She was in my hands; her arms dangling in a lifeless manner. Her dragging feet made it a struggle to find what I hoped would be her safe haven. Her limp body became heavier and heavier as we walked .The dark alley greeted us with a musky scent and pilings of garbage to my right and left. It’s tight corners were not wide enough to allow the brigade that followed behind to enter. The three of us were alone; the wife, husband and I. My arms became even heavier when he let go. Her body now relied on the strength of my arms. But he didn’t let go to carry her away like a husband should. He let go to hit. Not just hit. But to riotously backhand his wife in the most demeaning way possible; in a secret, dark alley way that lead to the “safe haven”. What would happen behind closed doors? Hitting? Screaming? I could only imagine.
Though a split second had gone by, it felt as though hours passed in that slap. What audacity; to wildly slap your wife in the arms of a complete foreign stranger. It was hard to walk away without anger in my heart. This anger once pointed toward God but I rejoiced in the fact that this anger was no longer directed upward.
This story may sound familiar. It resembles my time spent in Cambodia with Moam. The way the women were treated, the years of abuse they have endured and cultures that look at them as outcasts. It’s sometimes hard to believe, but beauty lies deep within their stories. When questioned about my time spent with Moam soon after the events that took place in that 10×6 room, I became an emotional wreck. I would feel anger rising from the deepest part of me. Tears swelling in my eyes at the mere thought of her. Why would God allow this unjustness? It took me quite some time to realize the heartbreak that God was experiencing for Moam and continues to experience. Being a part of this wife’s battle took on an entirely different sense of anguish.
Having to let go of her fierce grip that day is something I’ll not soon forget. I remember the sorrow in her eyes, the lethargic state of her body and her cries of terror. The light seemed to dim as I left the alleyway; looking back as though I was leaving a long lost friend. I thank God for Carly that day. She was the hands of Jesus as she refused to leave the scene we had stumbled upon. Walking in the heat of the day to Ama’s house, left us fatigued and not wanting to make the 30 minute walk. Feeling unmotivated, we continued to walk not knowing what event was laid out before us. We saw a crowd gathered at the entryway of a small dirt road. We continued walking without much of a care until we saw the blood. There she was; laying facedown on the dirt road with no one tending to the gash in her forehead. The crowd simply snickered at the sight of this woman who was alone, drunk, bleeding and hysterically crying. 10 minutes passed until someone finally made the decision to “care”. Two men reluctantly called her husband and dragged her to the other side of the road where she was to wait for his wrath alone. With rubble surrounding her, she laid in her sorrow continuing to wail in despair. We decided to buy biscuits to help soak up the alcohol. With the crackers in hand, we walked over to her and knelt down to sit side-by-side. Even in her drunken state, you could see the thankfulness on her face. With the language barrier hindering our understanding, we relied on God’s voice to discern what our next moves would be.
Jesus would not pass by. Carly and I knew there was no coincidence we were walking down this road, at this time, on this day. We prayed relentlessly; outspoken and Holy Spirit lead. 30 minutes went by with the gawking of passerby’s until the husband arrived. Without warning, he grabbed her arm to yank her onto her feet. Carly and I gently helped trying to lead by example; caring for this woman the way Jesus would. With onlookers following, the husband and I held her, dragging her through the street. With the husband’s unceasing temper, she solely listened to my voice, leading her through the crowd that had gathered. We finally made it to the alleyway where the slap I will never forget awaited me
My response to this event was the opposite of how I reacted upon leaving Moam in the condition we did. I knew God was still good and that His heart broke more for this woman than mine ever would. When speaking to my mom on the event, she fully believes that this woman, though in a dazed state, will think of Carly and I as her angels. She may picture us as two obscure figures who cared for her in such a weak moment; two people that know her despair. It is my prayer that the crowd who convened during the event will think twice before simply staring at someone in such a forlorn situation. They will take action in a loving way; being Jesus in those moments whether or not they know who the Lord is yet. He will reveal Himself.
The juxtaposition of these experiences, leads me to Psalm 71; two verses that I dated in my Bible on January 11 of this year; four days after being forced to leave ministry in Cambodia. Before I began writing today, I was set to read Psalm 71 without knowing its ties to this blog. God is good and knows exactly what I need to read and when.
Be to me a rock of refuge, a strong fortress, to save me, for you are my rock and my fortress.
Rescue me, O my God, from the hand of the wicked, from the grasp of the unjust and cruel.
Psalm 71: 3-4
