I wrote a series of poems to help myself process ministry in the red light district. My team encouraged me to share.
My Perspective
Loud music booming, voices, laughter, heels clicking the floor, glasses clinking, and the night is only getting started.
The atmosphere is full of a facade of smiles and masks of enthusiasm, blank stares and bikinis.
I look up and a set blue eyes eyes locks with mine. They belong to a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a worn out t-shirt. He takes a drink of his beer, but holds his gaze.
The defined wrinkles around his eyes tell a story I will never know; a story that involved enough smiling and laughter to define his face. I wonder how he ended up here- sitting at a table alone. The longer I stare into his eyes, the more familiar they feel. Do I know you?
An alarm blares from the speaker system and the tempo of the room changes. The man puts his drink on the counter and breaks eye contact.
New dancers take the stage and as the others file out, I make eye contact with a girl. She smiles and I smile back. She seems young, yet wears more emptiness in her eyes than clothes on her body. I ask the waitress if I can talk to her. She calls her down with a laser pointer.
The waitress asks the girl for her item number. I ask her for her name. “Grace,” she says with a smile. “Nice to meet you!” I say. We both order lemonade. I get to know her a little and we share a few laughs before it’s time to go. “I’ll see you again soon?” I say, as we hug good-bye.
After we walk down the steps, I pass by the blue-eyed man, who is still sitting alone. He looks up at me as we walk out the door.
That’s when it hits me that his blue eyes remind me of my dad. I hope he was still sitting alone at the table because my blue eyes remind him of his daughter. Maybe they reminded him of the memories that define his face.
Perhaps memories of genuine happiness and joy. Happiness that can’t be bought in a bar. Joy that doesn’t involve a laser pointer or an item number.
Memories where he’s sitting with people, rather than alone. People that he calls upon by name, rather than calls down by item number. People that he shares long term connection, rather than short term gratification. Where did those memories go? What happened to those people?
My thoughts drift and sadness overtakes me. Why am I doing this again, Lord? For girls like Grace, it’s worth it. I will do it for Grace’s sake.
Man’s Perspective
Loud music booming, voices, laughter, heels clicking the floor, glasses clinking, and the night is only getting started.
The atmosphere is full of a facade of smiles and masks of enthusiasm, blank stares and bikinis.
I look up and a set blue eyes eyes locks with mine. They belong to a young girl, probably mid-twenties, with brown hair, and a worn out t-shirt. She’s not about to break eye contact.
I wonder how she ended up here- sitting in a bar like this, she’s certainly out of place. The longer I stare into her eyes, the more familiar they feel. Do I know you?
An alarm blares from the speaker system and the tempo of the room changes. I put my drink on the counter and break eye contact.
It hits me all of a sudden that her blue eyes remind me of my daughter. Memories of her fill my head. We used to have such a good time together. Whatever happened between us I will never understand. She pushed me further and further away and the decisions she made were selfish.
I look up and notice the blue-eyed girl sharing a lemonade with one of the working women. I remember those hot summers when working out in the yard all day, I’d come inside and a sweet little voice would say, “Daddy, wanna lemonade?” and we’d sit at the table talking about all sorts of things. Laughing too. I can still picture that laugh clear as day even though it’s been years since I’ve heard it.
I ask for my check, just as the blue-eyed girl passes by, looks at me, and disappears out the door. It reminds me of the last day I saw my daughter when she walked out that door and said she never wanted to see me again.
Maybe I should write her or give her a call. Despite all the hurt she’s caused me, I can still hear the advice of my mother saying, “it’s all about grace.” For my girl, maybe I should do it for the sake of grace.
Grace’s Perspective
Loud music booming, voices, laughter, heels clicking the floor, glasses clinking, and the night is only getting started.
The atmosphere is full of a facade of smiles and masks of enthusiasm, blank stares and bikinis.
I stand in the back row wanting to be invisible. Whenever I take the stage, I battle wanting to be noticed or not. I want to be chosen, seen as desirable, seen as beautiful. But I don’t want to talk with these men or give them sexual favors. Do they know I’m only here to help my family get by?
The girl to my right gets chosen. What does she have that I don’t? Did I not spend enough time getting ready?
I make eye contact with an American girl that looks about my age. What is she doing here anyway? Is she a lesbian? I smile. Shoot, she’s going to want to talk with me now.
A laser is pointed on me. Yep, could’ve called it. I plop down next to her on the sofa. I give the waitress my number and the girl asks my name. “Grace,” I say. “Nice to meet you!” she says. We both order lemonade and sit in silence. She starts asking questions about my life. I wonder why she cares. What does she want from me?
This girl seems genuine and kind. She tells me I can relax and that I don’t have to stay with her the whole time. Sweet girl, but I decide to get up and leave so I can meet my drink quota for the night. She tells me she’ll see me again & leaves.
Time passes. I still haven’t met quota. Am I pretty enough? Am I desirable? Am I not worth their money?
A part of me knows this thinking is unfair. I know that I’m valuable- it’s always a battle in my mind.
God’s Perspective
Loud music booming, voices, laughter, heels clicking the floor, glasses clinking, and the night is only getting started.
The atmosphere is full of a facade of smiles and masks of enthusiasm, blank stares and bikinis.
I look around and see each of my children whom I call by name. I see their hearts are hurting and mine breaks for them. If only they knew the fullness of my joy is within reach and their stories of redemption have already been written.
I know each of their stories by heart and have been with them through it all. There is nothing they could do that is too big for me to handle.
I whisper the value of grace to each of their hearts tonight.
