Chapter 10: A Way Out

The next few weeks were busy at work, and I barely had time to run. But I could not stop thinking about Carmen.

One day, I did run.  Carmen wasn’t at her normal spot on the low concrete wall on the malecón. But I remembered she had once crossed the street with me, to pick up something she had left with the parking lot attendants at the restaurant across the street. I crossed the street, walked through the dark parking lot, and found the guys she knew.

“Have you seen Carmen?” I asked.

“Who’s that?” they seemed confused. 

“Berenice?” I asked, hoping her nickname would ring a bell. “The morenita, the dark-skinned young girl who comes here sometimes to save her money or a change of clothes?”

“Oh, yeah! No, we haven’t seen her for several days.”

“That’s good. She’s so young. I hope she gets off the streets.” I answered.

“¡Eso se lo decimos nosotros! That’s what we always tell her!”  they answered. It comforted me to see someone else vouch for her, especially when the someones were Dominican men. Their answer was in stark contrast to that of the policemen I had met a few weeks ago. They seemed to genuinely care for Carmen’s well-being.

I went home that night relieved that I had not found Carmen “working”, but disappointed as I realized I didn’t know how to get in touch with her.

That Sunday, I had a sense of urgency. It had been almost two weeks since I had last seen her, but it felt like even longer. I decided to spend some time in my bedroom just praying for Carmen.

As I prayed, I knew I had to enlist the help of others. Even if Carmen wasn’t ready, I wanted to be ready when she was. I had already visited one safe house, in San Pedro. But the director had told me they couldn’t take minors. So I contacted an orphanage in Jarabacoa. I told them how we had met, and wrote,

Carmen is pregnant and due for a C-section on December 2^nd, less than a month from now. I haven't seen her now for about 2 weeks. When I went running recently I was told by a friend that she hadn't been out for a few days in her usual place. But during my last conversation with Carmen, she told me that if she knew where else she could go, she would—even if that meant moving to another city like San Pedro or Jarabacoa. 

That admission of her own brokenness and willingness to seek help was a direct answer to prayer. She is tired of being on the streets. Her dad is in Puerto Rico and hasn't sent a penny to support her mom or her family in years. She can't go back to live with her mom right now, who she says has abandoned her. Unfortunately, I do not have a way to contact her. However, I do know several people that she knows and may be able to track her down. She does have my cell phone number, but she does not own a cell phone. 

But I feel that God is going to allow us to see each other again. When I do see her again, I would love to be able to tell her, look, this ministry in Jarabacoa has a place for you. Or this other ministry in San Pedro has a place for you. Let's go there now. I know you probably don't take babies but maybe you could find a place for Carmen's baby to be raised until she has gone through a healing process. Or maybe you could make an exception. In any case, I feel this is a turning point and a bit of an emergency. I know God has compassion on her and His promises are not empty. I believe He is providing a way out for her whether I get to see it or not, but I would love to be a witness to His faithfulness in that way. Please contact me as soon as possible. God bless you and your ministry.

When I didn’t hear back immediately, I copied down the cell phone number listed on the ministry’s Facebook page anyway, and saved it in my phone just in case I should ever need quick access to it. Looking back, this doesn’t really make sense, since I never had my phone with me when I was running—and I never saw Carmen except while running.  

An hour later, I left for church. My church’s Sunday services were at 6PM, and were just a 10 minute walk from my house. But although the service often didn’t start until 6:15PM, I still struggled to be on time. My quick steps contrasted with the leisurely stroll of most Dominicans on this quiet Sunday evening.

“Abby!” I heard a voice calling my name. There, right in front of me, were André and Carmen.

I stopped. I had never seen them in my neighborhood before! I could barely believe my eyes. Talk about a quick answer to my prayers for her all day!

“I’ve been missing you so much!” I blurted out.

“I missed you, too,” Carmen said, returning my hug. She seemed sad. I noticed she seemed a lot smaller—but there was no baby.

“How is the pregnancy? Is everything ok?”

“I gave birth,” Carmen answered.

“Oh, great!” I answered, sensing there was more to the story, but not wanting to rush the details. 

“What’s her name? How is she?”

Then Carmen explained that she had given birth on her own, in her apartment. I listened, confused and saddened.

The baby started to have trouble breathing, so Carmen took her to the hospital. There, they told her the girl had been born with heart problems. A few hours after her birth on October 31^st, she passed away.

“Oh, Carmen. I’m so sorry.” I could see the grief in Carmen’s eyes. It didn’t seem like the right time to ask, but I ventured,

“I’m going to church now. Do you want to come with me? And we can keep talking afterwards?” To my surprise, Carmen answered,

“Yes. Yes, I’ll go.” André told us he would wait for us outside. Later, he would tell me he didn’t want to go inside with his old, dirty clothes. I felt terrible. But that day, he didn’t explain. He just waited til the service was over.

Afterwards, I introduced Carmen to everyone I could. I wanted them to meet her, see her with Jesus’ eyes, and love her.

But Carmen stopped me and asked,

“When can I find out more about the job you mentioned? I really want to get off the streets. I've just been staying at home for the past ten days, recovering from the delivery. But I don't want to go back to the streets, even when I feel well again”

Excited, I explained how I had just saved the number in my phone, and I would call right away.

