Chapter 19: Where Do I Go From Here?

“I do want to go back to the Dominican Republic”, I wrote in an email to a friend in January.

“Back in the States, at the International House of Prayer’s One Thing conference in Kansas City December 28-31, I couldn't stop thinking and praying about  Carmen. The first night as I was crying out to God for her, I remembered the phrase, “Let my people go.”

It occurred to me that Moses had to say that ten times, and Pharaoh wasn't listening. In fact, God even hardened his heart. Why? Why did it have to be so long and drawn out? It was about Moses’ heart. It was about God being glorified in his obedience and trust.

I realized that even in my desperation to see Carmen’s suffering end, even in my humble recognition that God was conquering each obstacle along the way, I still just wanted it to end. I wanted a conclusion, a happy ending to this horror story.

I realized that if Carmen had moved into the safe house after visiting it with me, on the day we had agreed to, I may have felt like the story was over. That I had done something for God, fulfilled a goal, helped someone. That I could move on to other things.

At the same time, in the D.R. God was teaching me about not objectifying people in subtle, selfish ways. Even in “helping” people we can be objectifying them if we are helping them in order for us to be seen by God or others, or to lift ourselves up, instead of only the Worthy One.

Back at the conference, as I was meditating on that phrase, “Let my people go,” I realized that I could not move on to other things. It is not over. The lack of the ending I cried for was not cause for discouragement, and not even just patience, but perseverance. The lack of an ending meant my heart cried to think that so many other girls don’t have an ending yet, either. Like Carmen’s friend and “coworker” “Yudith,” who was also going to visit the safe house with me. Yet, she never showed up on the day we were supposed to visit. That was the day before I left the D.R.

December 31^st was Carmen’s 15^th birthday. That day at the conference, Benjamin Nolot, spoke about a healthy human sexuality, challenging us to ask ourselves, 

“What kind of society would create someone who can wake up tomorrow and fly halfway across the world to have sex with a child?” He desperately and lovingly pleaded with us to stop objectifying one another in the Church, and to wake up and start really exposing the lies our culture tells us.

Someone had a dream of Benji a year earlier, running through the mud until he was immersed, and then emerging in a clean, white tracksuit but waving the muddy jacket from the other suit, shouting before a large crowd, “This is what it really looks like! This is what it looks like!” The dream was being fulfilled as he stood before 30,000 people doing exactly that. 

Benji’s talk was yet another time that I felt God was speaking to me, saying something like,

“This is what you’re working with when you say you want to work with women coming out of prostitution. You didn’t think it would cut so deep, did you? It does. It cuts to the very core of what I meant when I said I made humans in My image.

“But My healing alone goes deeper. You didn't think the subtle lies could hold so much sway, did you? But My truth alone sets you, and them, free. My power breaks every chain. So go and do My work, but go with the understanding of the spiritual warfare—and spiritual authority that comes from first, and daily, submitting yourself wholly to Me. Let Me be your all-consuming fire, burning away the dross of the issues you didn't even know that you had, so you can truly discern between darkness and light. Let Me search you and know you and see if there is any wicked way in you, even though it hurts, and let Me lead you in the way everlasting.”

After Benji’s session, Exodus Cry hosted an information session, where some of their U.S.-based safe house workers began to share about one young woman, who called them off and on for a year before finally making the decision to follow Christ, on Easter Sunday last year. She kept backing out, but they didn’t give up. It really happened. I began to weep as they shared. I wanted so much to say that, no matter how long it takes, Carmen will do that. I can’t explain how much my heart breaks when I write about this topic, when I hear someone speak about it. As I sat there overcome, my nose began to bleed.

My nose has often bled at inconvenient times in my life, like right before a youth orchestra concert for which I had been practicing for months. Then, it was probably nerves. Now, it was just sheer emotion. I whispered and motioned for someone sitting behind me to unzip my backpack and grab a tissue. I ended up leaving the session to clean up in the bathroom and drink from the water fountain. I made it back for the end of the session, long enough to hear more testimonies. When the session ended, two of the guys sitting behind me, who had helped me with the tissue, asked if they could pray for me.

They prayed in a slow, deliberate way. Pausing to listen and meditate before speaking, they prayed for joy and boldness and authority and power to speak when God calls me to. They prophesied I would be blown away by what God is going to reveal to me in this next season of intimacy with YHWH.

I feel God used my vulnerability in that moment to highlight my need for prayer to those around me, even if I would have tried to dry my tears to keep my mascara from running. But I’m not meant to bear this burden alone. In my weakness He becomes my strength. He sends the hands and arms of the Body of Christ to bear me up when I would fall, and work alongside me where I would grow weary.

