We were walking the streets, joining the volunteers of the Kawan drop-in center on their Wednesday night outreach to love on the tourists and locals in the bars, as well as to the homeless camping out along the sidewalks.
That night wrecked me.
I remember seeing the women, hiding in the shadows of the buildings, scandalously dressed. Avoiding eye contact, but the fear, pain, and brokenness swelling up inside was all over their faces.
This is not what they wanted.
But many have no choice. Some are trafficked. Others come on their own volition, driven by the desperation to survive or provide for their families. And there they stand, in front of their prison, waiting for another agonizing night to begin. Counting down the days till the numbness hits and they no longer feel anything. Slowly dying inside. That’s their hope: to no longer feel. To become like an object, less than human, for that is how they are treated. That is the only way to make it through.
Most of them don’t speak English, but even then few are willing to talk as they live fearfully under strict supervision of the brothel owner. So I try to make eye contact. Praying they’ll catch just a glimpse of their true hope that is Jesus in my eyes. It’s a small gesture, but this could possibly be the only interaction with the Light they’ll have all day, maybe all week, in this dark, hurting place. And, because they’re worth even the smallest amount of love I am able to give in that moment. For them to know they are seen for who they are, not for what they do. That they are known beyond the demeaning label of prostitute and the looks of judgment and disgust they receive daily from those who just don’t understand. They are too quick to throw down judgment than to reach out in love. They live comfortably on their pedestals, looking down on those deemed “less than.” Building walls of false assumptions and perceptions to separate them instead of reaching out to them, recognizing a brother or sister in need. They’d rather keep their hands clean with ignorance and apathy instead of throwing themselves in the pursuit of justice and compassion that can oftentimes be messy business. Some even furl their exploitation, blinded by their own sense of superiority. But they, too, are in need of love and grace.
And so in those moments of such brief interaction, I refuse to give anger a foothold because love is what conquers, what frees. What can so easily be written off as insignificant I see as holy opportunities for the Kingdom to come alive, the Spirit to work, and for True Love to have His way. Because our God, our Father, works in even the smallest of things in ways invisible to our human eyes, fighting for those He created beautifully in His image. Including these women selling their bodies. So I choose to be His hands, feet, and heart wherever He puts me. I choose to love even when its messy or doesn’t make sense. I choose to be a vessel of the Kingdom with reckless faith of its establishment within and around me, even in ways beyond my understanding.