Wow, God, I thought, savoring for a moment the fact that God had just led me to save the number a few hours ago. I had never seen Carmen in this area of town. She had never gone so far as to ask me to contact anyone about the opportunities I sometimes mentioned. Surely the tide was turning.

Later that night, I would write to Lidy,

“She’s ready now, Lidy. Ready to find another opportunity; a way out. She herself tells me this. I don’t have to ask her anymore.”

I already knew the safe-house I had visited in San Pedro couldn’t take minors. The lady on the phone told me the orphanage in Jarabacoa could only take pre-adolescent minors. But there was one more possibility. Perhaps the people in these ministries could connect me to someone else.

I dialed the number to the orphanage, hoping someone would pick up.

I waited.

“¿Aló?

I sighed with relief. Over the next ten minutes, I explained the situation to the missionary on the other end, Joy. Carmen and I were sitting on the steps at the front entrance to the church parking lot, also known as home for many elderly and disabled people formerly left alone in the streets. The church had erected a metal roof over part of the lot, and mattresses on hinges popped down from the walls when it was empty, becoming beds for the ten or eleven people who lived there.

Joy told me she would check to see if they could find a place for Carmen, and what the legal procedure would be.

I asked her if she would like to visit a safe house that weekend, with me. She could see how things were, and then go home and think about it, until she was ready to make a decision. Whatever happened would be her decision, I assured her.

Unfortunately, she would also have to get her mother’s permission, who she hadn’t seen in four months. I prayed it would be given freely, without holding back. I asked Carmen and André if they thought she would give the consent without any problems. André seemed to think she would.

“Carmen’s mom doesn’t care about her”, André said bluntly. He didn’t give any guarantees about whether she would give the consent. He just repeated, “She doesn’t care about Carmen.”

It seemed like a small obstacle, compared to everything I had seen God do already. I began to pray right away, not wanting to lose any time in seeing Carmen step into physical and spiritual freedom.

Before Carmen, André, and I parted ways that night, we agreed to meet on Wednesday to eat dinner in the colonial zone, share whatever news I had heard about the safe house, and possibly plan our visit.

That night, instead of solving financial analysis projects in Microsoft Excel in my sleep, all I could think about was what God was doing in Carmen. I grieved for the loss of her precious daughter, but I rejoiced at her new resolve to change and hope. I prayed that a safe house would be blessed to expand and make a way for more at-risk youth of Carmen’s age.

As I prayed over the next couple of days, God showed me a promise in His Word:

“For the oppression of the poor, for the sighing of the needy,
Now I will arise,” says the Lord;
“I will set him in the safety for which he yearns.”
Psalm 12:5

I couldn’t wait for God to set Carmen in the safe place she yearned for.

Chapter 9: Beginning to Hope

The next time I saw Carmen, I was afraid she wouldn't want to talk to me because I had made a scene while she was "working". I asked her if she was offended.

“Why?” she asked, confused.

“Because of…because of what I said last time,” I ventured. “You motioned for me to keep going, but I stopped anyway to talk to that man who was with you.”

“What? Of course not,” she answered, laughing. Suddenly, it seemed perhaps the very words I thought might have separated us, may have proved to her that she is worth fighting for.

What she told me next, came from a heart torn by pain. Until now, she had never shared any intimate details about her “work” with me, just surface information.

She said that same night I ran away from her with tears streaming down my face, a man picked her up in a car later. He took her to a "cabaña" (pay-by-the-hour motel) far away, used and abused her, and then didn't pay her as agreed.

He just left her there, alone on the other side of town.

"Dios lo pagará por lo que hizo a mi. –God will pay him for what he did to me.” She said she cried many tears that night.

“I don’t think I have ever cried so hard,” she said.

I listened. I couldn’t believe that the night I had cried out to God in so much desperation, had ended like this. Yet, I began to hope that this experience, as horrible as it was, would somehow serve to show her that her heart wasn’t numb yet. She still felt pain. If only that pain could turn to hope!

 “Estoy cansada de esto—I’m tired of being on the streets.” She said the words with disgust, yet they gave me faith that something was shifting. That was the first time I remembered her speaking so bluntly about how she felt about it.

Suddenly, I asked,

“Carmen, were you raped as a child?  Is that why you want to be like Berenice when you grow up—the woman who fights for justice for the abused children?”

“Yes. When I was four years old,” she said.

My heart felt as though something heavy was pressing down on it.

Four years old.

I wept inwardly. Yet, I realized during that conversation that Carmen was finally admitting her brokenness. The wall I often felt when I was talking with her had started to crumble, and she seemed ready for a change.

All along, I had been talking to her about this not being her forever if she didn’t want it to be, about new opportunities for change, about going back to school and getting a different kind of job. I always told her she is made in God's image and has talent, and her past does not define her future.

We would always pray together when we talked, but this time it was Carmen, not me, who asked if we could pray.

Something was definitely shifting. Something I had been praying for since the moment I met Carmen.

The very next day, I wrote to Allison, the director of a safe house in San Pedro, asking about the capacity of their safe house. I wanted to be ready with the details of what she could do next, as soon as she was ready to get out.

 I wrote,

“Carmen told me that if it were a real option to go work and make jewelry and move to San Pedro, she would take it in a heartbeat. She is weary and broken with the life she's in. She's ready to get out.”

