Earlier this week I had the privilege of visiting a juvenile correctional facility for teenage boys. I had been invited to speak to the group, which included violent and non-violent offenders, about my career as a journalist and author.

For the most part, the young men sat politely, listening to my 20-minute message about making wise choices and finding the determination to persevere and excel.  They perused copies of the newspaper articles I had brought along and flipped through the pages of my first novel.

I shared with them how writing feature obituaries during my first newspaper internship in Arkansas had left me longing to write "real stories."  Rather than writing about people who had died, I wanted to cover city council meetings or write feature stories about interesting topics.

Eventually, I told the young men, my hard work and persistence paid off.  After routinely doing my assigned job well (and pestering my editor for new opportunities), I landed a regular news assignment and never returned to the obit desk. If they discovered their passion and worked hard, they too, could prove themselves, I said.

Several young men approached me after the speech to share their poetry or books-in-progress and ask my advice on how to get published. Their eyes seemed to say, "If she can do it, so can I."

That reaction thrilled me. At 14 to 21, they're too young to give up on life.

Then, one of the instructors sidled over and softly shared me with a reality of this group: Amid the calm demeanors and handsome faces were young men dealing with some harsh truths about their worlds.

Many of these young men were acquainted with death, mostly abandoned by their families, trudging through special education classes and struggling to find their place in the world.

This instructor told me that the news assignment I had dismissed as a dues-paying requirement for young interns held significance among this group.

"They read the newspaper everyday," he said, "and the obituary section is the first place they go. They want to see if any of their friends or relatives have been killed. A lot of times, they find them there."

Ages 14 to 21.

Clearly acquainted with grief. Clearly on a path to becoming the walking dead, I mused.

But God whispered, "No."

There was a reason I had been asked to speak to the group that morning. There was a reason instructors at the school take time to invite other professionals from the surrounding community.

If nothing else, they can give these young men hope.

In a juvenile corrections center, instilling hope is akin to scattering a packet of seeds across a field. Some will land on fallow ground and some will find soft soil in which to hide and grow.

Weeks or months later, some of those seends will blossom while others remain dormant.

I knew as I left the facility that for some, the fate had already been sealed. Yet I still uttered a prayer, because God can work miracles.

If one seed blossomed, its rays of sunshine could impact someone whose faith and focus were dim.

If one seed decided to say no to the wrong thought, attitude or action, its choice could cause a wave of change.

By the time I had the gated property, I trusted that God was making a difference.

It's too soon to tell just yet, but the seeds have been planted and watered with prayers.

I expect to someday see some of those young men in the community, rehabilitated and ready to make a positive difference in the world.

Our society would scoff and call that idea farfetched.

But isn't our God able to do anything but fail?