The last two weeks have worn Lucy down.

You may remember from my last letter that things with her father took a difficult turn. I won’t go back through those details.

But the aftermath is still very much with her.

This week she has been sick. It may have been a virus, or it may simply have been her body finally saying, Enough. Lisa has been checking on her and doing what Lisa does so naturally, mothering her.

There is also the loneliness.

Lucy is staying by herself in the barndominium. She doesn’t have much of a circle of friends yet, and a job we hoped might work out now appears tentative because of her dad’s situation. Add the dynamics of extended family and it’s hard to turn the channel off.

So the immediate crisis has passed, but the work hasn’t.

We are entering a new phase and this may be where the real work begins.

As Lisa spent time with her last week, Lucy began telling us more about her childhood. We knew pieces of the story. We didn’t understand the whole arc.

She was born in Hawaii and moved to Arkansas when she was about three. By four, she and her mother were homeless. For much of her childhood, home meant whatever was available: a trailer, a drug house, underneath a bridge. She remembers needles. She remembers overdoses. She learned very early how to live around adults whose lives were coming apart.

At around thirteen, the state placed her in foster care. Over the next three years, she moved through roughly ten different homes.

When I asked her about them, she didn’t offer much commentary.

She simply said none of them were very nice places to be.

At sixteen she ran away.

Around that time she discovered who her father was and eventually connected with him. That relationship became one of the few anchors she had, which helps us understand why separating herself from his struggles has been so difficult.

When you put the pieces together, we’re realizing what it means to have spent almost an entire life learning how to survive.

She knows how to adjust. She knows how to endure. She knows how to read a room. She knows what to do when the adults around her aren’t dependable.

What survival doesn’t leave much room for is dreaming.

On Sunday, I asked her what she enjoyed in school.

“Science,” she said. “I was really good at it and usually made A’s.”

I perked up.

“Really?”

Then she said something almost in passing.

“I’d like to be a microbiologist.”

For months, our conversations have been about the next problem in front of us. How do we get a driver’s license? How do we get the Volkswagen running? Where can she work? How do we get her teeth taken care of? What do we do about insurance?

Necessary survival questions.

This was different. It felt different. Lucy was relaxed, and the conversation flowed naturally.

For perhaps the first time since she came to us in February, we weren’t talking about a pressing issue or worry.

We were talking about where she might go.

I don’t know whether Lucy will become a microbiologist. There are a lot of miles between where she is today and a university science lab, and I’ve lived long enough not to manufacture happy endings before they happen.

But I do know this: a young woman who has spent most of her life trying to get through today has started thinking about tomorrow.

That feels like a breakthrough.

Naturally, tomorrow comes with a list.

She needs a computer. We have a couple of older Apple laptops lying around, so I’m going to see whether one of them can be resurrected. A business colleague recently did an upgrade and may have one. I love that.

Her phone screen is badly cracked and needs replacing. The back window of the Volkswagen still needs to be installed.

Fortunately, we have help both from you and our immediate cohort.

You’re going to hear more in future letters about a man I’ll call Bunkhouse Bob. He stays in our bunkhouse, helps with the tractor, property maintenance, and the thousand little things that break around a place like River Rose.

He also has that invaluable rural skill of being able to look at something broken and say, “I think I can fix that.”

Around here, that qualifies as a spiritual gift.

If all goes according to plan, the Volkswagen window may become one of his next projects.

That is the new rhythm at River Rose, at least for the last few years.

One minute we’re talking about trauma, foster care, and dental surgery. The next we’re trying to figure out how to set a window into an old Volkswagen.

These elements are magically part of the same story.

Lisa and I remember the time, effort and yes, money we invested to launch our kids. It feels very similar. We still have the muscle memory because it hasn’t been that long since our youngest and his wife moved to Colorado.

Even the simple things, Lucy’s phone, health insurance, car insurance, gasoline and basic expenses run somewhere around $600 to $700 a month. Until we can help her find steady work, we’re grateful you’ve given us the resources to support her to the next phase.

Lisa and I are still learning when helping means stepping in and when it means stepping back.

The change is becoming visible.

Today there’s a Volkswagen outside that needs a window, an old MacBook we’re hoping to revive, and somewhere beyond both of them, perhaps, a science lab.

For now, that is enough to make us hopeful.

That’s progress.

Thank you for helping us do this.

Please continue praying for Lucy, and for Lisa and me as we try to walk alongside her wisely.

We’ll keep you posted.

In partnership,

Rex and Lisa
River Rose

P.S. I keep thinking about Lucy saying she wanted to become a microbiologist. Six months ago she was trying to figure out where she was going to sleep. Today she’s thinking about science. Sometimes progress is simply having enough room in your life to imagine a future.