Last week, I took part in To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) day.

TWLOHA describes their mission like this,

“To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

To Write Love On Her Arms Day is a day where anyone can write the words love on their arms, to support those who are fighting against depression and those who are trying to recovering.

As I colored in the black letters on my forearm, I thought about how ineffective it actually was. I mean, what good does it really do anyone to write a word on my arm?

That’s true for a lot of things though.  So often I see an enormous need, almost overwhelming in its demand, and I feel helpless. I want to do something, I want to lesson the pain somehow.

As I continued to add swirls and lines to the word “Love” I thought of the girls I know personally who have or still do battle depression.  Visions of these women dealing with pain that cut so deep they heaved under uncontrolled sobs, felt driven to pummel themselves with their own fists or watch the blood drip from a fresh self-inflicted wound.

I began to pray for each one by name, asking the one who heals to comfort them body and soul.   A crowd of faceless girls drifted into my mind’s eye, and their sheer number along with their combined sorrow pressed down on my heart.  I felt the stinging in my nose and behind my eyes that always precedes tears, but as I continued to pray I realized I was wrong.  Scribbling on my arm really did help.

Things like TWLOHA day gives people a concrete thing to do, however small it is.  The point isn’t so much the seemingly insignificant action, it’s the fact that they are taking part in something bigger than themselves.  Perhaps because so many people picked up a pen or marker and pressed it to their own skin, they were made more aware of the sufferings of others.  Perhaps compassion moved their hearts in a way it wouldn’t have otherwise because participating in a trivial activity caused them to think about something longer than just a passing thought.

Perhaps they were moved to pray, as I was.   And, really, is there anything more powerful than prayer?