What a Mentor Does

God gave me a vision of her: a woman who wore scarves and laughed a lot.

And then she connected with me over Facebook, this counselor whom I’d met years earlier at a conference, and she asked me to write a book with her for wounded daughters, and I ended up flying to her house.

When she picked me up from the airport, she said I looked sad, my shoulders hunched over.

She took me shopping, this 52-year-old single woman with the sparkling blue eyes, black hair and scarves, who joked about her relationship with “Jorge,” her Big Gulp cup that sat in the passenger seat filled with Diet Coke.

She took me thrift store shopping, and I asked her to help me find some outfits because she has such class, but she said she trusted me. And when I tried on the clothes, she said, “Look, see, you know what looks good! You don’t need me,” because I’ve doubted myself my whole life. And she could see that I needed more than an outfit.

I told her my hunched shoulders were genetic. “Me, my dad, and my grandmother, we all slouch,” but my friend just shook her head, took me back to her mansion of a home that she uses for ministry, and boiled me some tea.

And that mug of cinnamon apple spice—in addition to the slippers waiting by my bed, and the chocolates, soaps and lotions she’d packaged up as a welcome present—it all sort of opened me up like an old yellow letter just longing to be read.

And we spent close to three hours in healing prayer together. My friend, a counselor, and me, a 32-year-old woman with a seven-year-old heart. The little girl inside of me crying for the years I’d tried to placate her.

Here I was, about to write a book for hurting daughters and all of my own little girl issues awakening.

And I never saw this coming because my dad and I are good, now. We’re friends now, but we didn’t used to be. And that little girl inside me, the one who’d felt ignored by her pastor-father, needed to be heard. Seen. And I needed my mentor to take me to that wounded place.

So she did, this woman who saw this hunched-over writer and knew it wasn’t genetic.

My friend said, “Where’s Jesus?” And I looked over in my mind’s eye and I saw Him preparing tools for me to take on a journey. He was handing the tools to the Holy Spirit, because she was going with me. And there they were, my family: my Father, my Brother, and my Mother.

Abba Father who comforts, provides and protects; Jesus, my older brother whose life I strive to emulate; and the Holy Spirit, a mother-type who nurtures, guides and counsels me.

And the Father just holding me. “When you’re ready,” Abba whispered. “You can stay here as long as you want. Don’t leave until you’re ready.” And for the first time in my life, I rested. For the first time in my life, I didn't need to perform; I didn't need to prove anything. I didn't need to worry about my father losing interest in me or getting frustrated with me.

And when I finally stood up from that prayer, my mentor took me to the mirror and showed me my reflection. “What do you see?” she said.

My face was glowing. “I look younger,” I said.

She smiled. “I think you look wiser.” And then she pointed to my shoulders. “And you’re standing tall. Confident. You’re no longer ashamed.”

This is what a mentor does. She helps you to see yourself for what you are.

Loved.

Image by Wacky Toyo Boy Borj. Used with permission. Sourced via Flickr. Post by Emily Wierenga, author of Chasing Silhouettes and Mom in the Mirror.