I continued, “The other thing is, she lives alone and has to pay rent daily (200 pesos, or about $5). So her goal is to earn 500 pesos every day on the malecon. But she is due to deliver her baby by C-section on December 2, and she has no idea how she's going to make it after that. Her dad lives in Puerto Rico and doesn't send a penny to the family, and her mom earns a very low wage as well.”

Later, I would tell my friend Melissa to pray:

“It seems God is working in her, and bringing her to a breaking point.”

“God is so good,” Melissa answered.

“And He’s breaking my heart also every time I see her, re-centering me in His grace.”

My friend and mentor Viola reminded me that God is my Abba Padre, Daddy God. She said my experience of praying for and loving Carmen was going to rise up as a memorial in my life. On October 28, I wrote in my journal,

May it be the kind of memorial that reminds us how mighty and how loving You are. May Carmen herself be a walking memorial to Your grace and mercy, bringing peace and joy and beauty from the turmoil and pain and despair. Amen!

Chapter 8: Rock Bottom

The next time I went running, I stopped just long enough to tell Carmen I would come back and talk in a half hour.

After a bit of Zumba and the weight circuit at the city’s free outdoor fitness center, my friend Julianna and I ran back together. I could see Carmen from a distance, her arm around a man in his 30s or 40s, with Asian features, becoming more distinct as I approached. Even as I slowed my pace to lower my heart rate, I felt indignation rising up in me. I wanted to scream, but at the same time I had no idea how that would help. I passed slowly, my pain-filled eyes lingering on the pair.

Carmen’s own pain was masked by her youthful, seemingly carefree brown eyes, which made brief contact with mine. They changed their aspect, intensifying just long enough to communicate I wasn’t wanted there. Her hand waved me away. Numbly, I walked a few steps. But then I halted, turning back.

Carmen didn’t want me there, and I knew couldn’t control Carmen.

But I wouldn’t talk to Carmen this time.

Instead, I turned to the man.

“Do you have daughters? Sisters? A wife?” My voice was not raised, just quietly desperate and incredulous. I looked straight into his eyes, which were calm and unshaken.

He said nothing.

“Carmen is my sister,” I continued. “She is just 15 years old.”

“Do you have any daughters?” I repeated.

He answered in a low voice, “Yes, I do.”

“Carmen is someone’s daughter! She is someone’s sister! She is my sister. Can you imagine someone doing something like this to your daughters?”

No answer.

“What you’re doing is unjust before God, and He is a righteous judge. He will bring you to justice if you do not repent. Have mercy, and ask for God’s mercy!”

“It’s not what you think, Abby. This is my friend!” Carmen answered, obviously annoyed. My eyes betrayed my disbelief. 15-year olds don’t make friends with 35 year-old men on the boardwalk by the ocean at 8 o’clock at night, and put an arm around their side. But, maybe I was wrong, maybe he was different. I doubted it, but I felt arguing was useless. My lips drew into a sad smile.

“Well, Carmen, see you soon, I hope.” My lips formed the words slowly, unsure of what else to add. “I love you. God bless you.”

Against everything inside of me, I turned away. My eyes filled with tears as I began to run again.

God!

I wanted to scream.

I ran faster.

God, this is not it! This is not what You have planned for Carmen!

The waves of the ocean seemed to keep pace with the waves of pain washing over me as I ran. There are only a few times I can remember feeling so much indignant, helpless sorrow while interceding for someone. The other time was when my brother had threatened suicide, and I would walk around my college campus, crying in front of everyone. 

I was angry with myself, because this was the second time in a week that I had tried to “defend” Carmen, whether she wanted it or not, and I was afraid that it might not be the best way to do things. I was desperate, but channeling my desperation by speaking up when she hadn’t asked me to, might be working in my own strength and not in the strength of the Lord.

I was angry, too, because she just kept choosing what was killing her. If I was to just “leave the results to God” as Lidisset had advised me, then God and I needed to have a talk!

God, this is not okay. You have to intervene. You have to hedge her around with thorns. You have to open her eyes to what is happening, to how she is slowly dying in this life. Open her eyes to the fact that there is an escape. Arise and show your love, mercy, and justice!

I cried out to God the whole way home. The adrenaline made me run farther and harder than my legs wanted to take me. When I got home, I wrote in my journal,

Jesus, I am not Carmen’s Savior. You are.

I cannot change her.

Only You can.

God forgive me for pride and self-righteousness.

Anoint me with humility and a desperation for and dependence on You.

Don’t let the bridge be burnt. God, I beg You. And send someone else, too, dear God. Send someone to speak God’s love to her. Pour out Your Spirit, the Spirit of adoption, over her, oh my God. May she cry out “Abba Padre”—y la escucharás. You will listen. 

May she know in her heart of hearts that God loves her. That it is the only kind of true love. Hedge her around with thorns, but among those thorns, in the middle, plant beautiful flowers to choose among—doors of hope—opportunities if she is willing to take a risk. And there in the garden, do a DTR—define the relationship. She is Your child and she can’t be bought or sold—she already has been bought by the blood of Jesus. 

Chapter 7: (Un)righteous Rage

The next time I saw Carmen during my run, we sat and talked in the dark. I had considered trying to make it back for the Thursday night church service, but instead I took my time.

This time I had tucked a 100 peso bill in my sock, so I bought us both a bottle of water. We walked back together to the spot where she would always sit and stare at traffic, with her back to the waves crashing on the rocks. It was a bit later than I would normally be out on the malecón, but the tall street lights stationed between the palm trees were shining their light down on us. I reasoned that the only risk was robbery, and I didn’t have anything I would particularly mind losing. My mp3 player was only worth about $15, and easily replaceable. I was more concerned about losing another opportunity to talk and pray with Carmen.