That’s why I need to write “Carmen’s” story. Or, my story of the short time I interacted with Carmen. By the grace of God, I wanted to get on paper the story line that will awaken the hearts of intercessors, supporters, and workers who will go into the harvest.”

[The email from January 2014, quoted above, continues below.]

“Last week I saw the documentary Nefarious: Merchant of Souls for the third time, in a friend’s apartment. I remember it wrecking me the first time, when they showed it at the 2012 One Thing Conference in Kansas City. The second time was different. I had invited a friend and I think I was preoccupied with how she was reacting. But this was the first time I had watched it after meeting Carmen and spending so much time with her. I felt a reeling pain in my stomach.

The last few scenes in the documentary show former prostitutes and victims of trafficking describing how Jesus came to them in a dream and revealed His love to them. Their tears of joy testify to their freedom, and four of them were marrying and starting families within a few months of filming. The reality of the horror contrasted with the greater reality of hope in Jesus, is so stark. He truly sets the captives free. My friend had fallen asleep, so the room was quiet. I picked up my journal and began to write.

The next morning, my friend said she wanted to “practice hearing God’s voice.” She does this often and waits till an image comes to mind. This time, she said she saw me writing pages and pages. I smiled because this was already one of the few times in my life I felt a strong conviction I needed to write, and God used my friend to confirm that.

So, that’s where I’m at. Your prayers are coveted as I write and listen.

A major way you can pray for me is joy. I asked God for joy during the conference, and several people who didn’t know me prayed that for me. Since then I have been asking God to teach me about joy, and He has. I see the connection that when delving into a mission field so dark and very easily draining, I absolutely need the joy of the LORD YHWH to be my strength. I desperately need His joy as I tell this story, and as I rejoice in the salvation He offers freely to me, and the women in bondage to the lies of the evil one. This strange paradox of pain and joy inexpressible is only possible through the Spirit living in me.”

Elsewhere, I wrote,

“I don't know when or how yet, or exactly what, but I do want to go back. I imagine it will start with a consulting project for a safe house I am in contact with, and expand to a business idea that could provide sustainable employment for several more safe houses in the future. I don’t know what business or product that will be, or whether I will need to raise support or just jump right into a profit-earning venture from the very beginning. I’m not sure which organization I would go with officially, either. Right now I am just in rest/listening/preparation mode. And I don’t know how long this time will last.

Pray I would take up spiritual authority to tear down strongholds and "loose the bonds of wickedness" as I return to the Dominican Republic to join the fight against the evil that is the sex trade. Pray for divine discernment as I search for the right product for the rescued women to make, so the business model will be repeatable in other cities, and will be able to employ hundreds of other women in the years to come! Pray for godly passion as I share this vision with the Dominican church, which God has equipped to take the message of His hope and deliverance to the darkest parts of their society! Pray for the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into His harvest! Especially Dominican leaders, who will take the torch and run long and hard with it, until Christ's name is proclaimed to every women and child caught in prostitution on the island.”

Chapter 18: Certain Love and Uncertain Goodbyes

Over the next few days, I felt exhausted, and overwhelmed with grief. After years of hearing about girls like Carmen, I had actually met her. The “problem” I had read about, watched documentaries about, prayed about, and heard testimonies about, had taken shape in a real fourteen year-old girl, right in front of me.

I had spent countless hours talking, walking, eating, and praying with her. I knew how the story should end, how I wanted it to end, how she had come to me saying she wanted it to end. When it didn't happen that way, it felt like the end. I was leaving, and Carmen was still on the streets.

But as my departure neared, God began to heal the pain of disappointment in my heart, and assure me that love is always worth it, even when we can’t see the outcome. He also reminded me that just because it was the end of my year in the Dominican Republic, did not mean it was the end of His work in Carmen.

“He is the source, not Abigail” I would tell Carmen from time to time. Now, God was showing that to me.

On December 17^th, I brough Carmen and Andre breakfast one more time, in their tiny, lowered-roof, one-bedroom apartment without a bathroom or kitchen. I prayed one last time and hugged them goodbye.

“For 70 pesos,” I told her, “You know you can hop on a bus and get to the safe house, and you will be welcomed with open arms, right?”

“Right.”

“You know it’s before the only light in town, on the left side, right?”

“Right.”

“OK. Well, I don’t know if I’m coming back. But, I love you no matter what, and God loves you no matter what. I will always be praying for you.”

