Thirty and Three
"You begin to wonder, could you find a better one?
Compared to her, now she's in question
And all at once the crowd beings to sing
Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same"- All At Once, by The Fray
Sometimes, it feels as though two of the hardest words to bring into action are, "Follow me."
It sounds simple. Yet the faith of the apostles when they followed Jesus must have looked incredibly foolish in the moment.
"What do you mean you're leaving everything? You're a fisherman. You can't just up and go. You're crazy!"
Peter, even after he had followed and committed, denied Jesus three times. Even after all he had sacrificed and witnessed; still, he was afraid.
This past Saturday, several friends and I held an event for the women in prostitution whom we visit with on the streets every couple of weeks. We'd been planning this day for weeks. We invited the women and their children; a local church allowed us to use their building and we set up a space for jewelry making with the women and crafts with the kids. I enlisted the help of one of the Casa Gabriel boys to lead a time of worship, and one to organize kids' activities. I made two cakes and bought paper goods while others brought coffee, tea, and the jewelry materials. The name of our street outreach team is called 'Amadas', which means 'beloveds'. Together, we went downtown and did a presentation during one of the women's meeting, hung fliers in the brothels, and gave out dozens of invitations. Going in, I knew that likely the event would have one of two outcomes: either we would be flooded with women and children who heard "free event" and flocked to us, or most would be nervous of the unknown or simply not want to take off from "work", resulting in very few women coming at all.
It was the latter.
The day of, five of us went downtown to meet the women at a local bus stop, while the rest of the team set up the church. A friend and I got off the bus one stop early, because I spotted several of the women on a street we always visit. Eagerly, we approached the first couple of women, who had their babies with them. "Yes, we're coming, we'll see you at the bus stop," they assured us.
They weren't the only ones who lied.
Others, who had seemed excited when we talked to them about the event in the weeks prior, instead shook their heads. "Saturday is a busy day, I have to work," was a common refrain."You'll only be away three hours at most," I tried. Numbers flashed across my mind, the few dollars per client I had been told they actually made after paying for the room in the hostel. $4? Maybe $5? Heartbreakingly, pathetically, infuriatingly small. "You'll get to keep the jewelry you make. You can sell it. You can be paid to make more." "Maybe next time," they said. "Maybe on a weekday. Maybe in the morning. Maybe ..."
I talked to about thirty women that day. In all, three actually came.
For those three, I rejoice. They entered the church and sat with us, learning and laughing and talking and creating. When they each had made several pieces of jewelry, I announced that we were all going to stand (I had been elected MC for the day). Katelynn, who teaches yoga, led everyone in a few breathing exercises for relaxation and calming. Next, Alexis led everyone in worship, singing and playing guitar. Finally, I cut the cake and we all ate and talked and prayed, some one-on-one and also a general prayer for everyone in the room. They left with smiles. They left with pieces of jewelry they had made with their own hands. The hope is that through learning and creating, they will realize that they can do more. They've been fed lies of worthlessness their wholes lives, and to un-tell such an ingrained belief can take ages. There is also the hope that if some of them truly desire to get out of prostitution that we could employ them to make jewelry if we have big enough orders. But just as it was simply three who came, it is a dream which happens poco a poco (little by little).
For those three who came, I rejoice. Yet for the thirty and more who didn't, I must mourn.
I cried all through church the next day. I felt like a mess. Why didn't more come? Why did they let themselves miss out? On a more personal note, I felt terrible that not one child had shown up. All while walking round and round those streets, inviting the women, I had prayed, "Just six women and three kids. Just four women and two kids. Please." Because back at the church, David and John from Casa Gabriel were waiting. David had prepared all kinds of crafts and games (John volunteered the day of to come help), and even though I warned him of the possibility that not many would come, I hadn't even taken into consideration that we'd have none. After all, in talking with people the week before I had about eight women say yes to coming with their children (about a dozen kids total). At the least, I expected two or three, while at the most I could foresee twenty, given how things can swing the other way with everyone and their dog showing up for something free. I prepped David for both outcomes without considering the third: zero. I felt horrible that all his hard work was for nothing.
A friend reminded me of how hard it can be to agree to go somewhere new and unknown. All their lives, the women downtown have known fear. Fear from experiencing poverty and hunger, fear from abuse and neglect and trafficking, fear from being uneducated, and fear of the unknown."At least I decide on my clients, I'm not locked in a brothel," some have told me. They put on their heavy makeup and stand on their designated streets and try to feel as though they're the ones making the decisions, instead of facing the reality that they're trapped. In pain and frustration I want to shake them. "You want out. I know you do. Some of you have even admitted it, as though it's something you mustn't dare to hope for. It's a tiny step towards something else, but won't you take it? Just this afternoon, won't you follow someone who loves you and wants to help? Follow me!"
