A man thanked me for treating him like a human.
I was born and raised in Lebanon. I grew up one of six kids, the only girl.
I had five brothers and by everyone’s account, including my own, I was the worst of all of them. I thought I knew better than everyone around me. I didn’t recognize consequences the way I do now. My parents were patient in ways I didn’t deserve.
My mom ran Green Gables in Mack’s Creek most of my childhood. My stepdad worked in juvenile corrections. My dad worked at a federal prison in Springfield. I watched all of it growing up. I knew I wanted to do something in that direction, just not what they did. Not the field work. I wanted the case management side. The regional office. Working with kids on getting them back home.
I had a job lined up in Springfield before I even graduated.
Then I got married. My husband was military. I finished my degree online while we were away, we had kids, and I was a stay at home mom. The job I had lined up was a long way behind me.
When I came back I was a single mom and I needed something fast. The regional office was too far to drive. Children’s Division was the first thing that came up close to home. I applied and had the job within a week.
At first, that’s what it was. A job. A paycheck. A way to take care of my kids.
For a while I was comfortable going through the motions. Work the report. Close the case. Move on. But I couldn’t stay in that headspace long.
My faith has shaped how I see people. Every person I sit across from is human. They have a story I don’t know yet. They may be in circumstances I’ve never faced. They may not have access to things I take for granted.
That’s where I start.
I may not agree with everything I see, and I’ll be honest about that. But the first question is always, what does this family need, and how do we get there together.
Because it’s never just one thing.
A call comes in for one reason and you get there and there’s something underneath it. And something underneath that. Poverty is not just poverty. Drug use is not just drug use. Nobody wakes up and decides this is the life they want. There’s always something deeper, and if we don’t get there, nothing changes.
You see the generational piece everywhere. Parents who were never taught because their parents were never taught. Patterns that have been moving through a family for so long nobody questions them anymore. When you get to be there for the moment that changes, when a family makes a complete turn and you watch it happen, when the cycle breaks, you can feel it.
I had a woman once. Drug case. She was one of the best parents I have ever seen. I would have advocated for her any day of the week. She’s gone now, and I think about her. Cases like that remind you that nothing is ever just what it looks like on the surface.
A man thanked me once for not treating him like a worthless criminal. I told him we are all more than the hardest moment in our lives. He said, “You don’t understand. That’s how most people see me.”
None of us in this kind of work can do any of it alone. Community partners, law enforcement, schools, counselors, organizations like Live 2 Give Hope, they are not extras in this work. They are the work. There is no version of this job where I’m doing it by myself. If I can’t find what a family needs, I’m going to call someone who can. One way or another, we’re going to get there.
When the opportunity to move into juvenile justice came up I recognized it. It was where I had been pointing all along before life took me somewhere else first.
Now I work with kids and teenagers involved with the juvenile court system. My job is to hold them accountable and help them find their way back at the same time. I meet with them and their families. I connect them with counseling, school, treatment, community resources. Some days I’m in court. Some days I’m at a school or sitting in someone’s living room. Every day is different. All of it toward the same thing.
Teenage cases are my favorite. Because they can participate in their own story. They can walk in, sit down, and tell me exactly what they need. When that happens it changes everything.
No kid comes into my office inherently bad. There is always more to the story. There is always a background. And knowing that background is how I figure out what I can actually do to help them find a different direction.
I know what it is to be that kid. I was a terrible teenager. My parents would tell you the same thing. I didn’t see the consequences of my actions the way I do now. I look back at who I was then and I know how easily things can go another way.
That’s who I’m sitting across from.
One mistake, or even a few, does not have to define the rest of a life. I can hold a kid accountable and still believe completely that they can turn it around. Those things aren’t opposites.
So I tell families, even after a case is closed, “If you need something, call me. I can’t help you if I don’t know. Let’s get ahead of it next time.”
I have families I worked with four years ago who still check in. Some of them won’t work with anyone else. That means something to me. I came into their lives at the hardest moment, asked about the most personal things, and then had to make decisions that affected everything. They still call, they still trust me.
If there’s something I can do to help a family, what they do with that is on them. But they know somebody showed up. They know somebody was willing. That matters even when I can’t see where it goes.
I have two children. Six and four. They are my whole world. There are nights I’m sitting with them and I’m still turning the day over in my mind. Did I do enough. Did I miss something. Those are real people with real lives and no decision is easy. That part doesn’t turn off.
When I need to talk it through, I call my mom. My dad too. They know this work. They know what it costs. Some days I’m overwhelmed and just need to hear their voices, and they remind me I might be the one person a family sees that day who isn’t judging them.
I’ve seen young people do the work. I’ve seen them come in and advocate for themselves, name what they need, and then go get it. I’ve seen people who just needed somebody to believe they could do better.
And they did.
Nobody is meant to do hard things alone.
Lindsey Noble
Deputy Juvenile Officer
Voices of Hope
Every person in this community carries a story worth telling. Voices of Hope features the real people of the Missouri Ozarks who show up for children and families — foster parents, caseworkers, volunteers, survivors, and neighbors who simply refused to look away.
Read more Voices of Hope stories →