Besides, the malecón was frequented by visitors, Dominicans and foreigners alike. The last group, which included me, was constantly being watched over by Politur, the tourist police. Their exclusive job is to protect foreigners. My boss had even told me a story about how one day there was chaos in the street around Carnaval, but the police didn’t intervene until she felt her own children were in a precarious situation. Immediately, they were there, protecting the white people and their children. But the Dominican children weren’t their within their jurisdiction.

Although I cringed at the partiality, I felt some minor consolation in the fact that men in uniform were patrolling the malecón on their motorcylces as it got darker. But when a pair of them stopped to talk with me and Carmen, I realized Politur’s protection of foreigners and the economic boost they represent for the island, extends even to pedophiles.

“How much did you get from that one guy the other night?” They asked her. I couldn’t believe my ears. I listened to the conversation to a point, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“What did you just ask her? Why does it matter to you? Shouldn’t you, as a police, be standing for justice? Shouldn’t you be protecting the vulnerable? The children? Don’t you have sisters? What would you say if they were surviving this way?”

They looked straight at me the whole time I was talking without flinching. It seemed they were only listening because I was a rubia, a light-skinned blonde foreigner. My rant gave them a good excuse to stare. The whole time, they had these ridiculous grins on their faces. Normally the fact that Dominicans keep smiling no matter what tragedy or poverty they face, is inspiring. But that night, it was maddening.

“You don’t know how it is here,” they answered, still smiling. “Girls this age and younger are already raising families.” They glanced towards Carmen, already nearing full-term at age 15.

“They’re babies.” I retorted. “They’re not ready to raise babies. They’re not ready for this. But this isn’t even about raising children. At no age will they ever be ready for exploitation. That’s not love. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. You can’t buy love.”

I paused. My morality doesn’t matter to them, I reminded myself. Switching gears, I piped up,

“You’re here to protect tourists. But at the expense of your own people? That is not just. God is a God of justice, and He sees this. But besides all that, look at me, I could be a tourist. I’m not, actually—I live here. But I could be. There are plenty of things to see in this country besides prostitution. It’s a beautiful place. Do you want it to be remembered for its natural beauty, or as a place where men can go and break the law and have sex with children? Your country has so much more to offer.”

They laughed.   

“Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you like Dominicans?”

It was as if I had said nothing at all. I was swept over by the reminder that my words are not powerful. I felt frustrated with their attitudes, and regretful that I may have said too much—and yet at the same time, confident that God can change their hearts. But it’s not by might, nor by power, but by God’s Spirit!

Of another city on the island, I would later read that,

In Boca Chica, women said the tourism police regularly fleece them. “They come to you — these are guys that you know and see every day, you know them — and all the sudden they detain you,” said a 24-year-old woman who goes by Orchid. She declined to provide her full name for fear of retribution from police. “And then you have to pay or someone you know has to pay to get you out.” That bribe can cost as much as $25, she said.

Asked about the allegation, the local tourism police supervisor waived his hand and said he couldn’t talk to reporters without the public relations office first clearing it.

Now, though, International Justice Mission is working to develop relationships with key leaders in the Dominican police force. IJM arrived on the island in July 2013, and I couldn’t help but see that as answer to my prayers—and the prayers of many others who long to see God’s kindgdom come and will be done in the Dominican Republic. Praise God!

Change can only come about when the Holy Spirit moves on people’s hearts. And He is moving! 

Please join me in praying for the Dominican Church to commit acts of justice, for a transformation of the legal system, for more men and women like Berenice who will defend the rights of abused children, for fair wages for police officers, and for a culture of justice and protection of the vulnerable.

That night, Carmen let me walk with her back to Parque Independencia, the park near her apartment and mine. Since Andre wasn’t with us, we took the well-lit, Politur-patrolled route along the 5-star hotel side of the malecón.

At every other corner, someone would recognize Carmen. As usual, they shared their opinions, with varying degrees of subtlety, about me being Carmen’s lesbian lover for the night. They just couldn’t seem to imagine any other reason a foreigner would take the time to walk back with Carmen. We told them it wasn’t true, but their comments made my heart ache for Christ’s justice and purity, and for His true love to shine through all the lust, perversion, and darkness. They made me more desperate than ever to show her that Christ’s love is real, and that I wasn’t her friend to get anything out of her, but just to be an expression of the Father’s love. A love I myself desperately need. 

I handed her my mp3 player so she could listen to a song by Tercer Cielo:

Jesús  // Jesus
Tu belleza conquisto mi corazón // Your beauty conquered my heart
En la herida de tus manos encontré mi salvacion,  // In the wound in your hands, I found my salvation
Yo jamás imagine que fuera así // I never, ever imagined it was like this

Demasiado amor, // Too much love
Demasiado amor, // Too much love
Exagerado amor, // Exaggerated love
Exagerado amor, por mi   // Exaggerated love for me

Jesus, I prayed. Give Carmen a glimpse your exaggerated love for her. Conquer her heart with your beauty! Show her the hands that took all this brokenness to give her love, healing, and hope. 

Chapter 6: Dinner at My House

I asked my ex-pat Bible Study to pray for Carmen. I told them how I had waited for her to come to church, but she hadn’t shown up.

