A few weeks ago we celebrated the 3rd anniversary of Casa de Esperanza, our center for women in prostitution. It was a gala affair, complete with ceviche (a Peruvian fish dish), cake, and a stirring message about hope and restoration from a local pastor.
But before we got to the real entertainment, in which Andy described his first visit to the brothels to the great amusement and laughter of the women, a new girl started shaking. She had wandered in alone, her clothes caked with dirt, smelling of urine and rotten broccoli. She was nervous and high. Before she started on her cream of asparagus soup, she started shaking and said she was about to faint.
Our doctor checked her out and sent her to the clinic. The clinic did urine tests, blood tests, hooked her up to an IV, and gave her a mild narcotic to calm her down. But when the tests came back the next day, they indicated that there was nothing wrong with “Pamela.”
“Part of it may be in her mind,” explained Claudio, our Spanish doctor friend who runs the clinic. “Part of it was probably an intestinal blockage caused by street inhalants, but it cleared itself up when the effects wore off. And part of it was respiratory, probably caused by smoking cocaine.”
We sat on Pamela's hotel bed and talked to her. Her story wandered around in tangles and frayed ends, knotting sometimes in the difficult parts. She lied and changed her mind and told each of us different things. After two days in the clinic and off whatever drugs she had been on, some parts settled into a pretty straight line. Like how she got pregnant at 14. How her two kids lived with her uncles, who wanted nothing to do with her. How she had been living on the streets and working in the brothel when she didn't have any money or food.
“What do we do?” we asked Claudio.
“Well, we can keep her here for a few more days. But she doesn't need to be here. Her problems are deeper than her body.”
We tromped back to “Pamela's” room and offered her a place at a women's rehabilitation home.
“I've never taken drugs in my life,” she announced, looking nervously at her blanket.
We tromped back to Claudio's office.
“She says she's never taken drugs,” we said helplessly.
Claudio is a wise and gentle man with years of experience. We looked to him naively and hopefully for answers.
“Well,” said Claudio, “do you think she's ready to leave the streets, leave the addictions?”
I looked at Ely and Molly. We looked back at Claudio. “Probably not.”
“Then all we can do,” said Claudio gently, “is trust the Holy Spirit to work in her life, and indicate to us how we can best serve her.”
Moment after moment, crisis after crisis, I find myself wanting to save these girls. I want to drag them from the swampy muck they live in and toss them in the shower. I want to make them hot chocolate and tuck them into my spare bed. But they don't want saving. And I am not a savior. Only my Christ saves.
Instead, I'm left with compassion. Henri Nouwen (and some of his friends) say that compassion “is not bending toward the underprivileged from a privileged position; it is not reaching out from on high to those who are less fortunate below; it s not a gesture of sympathy or pity for those who fail to make it in the upward pull. On the contrary, compassion means going directly to those people and places where suffering is most acute and building a home there.” Sometimes, compassion is all I have to offer.
We got Pamela some extra clothes, bought her fried chicken, and gave her bus fare to her aunt's house. She promised she'd show up at Casa de Esperanza the next week. She didn't. Or the week after.
Maybe I should have handcuffed her and thrown her into rehab. Or maybe we should have followed her to her aunt's house and advised her of the situation. Or maybe Pamela is just not ready. Maybe Jesus' plan for her looks slower and rockier than my plan for her.
Its discouraging, watching girls come and go and come and go. Like locking my keys in my house and having to climb over the adobe wall again. So much effort, so little reward. Like finding a spider in my milk the other day. It starts so hopeful, but ends up making me nauseous.
Luckily for Pamela, she's in God's hands and not mine. Lucky for me, so am I.
And the Story Continues…
Some of you have asked for some updates on past stories. Though I'm not great at epilogues and sequels, I affirm that we don't live with a tidy little “The End” to our adventure.
Hans is out of the rehab home and living with Ely and Humberto, two members of our Bolivian community. Though he is still dealing with sexual identity issues and sporadic depression, he wants to go to seminary and eventually start a preventative program for at-risk boys in the villages. Funds have come in for the family on 15th street to receive plumbing! money for Toilets! Construction will begin as soon as possible. God willing, one of my next Servant Team Members will start living there in February.The used car market that was supporting Angela's snack shop left her town. She relocated to a more strategic part of town, rented a juice shop, and start selling to bus drivers. We're still concerned that she may be working when ends don't meet, but she assures us that Jesus is with her and she has no desire to return to her former life.Bring on the Baptists. Make me a Methodist. Enter Evangelicals. Lead in the Lutherans. Create in me a Charismatic. I need a church and I'm being as picky as if I were shopping for ice-cream. Ninety-nine flavors, and they all live for Jesus. Why is it taking so long to pick one where I can worship, serve, and that puts meat on my spiritual bones? I need to settle soon, and stop tasting from the tester spoons.
&
nbsp;
In Christ,
Cara Strauss