As I walked back to my apartment, my bags all packed for my departure for the United States, my heart was full of joy, just to have known them, in spite of all the tears I had shed. I hoped against hope, and felt deep inside, that Carmen and Ale would yet see the light, and escape the shadows.

I also felt sure that it wasn't my story, it was God’s story. I didn't control any of the twists and turns, I just got the chance to watch God be her Hero again and again, saving the day and wooing her to Him in spite of all her wanderings. Just like He does with me. 

An hour before my flight, outside of a duty-free shop in the Santo Domingo airport’s corridors, I said goodbye to the vice president of the ministry I worked for. Alexandra was a lovely, humble woman and a strong leader. We had shared some good conversations, but she was never my closest friend. Yet, for some reason, something inside of me broke. My throat started to close and my eyes started to water. It was my last goodbye, to a place full of people I had learned to love, on my knees and on my feet, through smiles and pain, questions and tears.

I swallowed my tears because I couldn't explain what I felt. Alex just hugged me briefly, looked at me and said, 

“You’ll come back.”

Then, we parted ways. 

I didn't tell anyone. I wanted to go back but I didn't want it to be my idea. I wanted it to be God’s idea, a quiet knowing birthed, not organized, into me—through the Holy Spirit. 

I remember when I left Spain, how I cried so hard on the bus and the plane, that I had to ask the flight attendant for some Tylenol to treat my self-induced headache. I felt I had to come back. But my friend Loida, who got up before dawn to say farewell, had told me that I wasn't coming back, not to Spain--that God had work for me elsewhere, and He would give me strength. When I had tried to go back to teach English in Spain, I couldn't get a visa--and then I got accepted to go to the Dominican Republic instead. 

I had tried not to hold on too tightly to anything after that, except to God. Yet, somehow, the Dominican people had knocked down my walls, and found their way into my heart.

Although happy to be home, I also felt spiritually exhausted, and couldn't see clearly which way I should go. To avoid doing nothing, I started applying for jobs at home.

I felt uncertain of everything, except of God.  I knew that every step of my life was ordered by God. If He wanted me back, and those weren't just Alexandra’s words, He would show me the way, and open the doors. If not, He would find another way to teach me to love and receive love, and another way go after Carmen and Andre’s hearts…

Para su gloria! 

Chapter 17: November 25th

I’ll never forget how I felt that morning.

I knocked on the door, but no one answered.

Surely they haven’t left the house already, I told myself.

I just kept knocking.

Finally, I heard a voice,

“¿Quién es?” Who is it?

“Abby”, I answered. “Is Carmen ready?”

Andre answered, “No, she’s not here.”

I paused to catch my breath.

“¿Qué?” What? Surely I had heard wrong.

“No está aquí.” She’s not here. She went to her mom’s house, Andre explained.

I couldn’t believe it. Whose house? Her mom’s house? The one who abandoned her to work in the streets?

Andre opened the door to stand in the hallway and talk with me.

"Yes, she’s at her mom’s house, since 6 in the morning," he said.

"Doesn’t she remember that today is the day she said she would move in?" I asked.

"I don’t know," Andre said. "She just said she had to talk with her mom, and left early."

I slumped down to the floor.

"What are you doing?"Andre asked.

"I don’t know. I’m waiting," I said.

I opened my Bible to catch the tears that were brimming in my eyes. They weren’t ready to fall yet, though. I was still fighting, still holding onto hope. I began to intercede. 

God, turn this around somehow. I don’t understand why she would go to her mother at a moment like this. Her mother who doesn’t love her. Those aren’t my words, those are Andre’s words. I might as well be her mother for all that I love her, even if I have shown it in imperfectly, oh God. Even my flawed love is better than the love of a mother who turns out her own child, knowing she will sell herself just to survive. What does Carmen’s mother have to do with whether or not she moves into the safe house, God? Why should she care what her mother says?

There in the hallway, slumped against the wall, I prayed for wisdom. I prayed for hope. I prayed for the situation to somehow not be as bad as it seemed, for fear my heart would break in two.

Twenty minutes later, Andre peeked through the door again.

"You’re still here?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, my Bible open on my lap. "I’m still here."

He stared at me for a few seconds.

"Abby, Carmen is here," he said.

"What?" I asked. "Here, as in where?"

"Here. Here in the apartment, in bed, hiding."

"Andre, really?"

"Yes."

I didn’t have the heart to ask him why he had lied to me. I just asked if I could come in. He said yes.

Carmen was laying on the bed, at the end of the room where you had to crouch down because the ceiling was too low.

I asked her if she still wanted to move in that day.

"No."