Lidisset pointed out,

“She is only thinking of her immediate needs right now. To love her, we have to do more than pray and invite her to church. We have to do something.”

If anyone had taught me anything about life in the Dominican Republic, it was Lidy. It seemed as if she knew everyone, and everything about Santo Domingo. If we ever went walking to a concert or event at night, she would encounter several friends along the way. She wasn’t afraid, but she was street smart—or tigre, in Dominican slang. Besides that, she was a talented artist, a great listener, and a wise soul.

Lidy was usually right, and this was no exception.

“But, don’t give her money,” Lidy said. “It will create a dependency, a sort of hierarchy, a monetized relationship.”

I knew she was right, and I certainly didn’t want to throw money at a problem to fix it for one day. But I needed to show I cared about her physical needs.

Cristen, another development worker in our Bible Study, responded by giving me some pre-natal vitamins for Carmen. It seemed like a good start.

I remember debating before my next run, whether I should take them with me. I didn’t know if I would see her or not, though, and I didn’t have a gym bag.

It turns out, I did see Carmen that day. I asked her if she would walk back to my apartment with me to get the vitamins.

“Yes, but I have to wait for Andre.”

“Who’s Andre?” I asked.

“Andre Luis”.

A few minutes later, a 14 year-old boy joined us on the short concrete wall. He introduced himself with a couple of acrobatic backflips, just for show.

"You're pretty talented," I told him. He smiled shyly. He looked younger than 14. Later, I would describe him to Lidisset as “very short, and with innocent eyes.”

“Not my boyfriend,” Carmen told me. They had been friends since childhood, and knew each other like a brother and sister. 

Andre told me Carmen was 15 years old. I looked at Carmen,

“First you were 17, then 16. How old are you really?” She laughed.

“15.”

“OK.” I said. Just like she lived with her mom, except when it came out that her mom abandoned her over a year ago, and now she lives alone. My disappointment in being lied to was swallowed up by the fact that the truth was worse than the lies. At the same time, I knew that telling the truth meant she was beginning to trust me more.

I asked them both if they would walk back to my house to get the vitamins. They said yes. Any time Carmen walked back with me meant less income for her, but I knew she would still have to pay rent and buy food. I prayed for wisdom on how and when to help. 

While walking, I asked Carmen what she wanted to be when she grows up. I had asked her this before, but she never answered. I wanted to know what dreams, if any, she had for herself. She answered,

"I want to be Berenice."

I have a friend from college named Berenice, but I had never met anyone in the Dominican Republic with that name. I asked Carmen who Berenice was, but it was Andre who ended up answering. He explained that Berenice is a woman who works in the court and gives long prison terms to men convicted of sexually abusing children—because Berenice herself was raped as a child.

Without saying anything, I knew right away that Carmen wanted to be like Berenice, because she, too, was raped as a child.

 “That’s so wrong. That’s so evil. God hates that,” was all I could manage to say. Numbly, I continued, “If you take the chance to study, you can work in the court like Berenice. You can do that, with God’s help. You have so much potential, Carmen.”

Carmen kept walking. She was unusually quiet today. 

The rest of the way, it was mostly Andre and I who talked. He told me he had gone to my church as recently as last year, and he used to eat in the soup kitchen and attend the literacy courses. 

Andre said Pastor Robert’s testimony of how God saved him out of a life of drugs and crime had impacted him. When I told him Robert moved to the U.S. to start a church in New York City, he couldn’t believe it.

I would tell Lidy later, that I wished God would send other men and women with the same calling to our church in the colonial zone, even if they didn’t become the pastor like Robert. The church just needs simple people who are willing to glorify God through their testimonies, and serve as inspiration for others. As John Perkins said, “People need more than your used clothes. They need the family of God in their neighborhood.”

When we made it back to my house, I invited them in. Andre said Carmen could go in with me, and he would wait outside. I said,

“No, I am inviting you both in, really, don’t worry.”

He argued with me a bit, but I remember thinking,

He still thinks I am here to take advantage of Carmen. He needs to know that’s not true. If anyone comes in, it should be both of them. So they can see it’s Jesus’ love, not any selfish or perverted motive, that causes me to invite them in. 

Later, I realized my roommate Laura would have preferred that I get the vitamins and take them out, since we didn’t invite anyone into our house without previous communication. Especially very poor people, who may be tempted to steal, in a country where robberies are very common.

I ignored any thoughts of my roommate, something I would later apologize for—because our safety is a real concern, and respecting her rights is important. But that night, I just made a quick decision. 

Although I would later regret not speaking with Laura, even then I felt no fear. I had already been robbed twice in this country, and Lidisset would warn me over chat that, “Carmen sells herself… she’s capable of doing other things, too, just to survive.”

I didn’t debate with Lidy. Instead, I wrote:

“I have felt ever since the beginning, that God has been directing me as I get to know Carmen. I don’t mean to say everything has been perfect, or that I haven’t made mistakes, but I am learning. And every time I see her, we pray. Afterwards, I pray that I will see her again. Then, I won’t get the chance to go running for various days, and she won’t go to the malecón either. When I see her again, she apologizes and tells me,”

 “I haven’t come to work on the malecón since the last time I saw you, I’m so sorry I haven’t seen you.”

But the thing is, that was also the only day that I had come since I had seen her last. And God took her off the streets as I had been praying, until it was the day that I would be able to run, and see her.”

