I do not have words for the last week. Truthfully, when I try to pray about the past few days, I just cry. I beg the Lord to save and to heal. I rejoice that He allowed me to see what I saw and hear what I heard. I crave to be where I was.
I have written and re-written this blog four times already. I long for you to understand what I saw. I long for you to picture it in your mind and let it be a starting point for intense prayer. So, I’m going to try to paint the picture for you and it is my prayer that these words don’t just make you sad and then leave your memory. I want you to remember. I want you to pray.
My bare feet made their way through the white halls of the convent. As I entered the corridor, I was greeted with a circle of children playing duck-duck-goose, while their mothers sat in chairs nearby laughing proudly. I picked an older woman sitting on the floor and sat cross-legged next to her. I offered a smile and she promptly returned with the sweetest grin I’d seen in a long time. She held my hand longer than a handshake and kissed my knuckles. That is when I knew this would be a special few days.
Local village pastors had been praying for this all year and it was finally time. Broken women would be flooding the halls of this Catholic monastery, and the Holy Spirit would fall in ways I could never have imagined.
These women are temple prostitutes. When their bodies reach maturity, their parents dedicate them to the temple in hopes that their family will receive blessing from the gods. Their bodies belong to the temple and are given to the men for sexual acts of ‘worship’. They are raised knowing this will be their fate. They live poor lives because they are not paid for these acts and many get second jobs to support all of their children. They are not allowed to be married because they are married to the god that they were sold to. Their children are told that their father is the god. They are the scum of the Indian community. If something terrible happens and she is not present, she is blamed for the catastrophe. They believe the god is unhappy because she is gone.
My responsibility was simply to be there. So I was. I held their hands, I played with their babies, I laid my head in their laps, I gave back massages, I prayed over their illnesses, I let them teach me how to eat with my hands, I borrowed their saris, I danced for them, I sang for them, I colored them pictures, I worshipped next to them, and I called them my ‘a-cha’ or ‘sisters’. We laughed together. We communicated with sign language most of the time. I pretended to understand many things that I didn’t understand. I made a fool out of myself for them. I even told them all of my secrets. We became a family. I loved them the way I love my mother, my brother, my nephew.
On the last day, there was a feet-washing ceremony. One of the wonderful speakers explained what it signified in Jesus’ day. Our prayer was that they would experience Jesus’ hands on their feet and not our own.
The women arranged themselves into lines, their brightly colored saris contrasting the white walls behind them. As my friend and I brought the bucket to the first woman, she began to weep. She took our hands, signifying that we didn’t have to do this. My friend took one of her feet into her hands, and I took the other. The woman wailed in a language that I did not understand. But my heart understood. I knew that feeling too well.
It was the same feeling I felt when I met Jesus the first time.
“I’m too dirty,” I muttered to Him.
“Let me make you clean,” He whispered.
“But, there is so much pain.”
“Let me heal, Beloved. Let me make you clean.”
The wailing continued as we washed and I knew our prayer was being answered. She was seeing Jesus. Tears flooded my eyes. Humility filled my heart.
After we washed half of the women’s feet, those women were instructed to wash the other women’s feet. They had experienced Jesus, now they were to go be the hands and feet of Jesus. As they washed, I wept. My eyes met the eyes of a woman who had her feet washed and she reached out for me like a child reaches for her mother. I walked over to her and she grabbed me into an embrace. She sobbed on my shoulder while I stroked her hair. I began to pray. I spoke slowly at first, unsure of what to ask for. But the longer I held her, things changed. God began to set this desperation in my heart. Soon, I was longing. I was begging and pleading with God,
“Let her see your face. Let her experience your heart. Undo the lies of the enemy. Tell her what she’s worth to you. Tell her what she means to you. Hold her, Jesus. Please just hold her. Please just hold her.”
That same desperation floods my heart as I write these words. Tears are welling up even now. I may never know the absolute torment that these women have faced. But how I know their need for a Savior. How I understand their desire to be loved. Oh, how I understand giving my body away to experience something more than myself. How I understand feeling worthless.
But I also understand what it is like to be held by Jesus. I understand the sweetness of His presence. I understand how He chases the hearts of the broken. I understand how much He loves when we run to Him when we are not okay. I understand that His heart is for these women.
As I fell in love with these women, I fell more in love with my Sweet Jesus.
At the close of the three days, there was a time for women to share. Some chronicled the things that they had been through. One women bravely shared about her battle with HIV and openly admitted that when she leaves she is unsure where her next meal will come from. Another woman proclaimed, “When I go home, I will tell my whole village about this Jesus. I never experienced love in my entire life until the last few days.”
They said that during worship they felt the Lord’s heart. They said that they felt their hearts change and many said they wanted to tell everyone of this Jesus. Some even spoke of putting all of their other gods away and serving the One True God. When it came time for the altar call, almost all of the women came forward for salvation. They’re truly my ‘achas’ now.
I tell you these things in hopes that God will fill you with this same desperation that He’s filled me with. Ask God to reveal these things to your mind. These women can not just leave their lives as a temple prostitute. They are trapped. They need your prayer. They need freedom. They need the Holy Spirit to be with them continually.
John 20:29 says, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”
Don’t wait to see these things to pray against them. Let your heart be filled with compassion now. They’re not just my sisters. They’re yours too.
If you have any questions or are interested in knowing further ways that you can help in regards to these beautiful women, please e-mail me at: [email protected].
