Frankie came into youth group after several counseling sessions with me. She wore dark lipstick and walked with swag only the hard core kids could pull off. She was from the streets. And though our church is located in the concrete jungle of East Los Angeles, she was one of the few kids who’s unknown father and thrice-married mother still gang banged in the ‘hood.

She had a hard exterior, but I saw the soft within. The stonewall face was to protect her from the hurt she felt from the hurt she encountered. Frankie came to our church hopeful… hopeful she could be one of the few that got out, that got better, that ended the life lived by fear. She wanted more. The summer of 2006 she spent with me going to lock-ins and beach parties and the other youth activities I planned. Seeing her laugh and smile and sing and hope was glorious. Absolutely glorious.

I can still hear her raspy voice and loud laugh if I close my eyes long enough.

Summer turned into fall and the laughing girl with the raspy voice had to go back to her high school routine with people who lured her slowly back to the gang life. I still called her and invited her to hang out with me, but she slowly stopped returning my calls.

Until it happened.

Frankie’s mom called the church office frantically trying to contact me. All she told me was that Frankie was at the hospital and severely injured from being jumped [read: gang beaten] by a gang at a local park. I left the office and immediately drove to the hospital where Frankie was surrounded by four Pico Rivera police officers.

Frankie was gang raped. Repeatedly.

She sobbed in my arms asking the ageless question, Why. With bruised eyes and swollen lips, she said she wanted to stop. She knew this wasn’t what God had for her. She knew there was more. 

For the five months that followed, I walked Frankie through court proceedings and prayer sessions. The day arrived when she would testify against the gang members in court and she showed up to the church office in her mother’s clothes. The black mini skirt was two sizes too small. The bright red blouse was sheer, revealing her undergarments. The heels were too big. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as we spoke about the case.

Within five minutes we were racing out of the door to a local clothing store to find Frankie some clothes that fit. We ambushed the store, throwing piles of clothes at Frankie to try on. She laughed, raspy and loud. I remember it vividly because it was the last time I would hear her laugh.

The court scene was brutal. She was portrayed as a sixteen year old woman who solicited sex from adult men. She unraveled and before long, she sat lifeless on the stand, watching her perpetrators walk free. Six men walked free and she sat captive.

Frankie sent me an email a few months later saying the year we spent together in youth group was the best year of her life. She said she wasn’t ready to come back to church, but she promised one day would. She would return to the home she loved with people looked beyond her tattoos and dark lipstick and saw the soft, sweet girl within. I never heard from her again.

Today the Los Angeles Times reported that Frankie was murdered, a victim in a homicide case on December 18th, 2011.

Her whole life was summed up in two sentences. Twenty years of life garnished twelve words. The words stung because black letters on the Los Angeles Times made it official. Frankie’s gone.

I have heaps of guilt about what else I could’ve done, should’ve done, would’ve done… but now I can’t. Where I find solace is in the fact that there are others, mothers, sisters, brothers, who are saying, One day I’ll be back. One day I will come around. I won’t accept that answer. I refuse to let that be acceptable.

At our core is the belief we are created for more. More than our pithy lives. More than what the world offers. More than the empty promises of returning to the place God wants us to be.

Because life is more than two sentences, I’m fighting for more.

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