Inside our apartment, I realized I had nothing to eat, since I had just gotten home from a 4-day visit to a missionary in San Pedro. I had nothing, except for the pasteles en hoja I had bought on the trip — delicious little rolls of plantain or corn dough wrapped around savoury beef or chicken.  

I offered them dinner. Carmen would not be here in my house, if it were not for Andre Luis being here, too, I thought. She is more comfortable with him by her side.

Within 20 minutes, the pasteles were hot, and we were thanking God for the food around the round, wicker table. After we ate, I asked Andre how I could pray for him.

He said he wanted a better job, since he just worked polishing shoes and selling fruit in the street. He said his mother had died, and his father was in prison. He lived with his stepfather, Valdéz, a security guard for one of the buildings nearby.

After dinner, Andre said he would go to church with me that Sunday. I told Lidy that night,

“Maybe it’s time, and maybe this is the way she can get help—without having to see her there in the streets again. She has to get off the streets anyway now, now that she is 6 months pregnant. It’s the perfect time for her to surrender herself to God.”

Lidy cut me off.

“Look, just one thing.”

“Si?”

“Leave the results to God! On Sunday if she goes, we will tell her about some of the ministries in the church, and we will introduce her to a sister who helps women. We will invite her to the soup kitchen.”

“Yeah, I know I can’t control her, of course,” I replied. “But that’s what I’m hoping for. Thank you for the reminder. Yes, we will introduce her, if she comes. Even though the first two times she said she would come, but she didn’t.”

My heart wanted to sink, but I dared to hope. I continued.

“I was in San Pedro this week, with a missionary. She told me that she had been in the park countless times, waiting for women. It’s because so many people have broken their promises, that these women don’t trust anyone anymore. They don’t have any true friends. But when they realize that she showed up and waited for them, their hearts begin to soften.”

“There’s a good chance she’ll go,” Lidy replied.

“Yes, because Andre has a lot of influence over her. They’ve been friends for a long time,” I interjected.

“No, because you were open with her,” Lidy countered. “You helped them. I assure you, they will be back for more.”

As always, Lidy was right. In fact, that very night, Carmen held back inside our apartment as Andre waited on the porch.

“Give me some pesos for my bus fare tomorrow, please!” She begged me.

“Where do you need to go? What time?”

“A doctor’s appointment, at 7AM.”

“I’ll go with you and pay your fare, if you come to my apartment at 6:30AM. OK?” I said, looking at her in the eyes, trying to convey compassion.

“OK,” she said.

I wanted to kick myself. Did I do it all wrong? Should I have given her money?

What about having them over for dinner? Was I more generous with shared possessions than with my own things? Didn’t that mean I was a hypocrite? 

God, please give me wisdom, I begged. But above all, true love…even crazy love. But not stupid love. If there is a difference, please show me.

I felt like the blindfold had been pulled off, and I was seeing the limits of my own human love, realizing again how much I needed God’s love.

I knew I couldn’t heal the pain of a child who had been raped, whose world was one of lies, abuse, and false friends. Only God could do that. I just didn’t want to become one more of those false friends. I prayed,

Help me, God. Do something in her, and do something in me!

The next morning, Carmen didn’t show up to go to the appointment with me. 

On Sunday, neither Andre nor Carmen came to church.

Chapter 5: Waiting

September 22^nd was the first Sunday I had agreed to meet Carmen for church. I remember feeling excited, yet nervous. It feels strange to meet someone who doesn’t have a cell phone, because there’s no way to communicate if one of you arrives late, or decides to cancel. It’s awkward to be stationed against a light post at the entrance to the tourist part of town, with people everywhere, staring at me standing there all alone, my arms folded.

I remember waiting for Carmen for more than 30 minutes, missing the worship at church.

This was the first of many times I would wait for her, and she wouldn’t show up. I absolutely detest uncertain situations like that. But each time I waited for Carmen, I would pray for her while I waited. God did something in the waiting. I had a peace that the waiting wasn’t in vain.

The next time I saw Carmen on the malecón during an evening run, I told her I had waited. She seemed surprised. She said she would come next time. I said it was fine, if she didn’t want to she didn’t have to. But I would love it if she did. We went over the time and place again.

Again, I waited. Again, she didn’t show.

On October 8^th, I reminisced with God, and wrote on my blog:

On October 27, 2012, I sat in the Student House of Prayer in Beavercreek, OH, during Saturday night prayer and worship.

Jen, the director’s wife, came and prayed for me:

“The wall is coming down—the door will open,” she said.

I had my own idea of what doors I wanted open in my life at that moment. I had been without a job for 3 weeks, and I was not happy with that or with certain other situations in my life, that seemed like they were at a standstill.

I left that night hoping beyond hope I had heard what I had wanted to hear—even while wondering if that was what God really wanted to tell me.

A month later, on November 30, 2012, I wrote in my journal:

The revelation I had just today as I read back through that entry, is that literally just before Jen prayed for me, I had written,

“I need You to show me how to love You tonight. And open this closed heart.”

And that was when Jen prayed,

“The wall is coming down, the door will open.”

