We were at a sort of rehab home for former temple prostitutes. After hearing a bit about the home, our group of 9 girls walked into a bright pink room, where about 20 women were sitting on the ground, twisting old newspapers into long strands to make woven vases and coasters.
It didn’t take long for the humid air to be filled with voices talking in English, Kannada, and Hindi, asking questions, learning names, and using charades to figure out what was happening. As we settled in with certain women, you could feel the joy of the Lord flowing through the room.
Looking around, it was easy to forget that these beautiful women had once been prisoners, held in the chains of prostitution by their religion, their families, and their circumstances. We were just doing henna and taking pictures, somewhat oblivious to the pain in the room.
Once it hit me, I couldn’t ignore it. Not all the women were smiling or talking to us, or even acknowledging their surroundings. A few sat against the walls, arms wrapped tightly around their legs, eyes cast downward. As I walked over and sat down beside one woman, she looked up at me, and her eyes told of more pain and suffering than I could ever imagine. It was all I could to do keep from crying as I looked at her, lost for words. I thanked the Lord for rescuing this beautiful soul, as I tried my best to tell her “you’re beautiful” in whatever broken Hindi I had.
I wish I could say I stayed with her for the rest of our time in the pink room. I wish I could say I conveyed the love of Christ to her, that we connected, that I made a new friend. But as the room kept bustling around us, I found my brain running a million miles an hour, concentrating not on the woman but on the conversations others were having, on the photo opportunities waiting to happen. Instead of sitting with the woman and loving her, I chose to be distracted by the fun I thought I could have elsewhere.
But I didn’t have fun.
The burden of her pain was on my heart, and I was ashamed. Ashamed that I ran away from the pain, instead of staying where I was needed most. Ashamed that I didn’t have the endurance or patience to be still and call on the Lord.
I want to go back. Our ministry differs every day, and I don’t know what the rest of our time in India looks like. Yet that day, in that pink, humid, and crowded room, the Lord opened my eyes to compassion and healing in a new way, and I want to experience that again.
My prayer is the same every day: “break my heart for what breaks yours.” The process of being broken is painful, absolutely. And yet through it, my heart and mind are being transformed into more of the likeness of Christ, and I am able to love more fully every day because of it.
