Chapter 12: The Battle on Our Knees

The next few days were a struggle.

Erica, the missionary at the only safe house that could possibly accept minors, told me “Conani”, or Dominican Children’s Services, had scheduled a meeting with her. I wanted desperately to look Carmen in the eyes and tell her that there really was a place for her—a place to work, to laugh, to heal, and to love and be loved by the Father and His children. But Erica could only tell me,

“I’m sorry not to be able to bring her in immediately, but because she is a minor we legally have had to start going thru Conani and that can slow things down. I pray she is in a safe place in the meantime.”

I didn’t have much faith in Carmen’s safety. After she visited church with me for the first time, I had seen a car drive slowly past her, and yell something out the door. I couldn’t understand what he said, but I wrote to Lidy later to say,

“He didn’t have anything good in his mind."

I put myself next to Carmen and looked right at him. The car started moving again, and he left.

"I feel that her whole being is telling her, deje eso--leave that behind. Stop, this is not for you anymore. But if she doesn’t have another environment to live in, she is going to start all over again—because she is known in the streets here. She’s not in school, and she doesn’t have anyone to take care of her."

"SHE DOESN'T BELONG TO THE STREETS", Lidy wrote back in all caps in the chat box. I agreed. This wasn't her destiny. 

Erica asked me to explain why Carmen got started in prostitution, so she would be able to answer Conani’s questions. Carmen’s answer sent chills down my spine.

She told me that several of her friends from school decided to do this together. “Everyone was doing it”, and it seemed like a good idea, so she did it, too. She said she remembers the first time her 13 year-old friend took her to a bar, and that was her first night “on the job.” Around that same time, she had gotten pregnant.

I asked Carmen if she sees those girls out "working" still and she said yes.

But she has since told me one of those same girls has disappeared.

I didn’t want Carmen to be the next. I didn’t want to wait until it was too late.

But all I could do now was wait, and pray. I prayed for the meeting to go well. In Sunday, the worship songs were about God’s faithfulness. My friend and mentor, Viola, encouraged me:

"Trust in the Lord
He sees her He knows her by name
She is not hidden from His sight
Sweet dreams and visions...night"

The next day, I heard from Erica that Conani just needed a birth certificate to approve Carmen as a resident at the safe house. I was relieved to hear they would approve her residence, but I didn’t know what to do about the birth certificate, since Carmen told me she didn’t have one—and she didn’t want to ask her mother for it.

Carmen had not seen her mother in over 4 months. Her dad had been in Puerto Rico and hadn't sent any communication or support to the family for several years. Andre told me bluntly that Carmen’s mom "doesn't care about her,"

But Carmen had been born in San Juan, which was a few hours away. Perhaps there was a way to get the certificate from the hospital, or from public records.

I had never been  to San Juan, and would have to take a bus. Not only that, but I would have to talk to Dominican government officials, which from past experience was not my favorite pastime. The whole thing seemed daunting.

I really didn't know where to start, but then a friend reminded me that our pastor is from there. When I called, he said he knew someone in the appropriate government agency there in Santo Domingo who would check on things for us, and that she would give me a call. Two days later, I still hadn't gotten a call from the woman he mentioned. Finally, I just decided to call around until I got the friend's phone number. She took down all the information and said she was going to call the government office in San Juan to check their records, and that she didn't know how long it would take. I told her I would call her back tomorrow to see how things were going.

When she knew we needed to find her birth certificate, Carmen had finally shared her real age. When I first met her in September, she was 17 years old, and then her age dropped to 16 the second or third time I saw her. Then, it was Andre who told me she was only 15. But that night she came to church, it came out she was actually only 14, but would turn 15 on December 31.

“Is that your final answer, Carmen?” I joked with her. She laughed and said yes. I cringed a bit, because the truth was harder than the lie.

Almost every day after work, I stopped by Carmen’s tiny apartment to give her a progress update, and occasionally share a meal or snack together. I knew she was still recovering from the loss of her baby, emotionally and physically—but she was also getting bored.

I prayed for the process to go faster, so Carmen wouldn’t want to reconsider her choice to be free.

I prayed so much in those days. I knew God alone can open and close doors. I begged Him to open every door, and knock down every obstacle and distraction that would try to get in the way. 