I never made the connection before now. What if the wall is this fortress I’ve built around my heart, closing it off to pain, to compassion, to love—deep, true love for God and fellow humans. And all these revelations God has been giving me—the stars, the pastel drawings, the Ugandan woman’s prayer for me, the deer on my run, Psalm 115 written on the crossbeam in the prayer room—they’re bringing down the wall, reestablishing communion between God and I, without any idols in the way. That’s what I had just asked God to open, and that’s what He is doing.

[He’s opening the heart I’ve closed off to him and to the least of these by surrounding it with my goals, my relationships, my performance orientation. ]

“It’s not about the job I have. It’s about me and you, we’re building a relationship again”—lyrics from a Jason Upton song, Faith.

In the times of waiting, there in the D.R., God was opening my heart. Carmen was the "something else" I had been asking of God. She was forcing me to care with my heart and not just my head. She was too real to ignore, or file away in the library of statistics in my head. I couldn't just see her once, say some good words, and feel like I had accomplished something. Carmen was real, and demanded a real response. 

The torturous waiting became the proof that Carmen was worth it to God and worth it to me, even when everyone else was telling her worth was based on the fact that she could be paid for in American dollars or Dominican pesos. 

She was worth waiting on. Everything, even the unseen times of waiting, was for His glory. Even the frustrations of unfulfilled hopes and dreams for her future. 

What in the world....?!! My hopes and dreams for her future? I realized I sounded like her big sister, or her mother. And that's exactly how I felt. But they weren't her hopes and dreams. Maybe some day they would be, but that would be her decision. I knew that with a terrible certainty, but I hated it at the same time. Not being in control meant I had to take a risk, and love her no matter what happened next. That risk, that uncomfortable burden, was what God was using to pry open my heart again, to fill me to overflowing with the kind of compassion that grips your stomach and moves you to do ridiculous things in the name of love. 

Have you ever waited for someone who never showed up? You wanted to help them change, but they didn't want it themselves. But you just said, "I'll be right here waiting, when you're ready."

Maybe this is how God feels when He waits on us, to wait on Him?

Therefore the YHWH will wait, that He may be gracious to you;
And therefore He will be exalted, that He may have mercy on you.
For YHWH is a God of justice;
Blessed are all those who wait for Him. --Isaiah 30:18

That's what God is doing right now. Waiting on me, to finally get that the answer to everything, is to wait on Him. When I’m finally there, waiting together, being still with Him and knowing He is God, I will experience His mercy.

Chapter 4: Another Chance

The next day, I went running with my roommate. I saw Carmen again. She was wearing the same bright-yellow, elastic dress. This time, I asked her if she wanted to walk with us, but she said no, because she is 5 months pregnant, but she is still working anyway. 

Oh, my God.

My stomach churned at the thought that she was risking her life, and the life inside her, every day...and that anyone would consider taking advantage of a child in that way. 

I wanted to slap myself for not realizing the first time that she was pregnant. It seemed obvious now, but the thought had never crossed my mind the day before.

She told me the baby was a girl, and she would name her after her mom. She said she had been to the doctor and everything was going well.

She told me her age again—16. That wasn’t what she had told me the day before. She laughed, and explained that she tells some people she is 17 so she won’t get in trouble. She told me about how she used to go to a nearby church, and how she stopped going to school a few years ago.

I asked her what she thought about God.

“He takes care of me,” she said.

“Exactly,” I answered. I knew she just needed a friend, so I didn’t throw stones.

But she let me pray for her again, so I prayed for her to know the God who truly will provide for all her needs. The God she can trust with the unknown—even the 500 pesos (around $13) she needed to earn just to get by every day. If she didn’t pay her landlord 150 pesos every day, she could be evicted from her apartment, she explained.

The fear in her voice stood in contrast with the simple statement of faith she had made seconds earlier.

Back in my apartment, tears filled my eyes as I wrote in my journal:

God, I saw Carmen Raquel again today on the malecón, “trabajando.” Only 16 years old. Oh, God. I can’t imagine that she’s 5 months pregnant. She can’t either. She still has no idea what it means.

She spent Saturday night in the Hotel Jaragua because un tipo (a guy) was paying for it.

Oh, God. She’s too young. Oh, God.

She says she knows You and it’s true, she knows all about You. She says it but she doesn’t really know you because she says You are the One who takes care of us, but then later that she has to work like this to live.

God it’s a lie.

You really are who You say You are and You won’t abandon her if she leaves this life. She has so much potential. God don’t let her have any more “success” in that way of life. God show her again through other obedient children who speak Your mercy and love and truth, that she has so much ahead of her if she will follow You, if she will let You get inside and heal her wounds, if she will stop living like she is for sale to anyone who has money. God, You bought her and she is precious in Your eyes. Don’t let her ever forget that. Oh God, make her new.

God please give me another chance to see her, and if it is Your will we will meet and study the Bible together.

God, I know it was You that sent me there to talk and pray with her yesterday. I knew it already, but I knew it even more when she said it—“Dios te mandó aquí—God sent you here.”

God, may I always be abiding in You and willing to do as You say, being led always by Your Spirit so that You bear much fruit in me. And may I never, ever seek a crown or approval. Todo sea siempre para Ti, y para tu gloria! May everything always be for You, and for Your glory!

Amen and amen.

Three days later, I wrote in my journal again.

My heart, it rests secure in You, God.

Put me anywhere, just put Your glory in me.

I’ll serve anywhere, just let me see Your beauty.

Todo es de mi Cristo, de Él y para Él. (Everything is from my Christ, from Him and for Him. )

All is for Your glory, that in all things You might have preeminence!

