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.