Hope is a tangible thing, found in the character of Jesus. But sometimes, it takes a shift of perspective to find Him.
This past week, my team has had the opportunity to serve in a women’s correctional facility. We had been briefed beforehand on the dangers of what we were entering into, but walking around inside the compound suddenly turned those words of warning into blaring alerts running through my head.
Fear has really been attacking me a lot lately. A couple of weeks before Launch, I came to the terrifying realization that what I had signed up for was not safe.
And that caused me to panic.
I started having nightmares of terrible things happening to me. At any given moment, something horrific could occur. My brain started to imagine the worst possible things even in the safety of my quiet suburban home.
What if I get sick? What if I get robbed? What if I’m killed?
So, to come to Costa Rica, a country I imagined would be all sunshine and coconuts, and to be told that we would be serving in a location with some of the most dangerous women in the region, certainly did not put this terror to ease.
Our first day, my team went into the compound with wary eyes and ready bodies. We had no idea what could happen to us, but if you wanted to ask me, I could’ve painted you one of the hundred different scenarios running through my head. We were escorted through the breezeways, past barbed wire gates, armed guards, and stoic faces. Wherever we went, we needed to be escorted by a guard, whether it was to the cafeteria or just down the hall to the bathroom. We were told not to get too close with any of these women, because you never knew if their friendliness was an act of manipulation. As we sat down to lunch, I wondered what might possibly have slipped into the next bite I ate.
Despite my attempts to stay cool and calm, fear continued to tickle the back of my neck every chance it had throughout the first day.
“Let’s just do the work and get out of here”, I thought. Hopefully the small construction projects we had in this location wouldn’t take long, and we’d be able to start work on the next ministry project at the nearby (safer) church.
This first day, our project was to participate in the Multicultural Celebration for the women of the facility. During the presentation organized by the staff, my team had the brief opportunity to sing a little patriotic song for the women. We also prepared hundreds of mini hot dogs, cocktail weenies, and cupcakes with little American flags sticking out of them, to serve at our table representing United States culture. As the day progressed, we passed out plates of food to each of these women that passed by our table. More and more, as I was able to look these women in the eyes, smile, and present them with just a small token of American hospitality, I found a part of myself relaxing.
Perhaps it was the Holy Spirit building my confidence. Or perhaps it was the reassurance that nobody in their right mind would shoot the person who just gave them a cupcake.
The next couple of days, we started our work on the schoolhouse. As we chiseled away at the old cement alongside some men from the nearby male facility, I still felt wary that these men couldn’t be trusted. From what I knew about these men, I had no mind to stand next to them while they wielded a giant hammer and chisel. We did our work and finished the day – on separate sides of the schoolhouse, of course.
It reassured me to hear later just how much my team’s presence in the facility meant to the women. I heard how much they loved getting to see us join them at the Celebration, how wonderful our food was, and how grateful they were for the apparent luxury it was that we put mustard on their hot dogs. I knew God was doing something here through us, and I was kinda grateful it didn’t involve us doing anything too scary.
But on Friday, my team showed up to start painting the side of the schoolhouse, and we found that the cement on the outside wall wasn’t quite dry enough for paint. My team was exhausted from the day before, and was frankly a little cranky to not have structured ministry for the day. We sat in an empty school room, waiting for a person to show up to tell us what to do.
And someone showed up. One of the women.
She wore normal clothes – jeans and a t-shirt – and toted a small book bag.
She was here for English class.
The teacher welcomed her in, and sat down with her. My team remained in the classroom, waiting for one of the staff to come escort us to work on a different project, not paying too much attention to the woman working with her instructor. Eventually, the teacher remembered that they had not prayed before their lesson, and asked us if we’d like to pray for her. The woman was willing, so we lifted our sleepy heads from our desks and asked what she would like prayer for.
“Freedom”, she said.
And so we prayed for her. Even though we didn’t really know who this woman was, or what kind of past she had, we prayed for her. And as we with sleepy voices prayed some simple words of encouragement over her, tears began to steadily stream down her face. Her voice choked back sobs, and she told us afterwards how our prayers deeply touched her heart. And in this one simple moment, I remembered the one thing I was here for.
Hope.
Amidst the crippling fear, I was here because of hope.
Hope that these women with horrible pasts could find Jesus. Hope that these women could have changed hearts. Hope that these women could return to society as new women. Hope that they could be loved, fulfilled, and forgiven. Hope that they could have a future.
Later in the day, we were able to pray for several other women with similar results. “Pray for justice”, some asked for. “Pray for mercy”, another said, with fear in her voice. And as I saw more and more women broken down by tears, I saw the deep cry of hopelessness in their eyes.
In being called to this ministry, I thought it was to fill a need – be an extra hand in repainting a schoolhouse. But in fact, God called us to this facility to be beacons of hope.
In us simply being there, God affirmed to these women that He had not forgotten about them. That He sees them. That He sent a group of missionaries all the way from America specifically to their location, just to show them that He loves them.
Now, when I show up to ministry, I go with a fresh perspective. I step into every day with boldness knowing that the hope I have trumps the fear I feel. I now enter into every day in prayer that God would move in their hearts, and would allow my team to minister to them whenever possible.
I don’t let fear show me women with murderous hearts. I let hope show me women who are being radically pursued. Even in the darkest and most hopeless of places, God gave me the hope to see beyond my fear of these women into the love for these women.
Fear is hopelessness. Fear is a disease. Fear is a prison.
But Jesus, our Hope embodied, reaches His scarred hands out to us through the bars.
And all we have to do is look up.
“‘For I know the plans I have in store for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not harm you, to give you a hope and a future.'” Jeremiah 29:11
