Changed our whole club. We started training. Learning signs of trafficking. How to spot victims. Who to call.

We've helped four more girls since Macy. Four more times we noticed something wrong and acted.

Each one is alive. Free. Healing.

The ten thousand dollars? I never wanted it back. Used it for Macy's first apartment. Security deposit. Books. Whatever she needed.

"I'll pay you back," she said once.

"You already did. By surviving. By helping others."

Macy has a photo in her apartment. Me and my bike outside that gas station. We went back years later so she could take it.

"Why come back?" I asked.

"To remember. This is where I died and got reborn. Where someone saw me as human instead of property."

The caption reads: "My hero. My savior. My dad."

That last word destroys me every time.

I never had kids. Couldn't. Medical reasons. It haunted my marriage. Part of why I rode so much. Running from that emptiness.

Then a sixteen-year-old mouthed "help me" at 3 AM.

And I became a father.

Not through blood. Through choice. Through showing up when it mattered most.

Macy Rodriguez is my daughter. She calls me Dad. I call her my kid. We're family.

It started because I refused to ignore evil. Because I heard trafficking through a bathroom wall and wouldn't look away.

Because sometimes the most important thing you can do is stop at the right gas station at the right moment.

And pay attention.

Macy starts her master's program next fall. Specialized trafficking victim advocacy. She's going to change the system that failed her.

"I'm going to make sure no other girl is sold by the person meant to protect her," she says.

She will. I believe that completely.

Because Macy survived hell. Escaped. Healed. And now she's becoming the person she needed seven years ago.

The person who doesn't look away.

The person who acts.

The person who saves.

Just like a biker at a gas station taught her.

I keep that moment close. The moment she mouthed "help me" and I had to choose.

Look away or act.

Run or stand.

Ignore or intervene.

I chose intervention. And it gave me a daughter. Gave Macy a life. Gave four other girls freedom.

All because I was too stubborn to let evil win in a gas station bathroom at 3 AM.

People ask what makes someone a hero. I don't have a good answer.

I just know that when a child asks for help, you help.

When you hear evil, you fight it.

When someone mouths "help me," you don't look away.

You never look away.

That's not heroism. That's just being human.

But in a gas station at 3 AM, being human was enough to save a life.

To start a family.

To change everything.

Macy's free now. Flying on her purple Harley. Saving others. Living the life those men tried to steal.

And I get to call her my daughter.

Best ten thousand dollars I ever spent.

 Critical advice for young struggling Christians

 

“Emotional and spiritual poverty is what most of us have to dread, and if we wish for spiritual returns, we must make spiritual investments.

Many of us are hampered by the dreariness and dullness of the education and influences we receive.

But this is no excuse for sinking into a kind of melancholy bankruptcy, and moving through the world disheartened and disheartening, 

rich only in the capacity for woe.

A great teacher has an extraordinary power—not only to draw out the finest capacities from the finest minds,

but to give even second-rate minds the conviction that knowledge is interesting and worth attention.

If we have missed the influence of such a teacher,

we must resolutely put ourselves in touch with great minds.

We shall not burst into flame at once;

and the process may feel like rubbing one dry stick against another.

And no one can prescribe the path, for we must advance along the slender line of our own interests and gifts.

 

Yet we can all find one writer who revives and inspires us;

and if we persevere, the narrow path slowly widens into a road, while our whole mental and spiritual landscape takes shape around us.

One thing, fortunately, of which there is abundance in the world is good advice; 

and if we feel at a loss, 

we can turn to someone who has a clearer vision of finer things, 

whose delight is fresh and eager, 

whose mind sparks and ignites ours, 

and whose faith and way of handling life is gracious and generous.

One thing, then, I wish to urge is that we take up the pursuit in an entirely practical way; as Emerson said, with his splendid blend of common sense and idealism,

“Hitch our wagon to a star.”

It’s easy enough to lose ourselves in beautiful feelings that never quite turn into spiritual progress, and to believe that only our cramped conditions have hindered us from developing into something very wonderful.

But with the examples and inspiration from others, we’ll see

a hundred doors will open to us if we only knock at them."

But of course, we prize above all else Paul’s instructions --

“For you may have countless instructors in Christ, but you don’t have many fathers. For I became your father in Christ Jesus through the gospel. Therefore I urge you to imitate me.”

1 Corinthians 4:15-16

 

This quote is so insightful; and almost every survivor of abuse can relate to this.

Jesus said he casts out demons and performs cures, and His healing will change us if we diligently seek it. But it is a battle that is not easily won....