I look over at the clock. One hour. One hour before we leave to go again on an outreach to the Nana District of Bangkok. A fierce resistance rises in me—I don’t want to go. I hate it. Even now, the pit in my stomach and the lump in my throat tell me this is not what I want to do. The tears streaming down my face and the cry of my heart can’t be stopped.
These girls. These precious little girls. 13 maybe14 years old. Babies, just babies!
Molested. Raped. Forced against their will by huge ugly men. I see him walking down the street holding hands with what looks like a 9 year old Thai girl. He meets my eyes and quickly looks away dropping her hand and quickening his step. He knows it’s wrong. He knows it and yet…
…it will happen again tonight.
The hour is drawing drastically near. I’m sure the girls feel it now too. Once again, time to get dressed up; put on the high heels and the make-up…the dreaded, dark night is soon approaching. Trying to put myself in their shoes a bit rakes me with fear. They’re just scared little girls in the glitz and glamour of neon lights and go-go shows.
I walked that street. I saw their sullen faces, the only light in their eyes coming from the glow of the fluorescent lights.
Desolate. Dark. Lonely. Ashamed. Scared.
Forced into this ungodly routine night after night. They have perfected it; they know what their customers want. I see them as they spy a potential patron passing by and as they pull out the charms to seduce and entice them to come in to their particular bar. I know what I used to think of these types of women.
…Seductress! Knows what she’s doing and likes doing it too. Gives her power and she wants power. This game was made for her…
But now I’m really watching. I see her as she sits back down on an outdoor barstool with one hand propped up against her head. She is not happy. She doesn’t want to do this. Deep inside there’s a cry in her as well. But tonight is not the time for tears. Tonight is a work night. She must put on her “work” face, just as she put on her “work” clothes and painted up her face as a facade of reality.
Reality comes though, like it has now in the quiet alone moments when you’re really allowed to think. She knows what’s going to happen tonight as much as I do. I try not to think about it, but I can’t help it. The tears give me away. I can’t just let it pass.
I too will walk into Nana District tonight against my will. I don’t want to see the things I know I will see. I don’t want to hear the repulsive stories and see the men and walk the filthy streets of Nana—I don’t.
But I am working too.
My job is to be a living sacrifice and to be the hands and feet of Jesus and I can’t do that by staying in tonight. I must go. I will be a light here in this dark place.
I brush away the tears and blow my nose, take a deep breath and look up… Jesus, show me the way.
Here am I Lord. Send me.
.Isaiah 6.