Dios, estoy en Tus manos. No sé qué viene después. Pero sé que será para Tu gloria. (God, I am in Your hands. I don’t know what comes next. But I know that it will be for Your glory.)

Y yo confío en Ti. (And I trust in You.)

Descanso.(I rest.)

Guíame con Tu mano. (Guide me with Your hand).

Abre puertas y caminos. (Open doors and paths).

Haz tu obra, have Your way.

Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing!

I remember still feeling restless, isolated from true community, and worried about whether I would come back to the D.R. The situation with Carmen made me feel like my time there was just beginning, but the calendar showed September 12, in a year abroad that would end on December 18.

My Dominican friend Lidisset encouraged me:

mana descansa en DIOS te trajo y te dio un proyecto cuando se lo pediste te dara otro

(Sister, rest in GOD. He brought you and gave you a project when you asked Him to. He will give you another.)

quizas te toque un tiempo con familia y ver despues

(Maybe you will spend some time with your family and see what happens afterwards.)

The next week, God did give me another chance to see Carmen.

This time, I invited her to church.

“Meet me at the park on Sunday night,” I said. She said she would.

“I will wait for you.”

Chapter 3: Encounter

The next day, I was praying, reading the Bible, and worshiping God on my own at home. I don’t remember what I read, but I know I felt so refreshed, I decided to run on the malecón, or the boardwalk by the ocean. I had never run on a Sunday before, but that day I wanted to be near the ocean and feel the sun’s heat.

As I ran, I turned up the music and began to meditate on the lyrics and my own conversation with God. I was surprised I didn’t have to dodge more snack vendors, tourist police and other joggers enjoying the breezy afternoon. Sunday truly seemed to be a day of rest. Yet, in my own way, running was a way of resting for me, of communion with a God I had felt distant from for too long, wrapped up in Excel spreadsheets til late at night, secluded in my 3^rd floor apartment.

To my left, the ocean’s waves crashed on the rocky ledges, carrying with them bits of trash washed up from the city’s river. The malecón isn’t a beach, but it’s still the ocean.

In the distance in front of me, I saw a young, dark-skinned figure clad in an elastic, bright yellow strapless dress. It wasn’t an unusual sight to see couples or young families sitting together on the low, concrete wall that divided the sidewalk from the grass—and then the ocean. But this girl was all alone.

She’s a prostitute.

My mind blurted out the assumption. I kept running.

Wait, a prostitute?

Go talk to her.

Yeah, right. You’re crazy. What are you going to say to her?

I kept running. I had no reason to believe that was true. Even if it was, I didn’t talk to strangers in this city. At least, not unless I had a good reason. I was running, too. Why stop based on a fleeting thought that could be totally off-base?

But with each step, my heart felt heavier.

OK, God. If it’s really true that she’s a prostitute, and You want me to talk to her, let her still be there, all by herself, in the same spot.

I turned back, walking to slow my heart rate.

There she was.

“Hola.” I introduced myself, a bit awkwardly at first, and asked if I could sit down. She said yes, and told me her name was Carmen*. She seemed open and friendly, so I asked her the kinds of questions you ask when you first meet someone. 

"Tengo diecisiete años"—I'm seventeen years old. she told me.

“Do you have a job?” I asked.

“Si.”

“¿Dónde?”—Where?

“Aquí”, she answered, motioning to the oceanside boardwalk. It didn't mean my suspicion was true, but it seemed probable. I continued to speak as if nothing was outside of the ordinary. 

She told me she "lives" in the Jaragua, one of the casino resort hotels along Avenida George Washington.  But as we continued our conversation, it came out that she only stays there a few nights a week, when someone pays for it.

After years of hearing stories about underage prostitutes, attending awareness events advocating the abolition of modern day slavery, and waiting at countless red lights praying for God's light to shine in the red light districts in this country, here I was, speaking face-to-face with this girl. 

And that's just what she was--a girl. We sat on the concrete bench, our legs dangling beneath us, and chatted. Her hair was pulled back into a tiny bun, the flyaways pinned with several bobby pins. She had a quiet laugh that often spread from her beautiful brown eyes to her serene mouth. 

I told her God loves her no matter what, and that He has created her with potential and intelligence and grace.

“There are so many opportunities for you, Carmen”, I told her. “If you ever want to do anything else, don’t feel limited by this. And don’t ever believe the lie that God loves you more or less based on what you do.” I don’t remember what else I said, I just remember that I felt ill-equipped to say it. I didn’t know what to say, but I just opened my mouth and spoke. I was nervous, but I felt the peace of God filling me as I spoke. Finally, I asked if we could pray together. She said yes.

When I got up to leave, she looked at me and said,

“Dios te mandó aquí.” God sent you here.

The weight of what she said struck me. God had sent me here. But just in case I had any doubt about our conversation earlier during my run, He put those words in her mouth as confirmation.

“Yo lo sé.” I know.

Back at the apartment, I wrote to my family,

I had been feeling so discouraged over the past several weeks, but I had been seeking God so much today….

Please pray that if God wills I can see her again and we can meet to study the Bible together! I believe there is hope for her in the Name of Jesus. Carmen is one of so many in this country, and I have been praying every time I am at a red light, for God's light to shine in the red light districts. . . 

I wondered if I would ever see her again--or if my chance to shine the light had left as soon as it had come.