I have more than a thousand stories from my time as pastor at the children’s home. There’s one that I’ve never told. Until now. I share it now with love, and because I believe it deserves to be told.

I got to Epworth Children’s Home in Columbia, SC about four years before she did. Of course, she had been in the system her entire life.

She was on her fifth placement, second adoptive family, and third complete name change. That means that in less than fifteen years, she was born, given a first, middle, and last name; put up for adoption, given a new first, middle, and last name; then those adoptive parents decided having a child wasn’t their thing, so she lived in a couple of foster homes until she got adopted again and was given a brand new first, middle, and last name. The newest parents turned her over to a children’s home to “get straightened out.” (I was a part of many meetings concerning her goals and objectives, but was never clear on what “straightened out” meant.)

I am pretty sure she is the only kid I ever cussed in front of. As in, “Damn, you’ve had three completely different names?” “Yep,” she said with a sheepish smile and a shrug.

We’ll call her Rachel here. What’s one more name?

Speaking of names, we were pretty formal at the home when I got there. It was Mr. Smith, Ms Jones, Dr. Brown, or in my case, Reverend Hunter. Rachel went with “Rev” and it caught on.

“What’s up, Rev?” “Where ya going, Rev?” “Can I go, Rev?” “I got a question for ya, Rev.” You’re not that funny, Rev.”

To help you picture her, think taller than average, wavy, light brown hair, fair-skinned, lively light eyes, contagious laugh, smart, poised, and graceful. Depending on her mood, she was completely beautiful, straight up pretty, too cute, or sadly unattractive. She could do them all, but straight up pretty was her go to.

A lot of girls in foster care develop an edge. A tough veneer that’s hard to get through. It’s actually a pretty handy survival skill, but Rachel didn’t have it. She was not tough, perhaps too trusting, and on top of that, she wasn’t very good at basketball.

When I was at the home, girls’ basketball was a big thing. A huge thing. We had a great coach, a good facility, did well in state tournaments, and actually went undefeated over the course of a couple of seasons. A lot of girls became pretty good players. A handful went on to play in college. Rachel came to the gym, and hoped no one would pass her the ball.

I think she was more interested in proms, sleep overs at her friends’ houses, clothes that were stylish, and telling her mom about her day. You know, all the stuff that girls who live in a children’s home don’t have.

She did give a high school beauty contest a try though. I told God it’d be awesome if she did well. Truth is, I told God I’d owe him one if she won.

She was plenty pretty and plenty talented, but white girls fixed up by black house parents, using donated clothes… well, that look is a little too eclectic for an upscale high school.

I told her that winning didn’t matter. I said being brave enough to try as your authentic self deserved a trophy bigger than one those folks could give her. She smiled, said thanks, but her eyes told me she thought she had come in last.

She did excel at church though. Choir, youth group, Bible study, parties with other churches, sharing her faith with folks, and mission trips. I can still see her on a scorching South Carolina summer day, with those paint splattered overalls, a tool belt around her waist, grinning as she told me about her new friends, and the family that lived in the house with the new roof. Hard to say how many adults that week told me how impressed they were by Rachel. “She’s awesome!” “I love her!”

She was a rock star church kid. Except when she wasn’t.

She’d do super Christian for months, and then go on a school skipping, getting high with her current boyfriend spree, and the sadly unattractive look would settle in. I tried so very, very hard to tell her there is a lot of living space between super Christian and lost girl. I don’t know why, but it was always all or nothing for Rachel.

I guess a lot of us have trouble giving up on perfection. Especially if we think it may win us love and belonging. Perfection’s just so damn hard to maintain.

A couple of years passed, and the parents decided to give it another shot. Another couple of years passed, and I left the children’s home and went back to being a regular pastor.

The connection grew weaker, but I’d hear stuff.

It was a bumpy ride. Rachel had a little girl that she gave up for adoption. Then she got her balance, married a loving young man, and they had two beautiful daughters. They were hard working and making it. They got very involved in a good church. Sunday School leaders, the works. Almost perfect. Almost a good ending.

I paused for a bit after writing that last sentence.

It was few years ago, a couple of days after Mothers’ Day, when a former colleague called to tell me that early that Sunday morning Rachel had taken her own life. Sunday. Mothers’ Day.

Of course I went to her funeral. A lot of us were there from the old days. We hugged each other, and didn’t even try to find words. Then we quietly found our seats, and spent the next hour wiping our eyes a good bit.

The pastor did a good job. He held the balance between celebrating her life and the almost unspeakable tragedy. He said she died from mental illness. I thought I was going to be almost okay. Nope.

The family was walking out when the youngest daughter, maybe three or four years old, began to weep and loudly cry out, “No! I don’t want to leave! You said we were going to see Mommy! I want my Mommy! Where’s Mommy?!”

I thought about the Mothers’ Days for the rest of that little girl’s life, and then I cussed in front of Rachel for the second time. This time from the heart, with conviction, and a good bit worse. This time I cussed right at God. It’s been a few years now. Can’t say I’m completely over it.

Addendum: A good friend that was my partner in ministry at the children’s home has connected with Rachel’s oldest daughter, the one she needed to put up for adoption. I’m told the young woman is awesome and wants to learn every thing she can about her birth mother. My friend has shared bunches of memories, and gave her all the pictures she had of Rachel. Except one she keeps in her office.

And she tells her Rachel was beautiful inside and out. Because she was.

I just wish Rachel had been able to believe it.