No, she didn’t want to. Not today.

I sat down on the floor next to Carmen’s bed, and began to cry. I didn’t mean to manipulate Carmen, but at the same time, I hoped my sincere tears would help her catch the tiniest glimpse of her value as a human being. I sat there and prayed for her, silently.

Suddenly, Carmen started to sing a popular bachata song with some really lustful lyrics. The song is really catchy and was always playing in the streets, but I really disliked it because it has such a wrong message. I really felt that happened at that moment for a reason, for me to know what to intercede for. I felt the curtain had been taken off to show me what kind of spiritual warfare I was dealing with.

I wrote later, “I don't want to paint Carmen as some kind of promiscuous woman because she really is just a child—but she has been accustomed to being consumed in this way, and has maybe even attached some kind of personal value to that. You can't expect a child who has been abandoned to know what true love really looks like. Please pray for God's true love to break through all misconceptions of love and for His power to break every chain! Jesus' blood speaks a better word over Carmen!”

“Why don’t you want to move in today?” I asked her.

"I’m sick," she said.

It was true. So was Andre. They both had bronchitis and a slight fever.

That day, instead of taking a bus to Juan Dolio, we trekked around the Colonial Zone to the free clinic, back to my house to get some cash, and then to at least four different pharmacies, in search of the prescribed antibiotic.

On the way back, I told Carmen she could change her mind if she wanted to, but,

“I don’t want you to have to reach a new low to want to escape this again. You finally made the decision because you lost your baby—because that was the most pain you had ever experienced. I saw you in that pain, reaching for hope. Now the pain has numbed a bit, and instead of reaching for hope, you’d rather stay in the same situation, where the same thing, and worse things, can happen all over again. Carmen, I don’t want to see you reach another low again, before you choose hope.”

I asked Carmen if she didn't want to move because of her mother. She told me that, yes, she was anxious about her mom finding out later through children’s' services that she was in the safe house, and would rather tell her herself. This presented a difficulty because she couldn't even describe where her mom lives or how to get there, and she didn't have a cell phone number.

I told Carmen, 

"Look, your mom abandoned you and I respect your attempts to respect her and communicate with her, but when someone who is your family doesn't care for you, and you are blessed enough to have God put other people in your life who do, we are more your family to you than she is.

I didn't know how much she understood. My words were difficult for her to hear and I could tell she was processing them, but was also very wounded and just plain exhausted after walking around the city in the harsh sunlight, with a slight fever.

Over lunch, I prayed for her and Andre to be healed. I told them to drink a lot of water and rest, and that I would check on them later.

That night, after collapsing in tears at my mentor’s house, I wrote,

“We prayed a lot today and I really want to see God coming through, but this is not my decision and it has to come from Carmen. She has to really want it, and tell me that. That's what I have told her the whole time. I cannot control or pressure her but I do love her and it's hard to see her wavering back and forth. Only the Holy Spirit can draw her, so please pray for Him to work. I know He has been, but today was just a hard day.”

Erica wrote back,

I know it seems frustrating not to bring her right into the house....but these are EXACTLY the kinds of lessons that need to be experienced as walk "on the way" in God's timing. Continuing to pray for the details and the ministry you have in her life "for such a time as this."

Don't get discouraged. Many times we see the decisions of the girls/women as reflection of our doing - it's not. They each have to choose their path...we can only encourage & LIVE IT OUT before them!!! Thanks for living it out in front of Carmen. She may need more time...but we all grieve knowing TODAY is always the best time. 

I have learned that many of the girls want "change." But they don't necessarily want Christ. I am praying for Carmen to be drawn by the Spirit and choose Christ --- not Lily House, not the Christians, not a safe house, not pretty jewelry making......but that she understands her basic, most terrifying need is the forgiveness & love of the Son of God. 

Chapter 16: Against All Odds

The next time Erica wrote me, on November 22^nd, I couldn't hold back my joy:

“Abby....looks like the door was prayed open at Lily House. My government contact says we can "intervene" but Carmen needs to know that the Dominican Social Services will be doing an investigation. They will come by to meet her, get her mother's info. and try to help her find her papers so she can start school...

We will begin pouring the Word and our lives into her life as soon as she arrives. She can move in Tuesday morning. If you can tell her to be here as close to 9 am as possible. Thanks!! Praise in seeing God work. The authorities could have easily said "no." They have before.

Erica”

That morning, I had read Psalm 140. Verse 12 says, "I know that YHWH will maintain the cause of the afflicted, and justice for the poor." --Psalm 140:12. That's exactly what God had done, in causing the Dominican Social Services to waive the requirement of finding her birth certificate as a condition for moving. It had seemed such a difficult task...but nothing is too difficult for God! Tears of joy streamed down my face as I thanked Him. 