It is frightening to step out in faith, to follow and go and leave things behind. Even if those things are a mere $4 or so on a Saturday afternoon. Same as for myself, I pray for them to be brave. I pray for them to be strong and courageous. I rejoice for the three while I mourn for the thirty
It is a process. Our team will debrief soon and talk about ideas for the future, For now, I mourn for the thirty ... yet I do I do I do rejoice, truly, for the three. When asked, "Follow me?" they responded in action: "Yes".
It was the latter.
The day of, five of us went downtown to meet the women at a local bus stop, while the rest of the team set up the church. A friend and I got off the bus one stop early, because I spotted several of the women on a street we always visit. Eagerly, we approached the first couple of women, who had their babies with them. "Yes, we're coming, we'll see you at the bus stop," they assured us.
They weren't the only ones who lied.
Others, who had seemed excited when we talked to them about the event in the weeks prior, instead shook their heads. "Saturday is a busy day, I have to work," was a common refrain."You'll only be away three hours at most," I tried. Numbers flashed across my mind, the few dollars per client I had been told they actually made after paying for the room in the hostel. $4? Maybe $5? Heartbreakingly, pathetically, infuriatingly small. "You'll get to keep the jewelry you make. You can sell it. You can be paid to make more." "Maybe next time," they said. "Maybe on a weekday. Maybe in the morning. Maybe ..."
I talked to about thirty women that day. In all, three actually came.
For those three, I rejoice. They entered the church and sat with us, learning and laughing and talking and creating. When they each had made several pieces of jewelry, I announced that we were all going to stand (I had been elected MC for the day). Katelynn, who teaches yoga, led everyone in a few breathing exercises for relaxation and calming. Next, Alexis led everyone in worship, singing and playing guitar. Finally, I cut the cake and we all ate and talked and prayed, some one-on-one and also a general prayer for everyone in the room. They left with smiles. They left with pieces of jewelry they had made with their own hands. The hope is that through learning and creating, they will realize that they can do more. They've been fed lies of worthlessness their wholes lives, and to un-tell such an ingrained belief can take ages. There is also the hope that if some of them truly desire to get out of prostitution that we could employ them to make jewelry if we have big enough orders. But just as it was simply three who came, it is a dream which happens poco a poco (little by little).
For those three who came, I rejoice. Yet for the thirty and more who didn't, I must mourn.
I cried all through church the next day. I felt like a mess. Why didn't more come? Why did they let themselves miss out? On a more personal note, I felt terrible that not one child had shown up. All while walking round and round those streets, inviting the women, I had prayed, "Just six women and three kids. Just four women and two kids. Please." Because back at the church, David and John from Casa Gabriel were waiting. David had prepared all kinds of crafts and games (John volunteered the day of to come help), and even though I warned him of the possibility that not many would come, I hadn't even taken into consideration that we'd have none. After all, in talking with people the week before I had about eight women say yes to coming with their children (about a dozen kids total). At the least, I expected two or three, while at the most I could foresee twenty, given how things can swing the other way with everyone and their dog showing up for something free. I prepped David for both outcomes without considering the third: zero. I felt horrible that all his hard work was for nothing.
A friend reminded me of how hard it can be to agree to go somewhere new and unknown. All their lives, the women downtown have known fear. Fear from experiencing poverty and hunger, fear from abuse and neglect and trafficking, fear from being uneducated, and fear of the unknown."At least I decide on my clients, I'm not locked in a brothel," some have told me. They put on their heavy makeup and stand on their designated streets and try to feel as though they're the ones making the decisions, instead of facing the reality that they're trapped. In pain and frustration I want to shake them. "You want out. I know you do. Some of you have even admitted it, as though it's something you mustn't dare to hope for. It's a tiny step towards something else, but won't you take it? Just this afternoon, won't you follow someone who loves you and wants to help? Follow me!"
It is frightening to step out in faith, to follow and go and leave things behind. Even if those things are a mere $4 or so on a Saturday afternoon. Same as for myself, I pray for them to be brave. I pray for them to be strong and courageous. I rejoice for the three while I mourn for the thirty
It is a process. Our team will debrief soon and talk about ideas for the future, For now, I mourn for the thirty ... yet I do I do I do rejoice, truly, for the three. When asked, "Follow me?" they responded in action: "Yes".
Comments
Chrissy
Much love.
Karen
Blessings to you, Mandy