I sat on the couch with a prostitute today. I never thought those words would come from this blinking cursor, but it’s 2:30 AM and all I can see is her face.

Dear beautiful girl,

I watched as your pimp drove up in his slick brand new car, and out stepped you, a beautiful, broken girl that was still a child herself. Shoulders exposed from your tank top in the middle of February and hair matted to your porcelain face. I’ve never seen eyes like yours. Defensive, hollow, broken little eyes that pierce into my heart so deeply exposing my naivety, my sheltered little world that only thought those eyes existed in movies. I’m in your home because you, a child yourself, have a child. And as bad as you want to know how to Mother that baby, as bad as your heart longs for that, you just don’t know how. You’ve never known love. You’ve never been tucked in at night, or told that you’re beautiful, or more importantly, told that you’re worth it. Your Mother pimped you out as a child. You were literally sold at a price, taken for an animal in this cruel, cruel world.

Your precious innocence was exchanged at the expense of cheap, meaningless, loveless sex.

I walk into my house that night and step into my shower, hoping to wash off the smell from your home and the bitterness of my heart. But all I can do is stand and cry. I wish so badly that you could stand in a shower, too, washing away all of your memories of deceit and hatred and heartbreak. I wish that you could step into a shower that erased the memories that tell you that sex is about being used. Oh precious girl, the measures I would take to put you in a shower like that. Tears roll down my eyes because here in this earthly life, scars are not just erased—they are deep within us, engrained in our hearts to make us the people we are.

But I know that crying is not the answer. No matter how many tears that fall from my eyes, tears don’t bring you healing. Tears motivate me but they don’t help you.

I know that I can’t stop with tears, but I must start with prayer.

As I fall to my knees and begin to pray, my anger and frustration build into words that accuse God, “Why have you let this happen? Why do some little girls get Moms and Dads that would never miss a single preschool performance and other little girls get Moms that are so desperately in need that they sell their daughter’s innocence in order to eat that day?”

And there in that moment, I realized something about Jesus that made me fall more in love with Him. Do you know who he chose to spend time with when he was here? Prostitutes and tax collectors. And don’t get me wrong, I know there is so much I don’t know about Jesus. I haven’t been to seminary, I haven’t read the entire Bible (or even most of it), and I am as stubborn as they come. But, precious sister, if I know anything, absolutely anything about my Jesus, I know that you are one of His favorites.  I know that you have to lie in bed at night and wonder why you got handed these cards.

But, sweetheart, if I know my Jesus like I think I do—if we believe He is half as loving and hopeful and sure as He promises us that He is…He is coming for you. There is not the slightest doubt in my mind.

I wish I could tell you why all of this is happening and exactly when He will come for the rescue. I wish I had all of the answers and could swoop in and save you from the hell that you’re in, but I know a God who does. So if I could sit down with you again and hold your precious head while you cried, this is what I would say: I love you and I’m so, so sorry. You are beautiful and you are strong and you are worth fighting for every single day.

But most importantly, you have a Dad that does not let even one of His little girls go unseen. No, not one of His little princesses can be too lost or too broken or too far gone. He would go to the ends of the Earth for you. He would hang on a cross for you. And, precious angel, He is coming for you.

Hang on.