That night, I went searching for Carmen to share the news. But I didn't find her at home, or in any of her usual spots. I knew if I got up early enough the next morning, I would find her in her tiny apartment room sleeping. Before bed, I wrote back to Erica:

Wow, thank you so much for the news Erica. Thank you so much JESUS! …I will tell her tomorrow morning if I can find her! I looked for her tonight after work but did not find her. God bless you!!!

The next morning, I practically ran to Carmen’s house to bring her and Andre breakfast. I couldn't contain my joy.

To my surprise, when I told Carmen that she had permission to move in without the birth certificate,  all she said was,

“OK.”

She didn't seem nearly as excited as me. But when I asked her if Tuesday would work as a good day to move in, she said it would.

Yet, in spite of my joy, I began to pray that Carmen wouldn't change her mind. She had said it was a beautiful place, and when we visited I thought I saw hope glimmering in her tired eyes. But I knew that the safe house would be a culture shock for her at first—and the decision to go, or stay after arriving, had to come from her heart. Still, I had prayed for so long, had turned over so many leaves, had gotten so excited about everything…and I didn't want things to turn out any differently than I so desperately hoped they would.

November 25^th, 2013 was destined to be a historical day.

The night before, drunk with anticipation, I wrote to Erica: “See you in the morning Lord willing! Please continue to be in prayer! Thank you for accompanying us in this process and presenting such a welcoming attitude to Carmen!”

I wrote another email to my friends and family who knew of the case:

Please intercede for Carmen's move tomorrow. Lord willing, after many tears and prayers, we are boarding a bus at 8 AM and heading off to the Lily House, a new home where Carmen can take Jesus' offer at a new and abundant life. I am so thankful for the opportunity God has given me to get to know Carmen, and see His mighty hand working to deliver her. What is impossible for humans is possible with God!

I covet your prayers, especially today, but in the future as well. Please stop what you are doing if possible, and pray through this list for 5 minutes. I can't thank you enough.

-Pray for firmness in her decision and desire to change, and no wavering or desires for the old life

-Pray for every chain to be broken and every wound to be healed

-Pray for hope and not despair

-Pray for the Spirit of Adoption and for Carmen to feel the pleasure of the Father welcoming back His prodigal daughter with open arms and love

-Pray for discernment and compassion for the staff as they begin to get her in school and counseling

-Pray for friendships to be formed with the other women at the lily house, as Carmen will be leaving friends behind in Santo Domingo

-Pray for her 14 year-old childhood friend, Andre, who has accompanied her as she lost the baby and couldn't pay rent for several weeks, who may feel he is losing a friend

-Pray for child sponsorship so Andre can go to school as well...

Thank you my dear brothers and sisters!!!!

I got up early to prepare breakfast for Carmen, Andre, and me. I packed enough money for my bus fare to and from Juan Dolio, and Carmen’s fare there. Finally, I packed my Bible.

At 7:15AM, I stood outside of Carmen and Andre’s door and knocked. 

Chapter 15: The Battle Intensifies

For the next few days, I prayed and thought constantly about two things:

The first thing I prayed is that I wouldn’t see Carmen working on the malecón again. On November 20^th, when I went on a run, she wasn’t there. I breathed a sigh of relief and took the long way home around 8pm, to check to see if she was in her apartment—but she wasn’t.

It was hard to imagine why else Carmen wouldn’t be home at that time of night. But she’s used to being out at night. She’s not afraid of the dark, I reminded myself. It didn’t necessarily mean she had gone back to working the streets. I prayed it didn’t mean that, and that she would be safe.

I wasn’t afraid of the dark either, but I knew it was getting too late to be out alone, even if all I had on me were my running clothes and house keys.

The second thing I prayed is that the Dominican government would find Carmen’s birth certificate. It seemed ludicrous that one piece of paper could open or close the door to freedom for a child fighting every day just to survive, physically and emotionally.

Earlier that day, I called the government official again to ask about the birth certificate. I wrote in my journal, “She said it could be tomorrow or a few more days (if they do find it), but she had called the people in San Juan today to check up on them. God is faithful!”

The next day, November 21^st, I called again.

They didn’t find it.

I couldn’t believe it.

“Did you check the day before? The day after? Other spellings of her name?”

“Yes,” the voice on the other end of the line answered. Yes, she had checked within 120 days of the date I had given her. It was possible the year or name were wrong, but they said they couldn’t check beyond what they already had.

