04/06/2026
The call came in: a 13-year-old girl was on her way.
When she walked through the door, she was quiet, guarded, carrying more than anyone her age should have to carry. That day, I happened to be driving a really cool car, and she noticed it right away. She asked another volunteer about it, her curiosity peeking through the heaviness.
“Want to go check it out?” I asked. She followed me outside, and for the first time, she smiled. A small smile, but the first anyone had seen. She told me she loved cars…just not living in them.
Three months. That’s how long she had been living in a car. She shared how moving into a motel had felt like a step forward, like something steady. While she was there, she got a puppy — her puppy. The one thing that was hers. The one thing that made everything feel a little less hard. But that day, she had to leave her behind.
You could see it. The way that small bit of light in her started to dim again. She wasn’t sure what would happen next. Maybe her caseworker could get the puppy, maybe not. Nothing felt certain. But we knew one thing: we had to try.
We reached out, advocating for her, asking if there was any way at all that she could be placed somewhere that would allow her to keep her dog. Her caseworker understood immediately.
“That puppy is the only thing she has in this world,” she said. “I’m going to find a place that takes both of them.”
And she did. There were just a few requirements: shots, a crate, a bed, a leash, a harness, bowls, food. So we got to work.
While we gathered what she needed for her dog, we spent time with her, helping her pick out clothes, pajamas, her favorite shampoo, a pair of shoes. Slowly, you could see the tension begin to ease. We laughed. We talked. She started to feel like a kid again, even if just for a moment.
She said she didn’t want a stuffed animal, that she was too old for that. I gently told her, “You’re never too big for something that brings comfort. Sometimes you just need something to hold onto.” She laughed, and together we picked out a Squishmallow.
Later, as we looked at Legos, she grew quiet again. “I don’t have the money to get what they’re asking for my dog,” she said softly. “Do you think they’ll still let her come with me?”
I looked at her and said, “You came to the right place.”
We made a list, and another volunteer headed out the door. One by one, every item was checked off.
Because on a hard day, that’s what Isaiah 117 House does. We step in, we show up, and we do everything we can to make things just a little bit better. And that day, “a little bit better” meant making sure a 13-year-old girl didn’t have to lose the one thing she loved most.
That day, she didn’t just leave with a bag of belongings. She left with hope and the promise that she wouldn’t have to start over alone.
