A Tiny Taste of Resurrection
I want to tell you, my friends and family, my prayer partners and all who I coerced into receiving my letters, a short story. It has touches of a fairy tale. And I've always loved a good fairy tale.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Angela[1]. She lived in a small town in Bolivia, and grew up happily with her parents and siblings. But in all fairy tales, there is tragedy. Angela's tragedy is uglier than most. It fits more the tales of Grimm than those of Disney. Angela was twelve when she was raped by a stranger. She was a shy girl, and was terrified to tell the police or her father. She didn't know what to do when she wouldn't stop bleeding. She thought it was her fault. She cried and hid and pretended it didn't happen. But instead of forgetting, she slipped into depression, into a dark and rebellious lifestyle, and finally ran away to “work” in the city at age fourteen.
Angela ended up in the brothels of El Alto. She prostituted for 25 years. She had four children by different men, and continued to work to feed and send them to school. Then, after working in abuse and violence and addiction and fear for 25 years, she was met by Jesus.
Rescuing is a concept that has been twisted by the old fairy tales. In those stories, the princes and knights rescue the damsels. But in our reality, we humans are little more than props. There is only one Knight in shining armor in all stories. It is true that Angela came to our center, that she started taking reading, accounting, and discipleship It is true that we befriended her and loved her and walked with her and prayed for her. But we were as useless as an infomercial until Angela met her only true rescuer, Jesus Christ.
Then she began to struggle against the tragedy. She told her story and fought against the lie that it had all been her fault. She began to dream and plan a life where she could take care of her ancient mother, her children, and her grandchildren without selling her body. She worked less and less, and met with our business administrator to develop a plan for a snack shop back in her home town.
Last Saturday, a dozen friends from our center arrived in full force for the grand opening of her outdoor snack shop. Angela bustled around, serving us coffee and tea, egg and ham sandwiches. A parrot on her shoulder giggled and squawked the name of her town.
Running around and helping her was a teenage girl that I took to be Angela's daughter, who I hadn't met. I pulled Angela aside and asked her name. “Oh, that's not my daughter,” she said. “She used to work with me in the brothels. But when I left, I brought her with me. Now she'll work with me and stay in my house.”
Resurrection, I've always known, means new life. When, as a teenager, I would stagger out of bed at 2 o'clock on Saturday afternoon, my dad would joke, dryly, “Proof of the resurrection!”
“Funny, Dad,” I would roll my eyes. But here in Bolivia, I am inordinately blessed. I get to see “proof of the resurrection” more often than most. Every once in a while, one of the women we work with will be rescued by Jesus, as Angela was. And I get to watch them change from stoic, stone women into soft girls, who dance and cry and play. They live in ways they didn't live before.
This is an easy place to end the story. I would like to say Angela lives happily ever after. But when I asked Angela what I could pray for, she said, “That I don't go back.” She fights battles, even after resurrection. And while I can't promise to be there when she may need me, her Rescuer is.
“Because she loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue her;
I will protect her, for she acknowledges my name.
She will call upon me, and I will answer her;
I will be with her in trouble,
I will deliver her and honor her.” [2] Psalms 91: 14-5
And the Fairy Tale is Ruined by the Banal Bullet News…
For a few weeks, I have been looking for an apartment so as not to live off of my gracious teammates for longer than necessary. Today, I found one. It is an unfinished third floor apartment that will eventually have a bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, and patio. Until it is finished, the landlords have offered me a room in their house on the first floor. Pending price negotiations, I have an apartment!I've recently met some remarkable new girls. However, I'm already feeling the subtle tug-of-war between my job as Servant Team Coordinator and my desire to dive headfirst into the ministry. Barring mutation into Superwomen, I may have to settle for a careful balance.My boss, the Short Terms Coordinator, (also known as Jara the Magnificent), came through for a week-long visit to train me and help collect my thoughts for my first Servant Team. Though we managed to keep her sick with a variety of altitude, bacteria, and allergy-based attackers, she fought them valiantly. It was an effective and entertaining visit.
Love and peace to all in Christ,
Cara Strauss
[1] Although this is a completely true story, I have changed Angela's name for her privacy and protection.
[2] In the interest of gender inclusiveness, I have taken unauthorized liberty with the male pronouns in these verses.