And I waited. 

Chapter 11: Unplanned Opportunities

Sometimes, people don’t show up when you want them to. Rather than fight Him over that, God taught me that He is the One who puts each of His children where they should be, including me. He uses others alongside of me—but He is in charge, not me. My job is not to worry who is going with me, or what part they are playing, but just to obey.

On Sunday, when Carmen came to church with me, I asked her to meet me for dinner on Wednesday night, to discuss whatever information I had been able to get from the safe house directors. We agreed to meet in front of TeleMicro, the building just down the street from my apartment that is used for filming soap operas and other Dominican TV shows.

Lidisset had recommended that I introduce Carmen to Vicky, a psychologist who attends our church. I had never met Vicky, but I agreed that it could be good for Carmen to speak with a counselor—or at the very least, another Dominican woman.

An hour before I left the house, I messaged Vicky to re-confirm our plans. She didn’t reply. Instead, Vicky’s daughter left a brief note to say she had her mom’s cell phone, and she would give the message to her later. 

But is Vicky coming? I asked. 

No reply.

I messaged Viola, my spiritual mom in the D.R., to pray, at 6:52PM:

Viola please be in warfare prayer tonight
Please pray for Christ's light to shine in the darkness of the red light "districts" of Santo Domingo and for chains to be broken tonight! Pray for freedom to be chosen and doors to be open to start new lives in Christ!
“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
A lady from my church and I are meeting Carmen for dinner. We need her to let go of anything that's holding her back and choose Jesus, and choose to go to a safe house, and we need every barrier to disappear in Jesus' name.

I waited. No response from Vicky or Viola. (Later, Viola would tell me she prayed as soon as she saw the message). 

At 7:25PM, I still hadn’t heard back from Vicky. I decided to go anyway.

Carmen was waiting for me on the dark, unlit side of the building where Ale’s dad is the security guard. We decided to wait where Vicky said she would meet us.

We waited 15 minutes. All the while I had that uncomfortable, now familiar feeling of guilt, because I had gotten there a bit late myself; fear, because I didn’t know if she had been there already and had left; and confusion, because I wasn’t sure how long to wait.

Worried, I started to message and call several people from church, in search of Vicky’s phone number. I called two different numbers, to no avail.

This was the first time I had actually succeeded in meeting Carmen anywhere. She had actually shown up, unlike the times I had invited her to church. Here she was, and now I didn’t want it to fall through. I knew I could just go on without Vicky, if she didn’t show upu. But I felt, like what Lidy had said was true:

I shouldn’t do this alone.

But, I wasn’t alone. I am never alone.

It seems ridiculous now, but I remember thinking,

Carmen might still think I’m lesbian, and that Vicky never planned on going, and I just made this up to take her out to dinner.

It wasn’t an unlikely story. After all, these were the streets Carmen walked. These people knew how she made a living. So why else would a foreigner like me want to spend time with her?

Every time someone in the street said something to that effect, I would cringe. It was a reminder of just how much Carmen had been objectified. Even simple gestures of goodwill were interpreted through the lens of a transaction, of lust, of consumption. It cut me to think that a 15-year-old would already view the world in such a deeply cynical way.

I had my Bible in my purse, and I had a vague idea that I wanted to use it. I didn’t know exactly how, though, because I had assumed Vicky would be taking the lead.

She is a psychologist, and what am I? I know Jesus, but I’ve never done this before, I reasoned.  

I checked the clock on my phone for what seemed like the thousandth time.

Cut.

Carmen and I are friends. We can act like friends. I need to stop worrying. Jesus is enough for me.

Relaxing a bit, I decided to share the story of my brother David. I shared how much I loved him, and how it was so hard to see him make wrong choices. I recounted how much I cried when he threatened suicide,  the letters I wrote to him, and how I learned how to love. I told her that in the end, God got David’s attention when he was in a different environment—even though he hated it at first! If he had stayed home with all the “friends” who had “helped” him enter the world of anger, lust, drugs, and alcohol—it would have been harder to hear God’s voice. God can deliver anywhere, but sometimes we won’t listen to Him in our old environments. Sometimes we need a new environment.

