My first encounter with Michelle was at the hospital where her 13 year old little brother PJ had just had surgery. I had been in El Paso just a few months, and had been introduced to several kids through Tim Gamwell, a missionary's son, who was drawn to the hard-core and outcast kids. Tim had asked me to run one of the kids up to the hospital for him. Billy was a skinny 16 year old with Lenonesque glasses and a history of drugs and trouble, who was now starting to walk with Jesus. He was going to stay the night at the hospital with PJ. He and Michelle were like best friends.

As we came into the hospital room, a skinny, fiery eyed girl with black clothes and long black hair stepped in my way and said, "Who the hell are you?" "I'm a friend of Tim's", I replied sheepishly. She brooded for a moment while Billy and I went over to PJ's bedside. I told him I'd be praying for him, and I left a tiny stuffed teddy bear on his nightstand. Michelle caught me on the way out. "Sorry I was so rude but I don't know you and I'm very protective of my brother." I told her it was O.K., and I hugged her. She did not respond.

Michelle, PJ and a couple of other kids had asked Tim to meet with them to show videos on heavy metal, Satanism and God. From that first meeting J.O.E.L. was born, a band of hurting and misfit kids hungry for God, hungry to belong. Michelle had always had a deep sense of destiny as a child - she knew that God was out there, that He knew her, and that she must know Him. It was our honor to introduce them in fullness, and to help her find her purpose and destiny in Jesus.

From the beginning, Michelle was a warrior. Just 16, she had the wisdom of many much older than she. It was wisdom hard won, through growing up in a painful, lonely and sometimes abusive world. She loved her little brother fiercely, and defended him like a lioness. She spoke her mind. She didn't care what others thought. When she committed to Jesus, she transferred all her fierce determination and I-don't-care-what-you-say attitude into defending her God.

Larry was one of our first kids. His chances of making it without Jesus were 0. Too much pain, too much abuse. Michelle intimidated him into the Kingdom of God. It was a bright November day when we all trekked to Hueco Tanks, a big pile of rocks in the desert which is the closest thing to legal entertainment El Paso has. During lunch, Michelle looked at Larry and said, "Are you coming to Bible Study tonight?" "No way!", Larry replied. "Why would I want to go to a stupid Bible Study?" "What'samaaater?", Michelle answered sarcastically. "Afraid of a little Biiible Study? Are you CHICKEN?" Thus Larry came to Bible Study, rather than be humiliated by a skinny chick, and several battle-filled months later, he surrendered to Jesus, and He who would have been voted least likely to even survive is now a loving husband, father and strong servant of Jesus.

One of the most important things about what we do has always been worship, and from the start, our kids worshipped with their whole hearts. But above them all was the clear, angelic , strong and pure voice of Michelle. More than once I would glance up during worship at my home, trying to see where the otherworldly voice was coming from, and it was Michelle, her hands raised, lost in adoration like few I'd ever seen. I was stunned each time and each time, tears came down my face as if ripped out of my soul by a Presence beyond Holiness itself.

Michelle was fun and unpredictable during Bible Studies. She had the deepest questions. She was the quickest to tell a disruptive friend to shut up while I was teaching. In fact, one time she suffered a breakdown of word memory when a friend was talking while I was teaching, and meaning to say, "Shut up, you heathen", instead came out, "Shut up you heifer", and she immediately put her hand to her mouth with this "Oops, I'm in trouble" look on her face. I wasn't beyond experiencing the other end of her innocent bluntness, either. One night, heavy into what I thought was a terribly anointed message, a deep and loud sigh came from Michelle, then, "Are you almost finished? Because this is really boring." It was so without guile, I couldn't be offended.

Into the first few months, Michelle latched on to a young lady named Desi, who had been deeply enmeshed in occultism and witchcraft. We had many 3-way calls in the deep of the night, me, Des and Michelle. It wasn't long before Des started coming to Bible Study and not long after that she surrendered to Jesus, and so it was God added to the pure worship heart of Michelle the nearly identical heart and voice of Desi, and together, they literally ushered in the Presence of God every time we sang. From the beginning, Desi and Michelle were bound together in spirit and vision. Beyond best friends, they had a love and commitment to each other's faith and growth that made them the female Jonathan and David. Des told me that when they got together to pray and read the scriptures, the Presence of God was so strong that it nearly crushed them. They were inseparable, swifter than eagles, stronger than lions. They argued, they prayed together, dreamed together, fought together for the lives of unsaved kids.

Michelle had a million questions about God. Her late night calls were always a flurry of words - hers - and I just listened, occasionally dispensing a little bit of wisdom or insight, but mainly, she taught me, and as we talked, the Spirit of God would give her insight and revelation that left me speechless. One night she awakened me at 2 a.m. "Sorry to bother you", she said. "But I just realized something and I had to tell somebody. It's like God showed me He's like this awesome lion who's gentle enough to take His little cubs and protect them and love them, then turn around with those same paws and tear to pieces anybody who tries to hurt us. Isn't that neat?" Yeah, it was beyond neat. It was REVELATION. Satisfied, she hung up as suddenly as she'd called. That was her way. No time to waste.

