“Now go around and pray for all the mothers.”
Our first weekly visit to the dump is coming to a close. I’m talking about the local garbage dump in Puerto Barrios. The one where trash trucks drop masses of garbage morning, afternoon, and evening. Where fumes of burning plastic, waste, and food fill the air with a thick fog. The same one that almost 200 mothers and children call home.
We’ve put on our puppet show (literally). Everyone’s been fed. Children have been loved on. Hair has been braided. Tokens have been given.
Our host tells us it’s time to pray for the mothers, for the expectant mothers too.
And for the 13-15-year old girls, who will likely be mothers soon because they’ve hit puberty, the age when men begin to rape them in their home. Or inside of garbage trucks.
He tells us to pray. He doesn’t tell us what to pray for.
I’ve prayed over abject poverty. I’ve prayed over morbid illness, disability, demon possession. I’ve boldly prayed with my feeble words in the powerful name of Jesus. Prayed healing and provision. I’ve prayed for relationships and community and blessing.
But for these mothers, for these women- for these girls- I’m not quite sure what to pray.
I start at the corner, with “como se llama?” Carmen has red lipstick and hoop earrings. She’s stunning, a paradox of worldly beauty and messy motherly love as she sits breastfeeding her son. I ask her if he’s her only child. I ask her how old she is.
She’s 18. And he’s her third.
Her eyes are hardened, but not cold. Her spirit is gentle, but not fragile.
“Tiene un esposo?”
And she does.
“Es un buen hombre?”
And nothing but a glance toward her toes and a shrug.
So I pray.
I pray blessing. And protection. And supernatural health and nutrition for her sweet babies. I cry, too. I pray against loneliness. I pray for faith. I pray for a house and a miracle. I pray for the Holy Spirit to come. I cry harder.
Amen.
She’s crying, too. Her purple eyeshadow is running, but just a little. Her eyes open with a smile, one half-full of hope, one that tricks me into thinking she understood all my English words, even if just for a second.
I can’t describe how much I love Carmen in that moment. What better indicator could it be that Christ is in the space between Carmen and me? That His spirit is loving her for me, praying through my tears when I’m at a loss. I wonder how easy it would be for her to hate me, to absolutely despise me for my American privilege and my blonde ponytail and my wide, light eyes that look into her coffee-brown ones. Her piercing, gorgeous eyes that have seen sheer, unimaginable horror in less years than I’ve been alive.
I kiss her son’s head before I move on.
Another young woman sitting a few feet away.
A few minutes of conversation.
Veronica. 14 years old. Caring for both her little sister and her newborn daughter.
My heart. It’s so heavy. It’s almost too much. It’s too heavy. I can’t bear it. And I wonder why I asked the Father to give me His heart in the first place, but I don’t wonder for too long. I don’t have time to.
And I pray.
will you pray with me?