Disheartened, I wrote to Erica, the safe house director:

“ They said the next step would have to be finding the mom, and asking her to declare Carmen. But in order to do that she would have to have papers from the hospital where she was born.

“What do you think?”

She wrote back right away:

“Oh Abby....this is tough one. I will LEGALLY have to ask Conani [Dominican Social Services] what to do. It's possible they will say no. Let me see if the Director is in tomorrow morning and I will let you know. It could take her a year to get things in order with all the mishaps in papers & government offices, etc. HOWEVER, she should go ahead and contact her mother and see if her mother has a birth certificate, knows the hospital and can get started getting papers from the hospital where she was born. ON OUR KNEES!!!!! Erica”

But, Carmen had already said she didn’t know the hospital she was born at, and that she wasn’t on good terms with her mother.

I did the only thing I knew how to do in moments of crisis—pray, and ask others to pray.

My mentor Viola typed a faith-filled, battle-cry prayer back to me:

“Thank You Lord for Your divine delay! We know that Your pans for Carmen are to prosper her and not bring harm to give her a hope and a future. We thank You for supernatural and uncommon favor, for creativity and ingenuity, for the release of the heavenly key that unlocks the door Carmen walk through…We speak to the mountain labeled birth certificate and demand you to move now in Jesus Name…Thank You that the power that raised Jesus is working for Carmen now to set the captive free in Jesus’ Name, amen. Thank You for revealing the one to whom You've giving authority in the natural to bring Your perfect will to pass. It is finished in Jesus’ Name, amen. For nothing and no one can thwart Your plan, God.”

While I interceded for Carmen, I listened to “Hold On” by Will Reagan and Brandon Hampton:

See you women and children
have been bounded to prostitution
You longing for Freedom
To be your only solution

But if they looked behind your eyes
And know that you have been deceived
How could they be so naive
To see that you not grieve?

But God sees to the heart
He sees all your pain
If you call on His name
He could take it all away

So put your hope and trust in
Every just thing that the Father
Has promised to do justly Trust me
He's coming to release you from captivity

…It won’t be long now, so just hold on now!

The next day, I met Carmen and Andre this morning for breakfast to give them the news and pray with them.

After I greeted them and handed over the homemade breakfast I had prepared, I remember hunching down under the low ceiling in Carmen’s bedroom and sighing.

“They didn’t find it.” I broke the news to her softly, not betraying how angry and desperate I felt.

I waited for a reaction, but there was none. Carmen was just quiet.

I told her Erica was meeting with Conani that day to see if they would make an exception for her and let her move without the birth certificate.

She nodded.

As we finished our breakfast, I got out my Bible and opened it to Psalm 70 and 71.

Make haste, O God, to deliver me!
Make haste to help me, O Lord YHWH!

Tears came to my eyes, and the words became a prayer as I read them aloud.

Deliver me in Your righteousness, and cause me to escape;

Incline Your ear to me, and save me.
Be my strong refuge…

By You I have been upheld from birth;
You are He who took me out of my mother’s womb.
My praise shall be continually of You.

A birth certificate couldn’t stop the plan of the God who has upheld her since birth.

“God is our refuge and our help! We will keep trusting in Him!” I said, as I got up to leave, hoping against hope that we would soon see the “substance of things hoped for”, and a way for Carmen to rest and heal.

Chapter 14: Don't Fall Back!

The last time I had stopped by her apartment after work, I had told Carmen I would be taking a day off. Things had gotten a lot lighter at the office, and I wanted to take some time off to recuperate from all my overtime hours.

Carmen didn’t seem to understand how I could take a day off if I needed it. I explained it was only because the tight deadlines had passed. Before, I had been taking work home for weeks, laboring on Excel spreadsheets at the kitchen table until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, though, it seemed like she thought I wasn’t telling her the truth about who I was, and what in the world I was doing. I knew suspicion was a survival skill that could help keep a child like her alive on these streets, but it felt like a wall I kept colliding with, no matter how I tried to earn her trust.

I told Carmen I would come by the next morning and give her an update about the search for her birth certificate. But since I didn’t hear from anyone  the next day until around 11am, it was nearly lunch time when I walked to her apartment.

She had already left, the shirtless neighbor told me, as I stared at the padlock on her door. She was one of several tenants in a “hotel” where she paid a daily rate of $3.75 a day to live in a cramped, dark 2^nd floor room with only a tiny window to let in some air from the street below. The ceiling was so low in most of the room, that I had to bend low at the waist or crawl on hands and knees just to get in.

