It’s been a month since I left the battlefield. I got on a plane and flew to my Spanish home, my peaceful village. It’s been glorious. But so was my time on practicum. It’s always crazy to me how God answers prayers. He gave me every single thing I asked for on practicum, taught me every lesson I wanted and didn’t know I needed. And I came back with blood on my sword.
Practicum was a dream come true. I had asked Him for a practice run, a taste of what I felt called into so I could see if this was really it. That’s exactly what He gave me. I spent my first month learning how to fight really well. Learning to recognize the enemies attacks and speak against them.
It started off in Asheville, North Carolina. I spent my days volunteering in a local thrift shop and my nights highly overwhelmed by the emotions attaching to me. It took a while, a few long nights of crying, to recognize that it was the gift I had asked for being given to me. The gift of burden bearing. It’s a gift I’ve known I have for a very long time but it came to life stronger than ever in our home. We lived with 5 wonderful women who were all struggling through their own inner pain. And I was feeling all of it. Isolation, anxiety, depression, comparison, fear, you name it.
My time in Asheville taught me to recognize my enemy. I learned to see his attacks in my own life and those around me. I was growing my sight to see and feel his presence and do something about it before the strike. It was a heightening of senses in the most tangible way. I’m gaining ground.
Then, we hopped on a plane to San Jose, Costa Rica. The next 2 months of practicum were no less important. But in such a different way. Unlike the sneaky attacks I felt in Asheville, I now spent my time in a home of peace. I had to walk head first into the battle here.
For the past few years my dream has been to do anti-sex trafficking work in Costa Rica. I had hoped to get a glimpse of this life I’d dreamed up while on practicum so I could see if this really was my heart’s calling. God gifted me with just that. He threw me into Costa Rica for 2 months where I got to spend 3 days a week working with a very large and successful anti-sex work organization.
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning we turned the corner of a fully vibrant street right into a wall of darkness. The difference is real. It’s visible. It can be felt instantly. The block we worked on where the shelter is was considered the red zone in San Jose. The streets are lined with 24hr hotels and brothels. Almost every person there lived in poverty numbed out by crack and alcohol addictions. Fear is thick in the air and the desperation is constant.
It was a heavy space to be, hearing stories of murder, arsen, rape, abuse, violence, hate crimes, stabbings, and shootings. Of all of these the most heartbreaking was watching my friends willingly be bought midconversation. Waiting for them to come back half an hour later like nothing had ever happened, almost as painless as quickly running an errand. Selling themselves for less than a dollar a session. Being sent out by their boyfriends and families to provide.
The difference in the prostitution industry in Costa Rica is that it’s completely legal. There isn’t a culture of shame around it, it’s simply a profession. And culturally, the profession has become their identity. A lot of them take pride in what they do and don’t see themselves as a victim. It’s simply the family trade. Passed down from grandmother to mother to child. Often they don’t see any other option for provision than to take on selling themselves. Needing only enough to pay for the next night’s stay in the block’s dingy hotel. I was often confronted with the feeling of stress they gave off if they weren’t being bought enough that day, knowing that meant another night on the streets. They are anything but immune to the fear of the streets. Hearing panic in their voices as they tell me about the hate crimes against them and fear of violence or even murder if they didn’t have a place to stay. My only weapon, listening and holding onto peace.
We’d go to the shelter and meet them as we walked. That was my favourite part. Meeting them on the corners on our way, greeting them and seeing their faces light up. Feeling myself light up at the sight of them. My sweet friends. They have some of the kindest hearts I’ve ever known. They know how to love well and welcome you in. They know some of the deepest pain and fear, yet walk with heads held high. They are the representation of resilience. They hold so much of God’s heart and don’t even know it. Simply knowing them is a gift.
Once at the shelter we spent our time serving coffee and breakfast, sharing devotionals and listening to their stories. I’d come back each time exhausted but also so full of life. This is what it is to be my Father’s hands and feet. This is where His heart is.
Friday nights were spent in a 16 passenger van. We’d pile in at 9pm and drive the streets until 1am, stopping at the corners to meet with working women. Giving them coffee and cookies, standing with them and talking while they waited for work. One of the most powerful things I heard on it was “be the one to ask how are you. They’ve spent all night hearing how much are you”. Being the one to stand with them, overflowing peace into their space, listening as they share their hearts so openly, my heart breaks for the things I heard. But it also beams with gratitude to get to be the one to hear their hearts. I’m honored to have the opportunity to really see them. To get to be the one they trust enough to invite God in on their behalf. Being God’s voice in their lives. Bringing His protection into their presence. Invading enemy territory and reminding him that these are God’s daughters.
Coming home was always hard. Being trusted with their stories comes with a cost. It’s a privilege to carry some of the burden but I often hear reruns of the stories to this day. Stories of refugee escapes, knowing that fleeing their home meant leaving their families in violence and entering a country where their only legal option for work was to work the streets. Often the only way to release it all was to go to war for them. I would run and pray and cry and yell, interceding on their behalf, presenting their stories and hearts to my Father while claiming victory over their lives. The weapon raging Holy anger I felt was keeping me running while I prayed for an hour a day. By the end of the day I was exhausted physically, emotionally and mentally, but fully alive spiritually.
These battles were harder and more real than any I’d ever experienced before. It was exactly what I needed. I learned how to stay full, walk in already claiming victory and never let my guard down. Knowing there’s no neutral territory in this war.
I fell in love with the hearts of these women. My time with them deeply confirmed my desire to spend my life walking them into freedom. It’s my privilege to be on the front lines for them. To take on the enemy head on and bring them home to meet my Heavenly Father.
I’m so thankful for my time in both Asheville and San Jose. These battles have made me stronger and wiser. I have made myself known to the enemy and gained more ground than I thought was possible. I’ve found my fire and that has fueled my fight. Practicum was hard. It was beautiful and challenging and I learned so many expensive lessons. The biggest lesson: battlefields are a blessing.
