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.