But not today, because no one was there.

On the way back to my own apartment, I stopped to see Andre's stepdad, Virgilio, who is a security guard at a famous building about halfway between her apartment and mind. The building was just at the junction of the nice neighborhoods and the more difficult ones, but the little stock yard Virgilio guarded was paved with mud and frequented by street dogs. Andre’s dad slept inside one of the old houses used to store props and old supplies, on an old mattress. Once, I had seen smoke arising from the side of the house, which was overgrown with weeds. Andre told me that he would build a fire there to cook whatever food he could buy with his earnings from polishing shoes and selling limoncillos, or a small fruit, to tourists visiting the nearby Palacio Nacional, or the Dominican equivalent to the White House.  

I slid open the heavy iron door. By now Virgilio, his friend Richard, and even the dogs knew me. Stepping between puddles and thanking him for the chair he always offered me, I asked if he had seen Carmen today. She would often come by the stock yard during the day, to escape the heat of the apartment, and spend time with her friend Andre.

Virgilio said he hadn’t seen Carmen that day, but that Andre would be back any moment.

I told him to tell Andre I would bring him lunch—a casserole I had made the night before.

But by the time I packed the lunch and returned to the stockyard, Andre had already left. On a whim, I decided to check the malecón for Carmen. I went to her usual spot on the boardwalk, this time taking public transportation instead of jogging, since it was the hot part of the afternoon. I didn’t want to see her there, but I figured I would enjoy the sunshine on the waves and the lull before the rush hour traffic either way.

She was there. I think we were both surprised and a bit dismayed to see each other. But I just smiled and sat down anyway.

We ate the lunch I had packed. I could tell she didn’t relish my roasted vegetable cheese casserole as much  as I did. But it was food, so she ate it, with a bit of reluctance.

As we finished, I said, gently but without reluctance,

“If you decided to "dejar esto" or leave this life like you told me, what happened today?”

She confessed that she had a debt of 1100 pesos of rent to pay in the apartment and she was going to get kicked out if she didn't pay that day.

“But, I haven’t seen any "clientes" today because I keep telling them I won’t do what they’re asking for, because I’m "recien parida"—I just gave birth.”

“Well, that’s good,” I conceded. You have to give yourself some rest.”

She confessed she was still worn out from the labor, now about two weeks ago.

She agreed to walk back with me.

I said, “Let’s ask God to provide for your rent.”

“I did. I asked him this morning,” she said.

We talked about how God answers prayer, how He is merciful, and how He is faithful even when we are unfaithful. But how she never needs to go back to prostitution when she needs something, because her Father will take care of her.

Although I almost never carry more than 300 pesos with me anywhere on the streets, I had exactly 1100 pesos (about $27) and some change in my pocket. I’ve learned not to question the nudge to generosity in certain moments, although I had previously decided not to make our relationship based on money. But this seemed like a desperate situation, and I felt peace from God about giving. 

“Carmen,” I began. “I think God is providing for you by sending me here to find you today, with exactly the money you need. I don’t imagine this will happen again, but I feel this is a special situation and God wants to show you His special provision today. If I pay this it's so that you can have a place to stay while we wait for things to work out for you to move as you asked, but don't go back to prostitution, ok? God will always provide a way out.”

“Si.”

I didn’t feel like a hypocrite saying God would provide a way out, because I was proving it to her this time. I wouldn’t always be the one to prove it to her, but that’s because provision comes from God, not from any human. I tried to explain it a bit without complicating things too much.

As we walked up one of the side streets through a nicer neighborhood, we passed a white SUV.

“That’s him. That guy hasn’t left me alone all day,” Carmen said. “I told him I wouldn’t do what he wanted, but he wouldn’t give up. He just kept coming back and pressuring me.”

I looked into the bright, new vehicle and wondered what kind of job and family this man had. I wondered who else rode with him that car. I wondered what kind of double life he lived. I wondered what kind of perversion would make him persist in harassing a 14 year-old girl who had just given birth.

“I really don’t want to go back to this life,” Carmen said. “I am really looking forward to going to school.” It was something she mentioned all the time those days. She would always say,

“It seems like the Lily House is such a beautiful place.” I held onto her words. I couldn’t think about the SUVs and the return to the malecón.

“We have to hope in God,” I told Carmen.

I just wanted her to be at Lily House, but we still didn’t have the birth certificate.

We prayed together for good news—and for strength and healing in the meantime. 

Chapter 13: A Glimpse of the Dream

In a bold move of faith, we scheduled a visit to the safe house before hearing back from the government agencies about Carmen’s birth certificate.

