This past week was my final week in the Philippines and also a chance for my parents to travel to the islands and spend some time doing ministry with me. During our shared time in the Philippines, we were blessed to be able to team up with Wipe Every Tear, a non-profit committed to providing not only a free place to stay in one of their safe houses, but also free education to the girls and ladyboys that have been prostituted and exploited by their work in bars and clubs throughout the Philippines. If you would like to learn more about this organization and the amazing work that they do visit wipeeverytear.org. This is a letter I wrote to the men who exploit the girls I came to love dearly.
Dear John(s),
I first saw you in the lobby of our hotel, leaning a little too far over the front desk as the concierge blushed and quietly handed you your room key, but I wasn’t sure who you were just yet and I didn’t want to rush into drawing any conclusions. Then I saw you frequenting the bars at 10am Friday morning. My suspicions grew stronger as you guzzled the beer in front of you and stared, glassy eyed out into the street. The lights and loud music and high heels and forced smiles that filled the street the night before had long gone to bed, all was silent except for the heel clicks of one last straggler. I wasn’t certain of your identity until I saw you with her; we were on opposite sides of an intersection waiting to cross. Between cars and trikes and bikes zipping by I caught glimpses of her quietly trying to unlace her fingers from yours, but you would just grab her hand again and pull her closer into your clutches. You, him, one of them, you were a John and she was your prey.
Traffic cleared and you crossed, walking straight towards me, but I didn’t move. “How ya doin’,” you said in a painfully recognizable American accent, we had the same homeland, but you didn’t wait for an answer, you just kept walking, tugging her along behind you. I wasn’t going to give you one anyways. I knew coming into this ministry that I would struggle with you the most, I’d even made the commitment to try and extend some grace and maybe love to you and your kind, but in that moment on the street corner all I felt was hatred like none I’d ever felt before. I fought the urge to slap you or yell or rip your hand from her wrist, you were the scum of the Earth and your actions were disgusting and unforgivable.
The rest of the day I saw you everywhere, the mall, the hotel, in taxis, and restaurants, and maybe you weren’t always you, but anyone who fit the description of white male was labeled John and I hated you all the more. I tried, I really did, to turn the hate into something, at least pity if nothing else, but all attempts were futile. It was everything about you, the way you dressed, and walked, and talked to her that made me hate you. I pulled my parents closer, not wanting to be protected, but wanting to protect them instead, my dad looped his arm through mine and my mom leaned her head on my shoulder, her tears wet the sleeve of my shirt.
That night I walked a little taller, puffed out my chest a little, and glared at each and every one of you. The hate you incited in me gave me the need to protect those in my group, especially the ones that had been abused and exploited by you before. But as I walked further down the street and later into the night, the lights and the music began to fade, even the girls by your side began to blur, He wanted me to see you. Walking into yet another club, we sat at a table closest to the stage, but my attention wasn’t drawn to the girls dancing on it, but to you sitting in the shadows of the club. Your eyes were fixed on the girls, but void of any interest. The ladies at your side pawed at you and whispered things into your ears, but any emotion you showed towards them quickly vanished. You were a skeleton of a man, the life and the love that was at some point there was sucked out of you and left you with a black hole for a soul.
As I watched you I thought of the story of the prodigal son in Luke, one of my favorites. Amidst the flashing lights and bad club remixes, I realized that you were that son, the one who had run away from a good and loving father and sought pleasure in worldly ways. The one who was tired of eating pig slop but was so ashamed of what you’d done that you hadn’t returned home yet. And in a way I was the other son, the older one that brushed my own sin under the rug and scornfully looked down on you for yours. Then I thought about the Father we share, the one who loves each of us equally even though I’m the one on mission to spread His Kingdom and you were the one paying for sex. I prayed for you then, all of you, that like the prodigal son you would someday return home, that you would finally see the error of your ways and overcome the shame that had prevented you from running into His arms before and accepting that you’re broken but He can mend you with His perfect forgiveness. I prayed for people like me too, the other sons who despised you for your brokenness all the while trying to conceal and hide our own cracks. I prayed we too would learn to run down that path and embrace you with open arms rejoicing in the fact that despite what you’d done that you had decided to return home.
-Sincerely, Emma