As time passed, Michelle slowly began opening her heart to me. It was difficult for her. She trusted nearly no one, especially adults. There was so much hurt. She was so scared of so many things. Thus the late night calls. "I feel like I'll be the first to go to heaven. If I'm martyred, I don't mind, but will it really hurt? I'm scared if they burn me at the stake, what if I deny him? I'm scared of fire." I assured her that grace would be given when it was needed, and that if that time came, Jesus would come and take her before she felt a lick of pain. She was relieved.

I loved these two, PJ and Michelle, so much it hurt. They were like my own. PJ once gave me a card and thanked me for being like a father to him. Yet, so much hurt was in them both. So many times I would say, "Michelle, you have no idea how much I love you two." "Yeah I know", she'd say defensively. "But PJ and I can't say that back. We know you love us but we don't know how to trust people, we've been hurt too many times. I hope you understand." I did, but I so much prayed for that hurt to be healed. In the meantime, I was content with little things. Like the night I was talking to PJ about how glad I was that he was part of my life. He got very quiet, then said, "You're the one who left that little teddy bear in the hospital for me, weren't you?" Nothing more was said; it was enough for me that he connected that little furry piece of kindness with the love he knew I felt for him.

Michelle broke up with her longtime first love, and went through other boyfriends. None satisfied her need to be loved. The fact was, no man would be good enough for her, only Jesus, for she loved Him with a passion that would always make any man feel like barely a priority at all. I wished all the kids had that kind of devotion.

Still, the hurts of her life began to surface. In the previous two years, the pain of always having to be grown up, her parents' divorce, memories of never having been a child caught up to her, and our late night calls became more frequent. I tried my best to help her deal with it all. "I just want to be a normal kid", she said sadly. "I've never been a kid, I always had to take care of everyone else. I don't know how to play. I don't know how to have fun. Sometimes I hate other people because they can. Do you think God's angry with me because I want a boy friend or because I want my last semester of High School to be normal? I want to go to the prom, get dressed up, do girl stuff, you know what I mean?" I assured her God wasn't angry with her. He loved her. She was close to tears. "Greg", she said, "Am I still God's little girl?" "You always will be, honey", I said, fighting tears myself. "Oh, that makes me so happy!" And she'd hang up, just like a little girl skipping off to play after daddy had kissed her skinned knee and made it all better. Her simple childlike faith shamed me and challenged me fiercely.

And so, she went to the prom. And she graduated from High School, the first of many generations in her family to do so. When I got her graduation announcement, I was so proud. "Greg, you've watched me grow from a little girl into something similar to a young woman (ha ha!) You've coached me through some tough spots. I want you to make it to my graduation, to share that too. I know you're proud of me and it makes me happy. Love, Michelle." I held back tears at her graduation. The week before, she had come to Bible Study, and she looked so beautiful, so all-grown-up that I had to walk away and wipe away tears. Michelle was growing up into a beautiful young lady.

I put a song on a tape for her graduation present, a secular song I had heard a week before. Not all the words applied, but I was absolutely compelled that there was something in this song I had to tell her from my heart, and I had to do it now. The words said, "Gotta make your own rules, child, gotta break your own chains. The dreams that possess you will blossom and bless you, or run you insane. The moment is yours, child, to lay on the line. The past just don't matter, tomorrow won't mind. I don't deserve you; I'm only human. But I swear I'll love you, just as hard as I can. Storm on the mountain, stars in the sky, running for glory, freedom to fly. Will you remember, way down the road? Somebody loves you, more than you know." She and Des cried when they heard it that night.

Michelle went through a lot of growing pains to try and find her place. We saw less of her at J.O.E.L., but she continued her late night calls that were our most special moments. I was not surprised when she moved to Maine to make her way, try her wings. I would miss her deeply, as would Desi. But she called me every few weeks to vent her frustration and get a spiritual health checkup. And then she'd skip away again, happy as a little girl going to the swings.

In the next few months, things at J.O.E.L. had been very trying. A lot of our kids were getting in trouble, and it was breaking my heart. On a Monday night I talked about it. "Why, you guys? You get drunk, you sleep around, you smoke dope. You're hurting yourselves and you're hurting Jesus. Why? What haven't we done? What's it gonna take to WAKE YOU UP?" I was crying. "I'm afraid it's going to take someone dying to wake you up. It scares me to say it, because I love you guys so much, it would kill me if one of you died. But I keep thinking, and I can't stop, WHOSE FUNERAL ARE WE GOING TO GO TO FIRST?" It wasn't a scare tactic. It wasn't from frustration. It just came out, and it made me tremble. I left that night, as I sometimes do, not knowing if I got through at all.