I brought all this up, because I wanted Carmen to think seriously about what a move to a safe house would entail. I wasn’t sure her mind had wrapped around what that meant. I wanted her to know that it would be a big change, that could be very positive but also very difficult at first—so she could make an informed decision.

Carmen seemed to agree with me that yes, a change of environment would be very important.

I told her the safe house would be more school than work for her right now, because she is so young.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes! That is exactly what I want, to be able to go to school again, and learn to read!”

A hunger for living had grasped her again—for learning and finding new opportunities. Even now as I write, I smile to think of the change from just a few weeks earlier. My heart had broken for her so many times, in times of desperate intercession, and compassion from the Holy Spirit. Yet now it leapt with joy to hear her begin to hope again.

As much as I wanted to take her straight to the safe house right then, I couldn’t. Erica had told me we would have to wait to hear back from Conani, the Dominican children’s services agency, since Carmen was a minor.

“I can’t make any guarantees,” I told Carmen. “But we are doing what we can, and praying hard for God to intervene, for the door to open.”

45 minutes had passed, sitting and talking in front of TeleMicro. It was clear that Vicky was not showing up.

Finally, I shook off my worry and embraced the task at hand. It didn’t matter where Vicky was. Carmen and I were here, and I knew God would be with me.

“I’m hungry! Let’s get something to eat.” I said.

We headed down the Conde, the pedestrian street in the touristy, colonial part of the city. Even at night, tourist police keep visitors to the Conde in relative safety.

I asked Carmen what kind of food she preferred, but she would not voice any preference. Finally, I chose an outdoor café at the end of the Conde, near the first Cathedral in the New World, built by the first Spanish settlers.

While we waited for our sandwiches to come, I made conversation with Carmen. At some point, something inside of me woke up:

Vicky’s not here. So speak the only words of healing and hope you know how to speak.

At some point, Carmen had attended church. She had heard of Jesus. Yet I sensed that what could keep her from turning to Jesus, and from taking the hope He offered her through the safe house, was the same feeling of unworthiness that caused the prodigal son to cry out, in spite of his father’s tearful, affectionate embrace,

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight, and am no longer worthy to be called your son.”

But the Father would never turn away His children. His love is far greater than we can imagine. As I rehearsed the story of the prodigal son, Carmen told me,

“I know that story! I love that story.”

The couples at the tables surrounding us could hear as the Gospel story unfolded. I had not planned to share the Gospel with Carmen tonight, but the Holy Spirit put His peace in my heart, and His words in my mouth.

I wasn’t a psychologist that night. The psychologist didn’t show up. But I was all God wanted me to be: His child. I was the little girl of God, just trying to communicate a fraction of His love to Carmen:

“Oh Carmen, if you could only understand His love! He’s not ashamed of you. You’re His daughter.”

We talked about what it means to be sons and daughters of God, and how we can't ever deserve His love, and how He is not like our earthly fathers. We talked about how Jesus Christ broke our chains and redeemed us from slavery to sonship... a concept she told me she had never quite understood, even though she had attended church before.

We would always pray together at the end of our conversations. But this time it was Carmen, not me, who asked if we could pray.

So yet again, I took Carmen’s hands and prayed for her. As I think back to that moment, I echo the words of Paul in Ephesians 3:14-18,

“When I think of all this, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father, the Creator of everything in heaven and on earth. I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.”

I hope that as you read, your heart cries the same prayer for Carmen and many other minor victims of trafficking and prostitution in the Dominican Republic. Only God’s love can heal their broken hearts and restore what the enemy has tried to steal, kill, and destroy. Jesus has come to give us new life! Please claim that for these precious children!

That night, my heart filled with hope that night as I realized it was Carmen, not me, who was asking about finding a job, and if I had heard anything about it yet. I was honest with her that I didn't know how it would work out, but we were going to trust God together that it would.  

Little did I know the battle that would unfold over the next two weeks. Yet, I chose to hope. I still choose to hope. I wish I could say Carmen accepted Christ’s love for her that night. But what I can say is that there is power in the Name of Jesus to break every chain! It’s not my power that breaks the chains, it’s all His—that in all things He might have the preeminence.