Carmen told me she didn’t want to visit—why not move in right away?

“I want you to see it, think about it, and make your own decision,” I explained. “No one is making any decision for you. So, take your time.”

I arrived at Carmen’s apartment at 7AM. She was wearing the sparkly floral shirt I had decided was just youthful and innocent enough for a teenager, but too much so for me. She wore it with pride, along with some matching teal leggings.

We got on the 8AM bus. 80 pesos ($2) and 45 minutes later, I asked the driver to let us off in the small beach town of Juan Dolió, and walked to the sign that read “Plaza Leche y Miel”, which translates, Milk and Honey Plaza.

After traversing the long gravel path up to a two-story building that looked like a small school, brightly colored in typical Dominican fashion, I asked a young woman for “Erica”.

“O, si. Dame un segundo.” I could barely wait to meet the woman who was fighting this battle with me from afar, the one who was meeting with Children’s Services, who was prepared to open her arms and receive Carmen into the safe house she helped run.

Erica had set up three chairs in the threadbare grass under a large almond tree in the backyard.

She looked Carmen in the eyes and smiled.

What ensued was a description of the rules and inner workings of Lily House—the good and the bad—along with Erica’s sincere assurance that they would do their best to love her, and teach her about God’s love and healing. The whole time she spoke, Erica held a big Bible in her hands.

“Because you are 14, you will be put in school. You will get to learn a trade in the afternoon as well if you would like, but the main focus will be school. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes! I want to go to school!” Carmen answered.

“OK, perfect! Now, all I ask of you…” Erica paused for emphasis.

Everything that came out of Erica’s mouth was said in a firm but loving and soft tone that inspired confidence instead of mistrust or fear. The grace of God was all about her.

“All I ask,” Erica continued, “Is that you tell us the truth. We need correct information in order to make this work for both of us. We will tell you the truth, and we ask you to do the same with us. Can you do that?”

“Yes,”  Carmen answered.

I sighed with relief inwardly, thinking of the times she had been lied to and the lies I knew she had told me, but hoping her verbal commitment to truth would be one of the first steps to healing.

“Today is your opportunity to see things for yourself, and decide if the Lily House is a place you want to be,”  Erica explained.

“Oh, it is,” Carmen interjected.

“Take your time,” Erica cautioned. “Of course, we want you here! But only if you want to be here. Part of making wise decisions for your life means taking time and thinking about things. I want you to think about it for at least 2 days before you make a final decision, ok? But first, have a look around!”

Before we began our tour, Erica found some women cleaning the bathroom.

“Today is cleaning day, and everyone pitches in,” she explained. “Ladies, would you mind introducing yourselves to Carmen, and telling her the absolute best and worst parts of being a part of The Lily House?”

The women laughed.

They were. They honestly said they enjoyed living and working there.

“Sometimes it’s hard to not leave the premises unaccompanied for the first few weeks, for example. But if you can stand the difficulty in the beginning, it is more than worth it.”

Erica had explained that while no one was forced to stay, they weren’t allowed to come and go without notice, either. If they wanted to stay, they would need to stay on Lily House’s terms, which were just meant to preserve structure and provide protection and true healing. But if at any point a woman wanted to go, she was free to go.

After touring the living quarters, the daycare, the dining room, the salon, the coffee shop, the sewing center, and the jewelry making room, Carmen could only say,

“It’s beautiful here. I love it.”

But her favorite part was definitely the jewelry-making.

Before we could leave, Carmen wanted to get her hair done at the salon. I decided to treat her. She unpinned her thin, short hair from its tiny knot at the nape of her neck. What happened next reminded me why Dominican salons populate the streets of New York city thousands of miles away.

“You look beautiful!” everyone told her. It was true. Carmen has an effortless beauty, hair fixed or not.

As we walked to the bus stop in town, holding plastic bags over our heads, the driving rain threatened to undo the style, but I knew it was worth every peso.

We shared earphones again on the bus ride back. I played songs of hope and praise in Spanish, as we both stared out the window at the rain. It was the quietest I had ever been around Carmen—so careful not to try to influence her against her will, and yet so desperate that she make the right decision. I prayed silently for God to bring it to pass, all the while wondering why it took so much longer to get back than it had to get there.

Finally we made it back home. It was tough to leave Carmen in her filthy apartment again, after having caught a glimpse of the dream, and hearing from Carmen’s own lips that it was “a beautiful place.”

I prayed every day after that—for the birth certificate, but most of all for Carmen.

God, please keep her steadfast. Don’t let the hope that’s been born in her die.