The next day was one of my "telephone hell" days, just one call after another all day till my ear was numb. I kept my phone answerer on most of the night, trying to get some work done. I turned it off around ten, and the phone rang. I thought about not answering it, but felt it was important. I'm glad I did. It was a collect call from Michelle. I was so glad to hear from her, one of the brightest joys of my life, one that reminded me our labor in the Lord was not in vain. I ignored the clock and she talked and talked for nearly two hours. As always, I just listened. She wanted to come home, but she was afraid that she'd failed to make it on her own. I assured her she was far from being a failure, no matter what she decided to do. "There aren't any real Christians here", she said. "I know J.O.E.L. isn't perfect, but they're real Christians. Greg, I'm so sick of this life and all the evil and fake people! I just wish Jesus would come and take us home. I know there's some things I need to change. I haven't been a very good example to people up here. I'm going to take a month and get everything right and maybe come home. " I told her that whatever she did, I was proud of her - and that even though I wasn't going to try and influence her decision, we missed her terribly and it would be great to have her back. After a seemingly all night conversation, she said, "Well, I better go, now that I've run up your phone bill. Take care, Greg. I love you!" I had waited six years to hear those words that said she was healing, that she was learning to trust again. "I love you too, Michelle," I said, and she was gone.

I awoke that morning from an unsettling nightmare. Tim, his kids and the J.O.E.L. kids were running to hide in a house, locking all the doors and windows, because a house across the way was about to explode. After the explosion, I looked out the window to see a small house in the woods engulfed in flames. After it was over, I went outside, and the snow covered ground was covered with ashes. The ashes melted the snow, and a beautiful river began to flow from the ash-melted snow. I thought it was a strange dream, but attached no meaning to it.

At 9:30 the next morning, I was awakened by Michelle's mom, Sandie. "Greg, Michelle's dead!", she wept. She had died in a house fire in the woods of Kittery, Maine. I dressed and went first to Desi's house. She was crying but calm. "She's not dead, Greg." I knew it wasn't denial. "She's home. She's happy." "Des", I said, "Now YOU have to finish what she started." "I know", she said, voice breaking.

"Can you tell me why, Greg?", were Sandie's first words when I arrived at their house a mile away. "No, Sandie", I replied. "Whys aren't important. She's with Jesus. But we've lost a sister, a daughter and a friend, and it hurts." I hugged PJ for a long time. God, how could I help him get through the loss of the only person who had really looked out for him? Soon the house was full of kids who knew her, and so began the long and painful passage of letting go of our dear Michelle. Some kids cried, others laughed and joked in denial. It was more than a week before we could have her cremated remains flown home for the funeral.

The day after Michelle had died, her mom, dad and Desi had gotten letters from her, written and sent the night she died. "Mom", she said, "I love you. Please forgive me for not showing you sometimes. You pushed me to finish High School, I thank you for that. I love God, I don't use drugs - you can be proud of that." To Desi, she wrote a simple "hey girl" letter, but at the end, a chilling prophetic prayer: "Gracious God, I thank You for Your love that has nourished me today and for the strength to do my daily task. I commit to your love and forgiveness all those words and acts that were less than what You wanted of me. I ask that You would forgive me and heal those who have been hurt by my disobedience. I ASK THAT YOU WOULD WATCH OVER ME AS I REST AND BE WITH ME IN THE NEW DAY." Seven hours later, her Jesus came for her quietly and without struggle.

I drew inward. It hurt so much I couldn't bear it. But Billy, the very one who I took to the hospital where I first met J.O.E.L., the one who prides himself on what he believes to be his calling - being annoying - would not let me alone. He pushed his way right into my grief, and for several nights, he sat with me in my pit sectional couch in the dark as we listened to music and talked about Michelle, and cried. I will never forget that kindness of a young man who ignored my protective shell and was determined to be there in this painful hour.

On my 38th birthday, and 15 years to the day that I had laid to rest my own spiritual mother Doris, we sojourned to the clean snow-covered mountains of New Mexico for our final goodbye to Michelle. Her mom, shattered and hurt, had called and asked tearfully if I thought God would mind if we scattered Michelle's ashes in the place where we had "made her a full Christian" in baptism. I told her I thought it would really make God happy, and Michelle too.

And so it was we all came to stand by the snowy banks of the river I had seen in a dream, almost 25 of us, Sandie, PJ, kids who had drifted away, those who had remained with us, together one more time in this most intimate of family moments, to say farewell to our friend. I wept without shame or restraint, kneeling in the snow over the box of ashes, reading scriptures, trying to help us all let go of this great little life God had given us for such a short time. Billy and his wife Paulette's arms enclosed me, protected me as I wept.

And so I say goodbye to you, my precious daughter. I will miss your laughter, your fiery eyes and the clear ringing of your angels' voice. And when we sing, I will hear you, for you are now singing in the courts of your Father. You are finally Home, surrounded by the gentle Paws of your Lion-King you loved more than life itself. When we sing, we will not forget you, for you are forever part of us. I will not forget you, and where I go, I will speak of your legacy of a young warrior full of fire for whom Jesus was a consuming Love Story. Sing now, dearest child, until the Great Then when we will sing with you on the shores of eternal love. Michelle Renee Bouchard, you who finished your course, who fought a good fight and kept the faith we delivered with tenderness to you, Michelle Renee Bouchard - DIED A VICTOR - goodbye. I let you go with the poem you wrote which surely had been written for you:

"For those who died, it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world, and all their adventures had only been the cover and the title page: Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before." - (The Final Battle, Chronicle of Narnia Series by C.S. Lewis)