Hoping

"I know you've got a little life in your yet
I know you've got a lot of strength left
I should be crying but I just can't let it show
I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking"
 - This Woman's Work, by Kate Bush


There were six of us standing on the street corner, talking. Two friends of mine, two transgender women in prostitution, and a man who is probably a little of both boyfriend and pimp. When we asked the women if we could pray for them they said yes immediately. We linked up, grasping hands, arms, and shoulders. I grasped the hand of the woman to my left, which cut the man out of the circle. He'd been inserting himself in our conversation the whole time, so I glanced at him, silently inviting him to pray with us if he would like. He put his hand on my elbow, then leaned forward so that his stomach was resting fully against my arm. To my right, one of my friends squeezed my shoulder, letting me know that she saw and was there to back me up if I felt uncomfortable. Yet, anything else aside, it felt right that he should pray with us. It felt right to include him in our circle if he wanted to be there. I wondered, not for the first time, about what it would look like to reach out to the pimps and the 'johns'. If their attitudes changed, the women would have to find other work, and could be encouraged and supported in their efforts. After all, there's only ever business if there are customers.

We said goodbye and walked up the street. From the door of the hostel which serves as a brothel, a woman in high heels emerged. Behind her came an older man with a cane. He looked at us, curiously, perhaps wondering if the three of us were also for sale. Finally he turned and shuffled down the street and we entered the hostel, to say hi to the proprietors, who were usually friendly and had let us host a Christmas party there for two years running. The wooden door is ridiculously low: I crashed my head against the frame once. Ever since I've remembered to duck.

A scruffy white dog lives in the hostel. She likes to come and jump up to my waist, sniffing and wagging her tail furiously. The cobblestone floor is slanted at the entrance and often collects water which, I would guess, comes down from rain entering the open-air courtyard in the center of the building. We walked around the puddles.

We walked down another couple of streets and to the main square, which used to be beautiful. For the past couple of years, the city of Quito has been undergoing the massive process of constructing a subway system. It's their hopeful solution to terrible traffic. A month ago, the lovely square in front of a grand old theater was fenced off. Construction crews rolled in and now the place is noisy and dusty with machines drilling deep into the earth. Whether it will take six months, a year, or more, no one seems to know. We walked around the construction and found various women we know still sitting on benches and in door frames, yet there are fewer than before. Our one flickering hope is that the nuisance of the construction will drive down business for them and force them to find other work. Wouldn't that be the silver lining.


We paid twenty-five cents each to board the city bus, crowding in and holding on. Someone told me how when there's a particularly bad bus driver, one who slams on the breaks with no regard to the people standing and trying to hold on simply to a seat railing or a bar above their heads, that sometimes people will shout out, "We're people, not potatoes!"
As the driver accelerated with force, I thought of this. I imagined being a potato and rolling down the isle of the double-long bus, bumping into others as I went.

I thought  back on the conversations of that afternoon. To the ones with the older women who wore bright eye shadow over sad eyes, limbs drooping as they sat on stone doorways, too tired to stand. A conversation, the asking of the question, "How are you?" a prayer, and a touch on the arm. Maybe, it is a cup of cool water on a parched day. Maybe, it is not enough, is far from being enough, but maybe it is something. My friends and I are all full-time mission workers and this is basically considered a "hobby ministry". If I'm honest, I don't like that term at all. It's a real ministry for each of us, we simply don't have much time or resources. Yet "poco a poco", as they say (little by little).

We met a new woman that day. Her name translated to 'White', and as we turned to go she stopped us, asked if we were going to pray with her. I can't think of another time when someone we've met for the first time agreed to let us pray with them on the street, let alone asked us. We had offered, but her friend, whom we know, had at first shaken her head. Gladly we turned back and formed a circle with them. I prayed in Spanish, which flows quickly yet also trips over improper verb tenses. Yet I believe that God hears and understands all we don't or can't say.


That day, in a stream of thought:
"Join the circle, it's okay; watch the puddles, watch your head; we're people, not potatoes; let there be a silver lining; poco a poco; little by little."