You Will Remain

"I can't tell you what might be in store
May you be well
You may find joy
You might find pain
Sorrow and love
But you will remain
May you be well."
 - May You Be Well, by The Lone Bellow



"Oh I love to cook!" the woman exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile.
"I know how to make all the costal foods," and she began to list off traditional dishes while the three of us inserted, "Mmm!" and "Que rico!"
My friends Hannah and Katelynn and I had gone downtown to visit with women in prostitution. I'd only met this woman once before, yet had remembered she was the mother of several children.
"I used to cook in a restaurant," she said. "But it closed down. I wasn't able to find another job, so ..." and she trailed off, shrugging sadly.
"How many kids do you have?" Katelynn asked.
"Five," she responded.

Five kids. So ... desperate to provide for them, she turned to prostitution. A friendly African Ecuadorian woman, it was difficult to tell her age, though I would guess she had her first child when she was pretty young. I would further guess that likely, there was more than one father to her children, as men generally split pretty quickly when familial responsibility is needed. A frightened, lonely, uneducated woman in this culture is quick to attach herself to a new man whom she hopes will be better, might be in it for the long haul, which sadly is so often not the case. Children grow up without fathers and turn into women who long to be loved, and men who don't know how.
She must have been so proud to have a job in that restaurant. But here, things can change in an instant. Just last month a little family-run restaurant I've gone to for three and a half years suddenly shut down, because the building owner wanted to do something else with it. I haven't seen the women who used to run the place since.

I imagine the woman with the five children going home after being told she was out of work, devastated and scared. Looking for work and finding nothing. Becoming desperate because her children were hungry then, now, constantly.

In her area are many woman who work the streets. They likely welcomed her to their midst, for they've been where she's been. They're the lowest rung of society but they still have pride that they'll stick up for their own.

When the three gringa girls who visit every couple of weeks greet her and start talking about food, she lights up. She was a cook. She knows food. Food - survival - is the reason she's here.
I wish I could offer her a job. I wish I could give her her life back, or better; to give her a life without abuse and poverty and lack of love.

She let us pray for her, there on the street as buses rumbled past and passerbys gawked. We circled around her and bowed our heads and prayed, then and later and now that God would open new doors for her, and that He would make her ready to step through them. The prayer on the street was a victory, a huge one compared to the many times women shake their heads and tell us, "You can just pray in your home for us," refusing to share requests. Yet so many more victories are needed. I deeply hope and pray for that woman, and for all of them, to find a way to a better life. They want it, but it's paralyzing for so many reasons.

"You have no education, you're not good for anything else."
"You? Ha, you'll be nobody but this, ever!" 


Praying for these woman, I'm thankful for every small victory, and earnestly hoping for grand ones to come.