I can't understand what I haven't experienced. I can't know people I haven't met. And even then, knowing is a long, long way from meeting!
In the past couple of months God has been introducing me to women in prostitution. Meaning, I go for a walk, and BANG...there she is. One afternoon, I was walking to Market Street and M. comes up to me with tears in her eyes. "Mama," she says, "I'm too old for this. I've gotta stop. It's quick money, but it's killing me."
I pray for her. Hold her while she cries. "I can't go anyplace. They be askin' me to do them. Right there on the street."
I pray some more. She finally decides to go to a women-only shelter in Berkeley - a BART train ride away from the men who know here by name. "If you ask them, they can help you," I say. I hope it's true....
Or, Monday I'm walking to Chinatown and two beautiful, 20-something women are trekking up the hill just behind me. We're out of the Tenderloin. The clean streets and beautiful old buildings of Nob Hill surround us. Suddenly, it's as if an amplifier has been attached to them. City noises are all around, yet, there, hiking up Mason Street to the "summit" of California, I heard every single word.
"I make more money on that side of the street," said one of the women, "but I'm working every minute. All night. I'm &*#)!( ed up and sleep the whole day then."
Her friend replied, "Yeah, but the money. It's worth it."
Somehow, I didn't think these two were driving cab all night.
In Chinatown, I joined about 20 other people for a walking tour led by a San Francisco history buff who volunteers with CityWalk, city-wide walking tours of nearly every neighborhood in this great place. I love them!
About an hour into the tour, the leader stops in front of one of the oldest Buddhist temples in North america. "This is a spiritual place. They don't mind tours, but ask that we bow at the altar and make an offering for the temple."
Yeah...no. Not doing that one. So I stay outside. Nearby, sprawled on the sidewalk, is a woman who clearly has had a rough go of it. She looks somewhere between 30 and 50. Barefoot. Sores on her legs. Scarf from injection sites on her arms. Around her neck and shoulders she's wrapped something that might once have been fur. But, it looks like the "furs" spent time in a dumpster or alley. They are filthy. She's wearing a bra and panties. Pieces of cloth tied around her waist. Her hair appears to have exploded into a nest of frizz - all held together by a black scarf.
She says her name is Butterfly. "Money?" No, dear heart, I don't give money to anyone.....It's the answer I give to every single person who asks here in San Francisco. I know crack can be purchased for a dollar. Five dollars will get you a cheap, short-lived high on heroin. fifty cents will get you the dregs from another junkie's crack pipe.
Could I buy her something to drink? Normally, I would do this. But today, my fellow tour walkers are beginning to file out of the temple. I won't have time.
"I'm sorry, Butterfly. My group will be leaving in a second. Can I at least pray for you?"
"Yeah. Say whatever words you want. I don't care."
I pray for her safety. I ask Jesus to show himself to her in dreams tonight. To send a huge, strong, warrior angel to watch over her while she works. To keep her safe. I tell her that God loves her. That she is beautiful in his eyes and in his heart. That He cares about how hard things have been.
"He sees you. He really does. You're not invisible to him," I whisper.
I don't ask to hug her. She's been using and isn't clear about what she wants and doesn't want. I pat her hand. She squeezes my arm.
"Thanks, baby," she says.
I recently learned that a smart, creative, fascinating woman who loves Jesus and is serious about her recovery sometimes "goes back to work" at the end of the month when money is gone. Without embarrassment she disclosed a past that included work in a brothel where she "made bank" until drug use began to shut down her body and she nearly died.
Another special soul, "Little" spends her days and most nights near the YWAM base. I'm not sure when or if she really sleeps. I knew she was making money somehow - sometimes saw cash passed to her. I felt as if a giant hand were choking my gut. To be baldly honest, when I learned that she is selling crack, I felt shaky and relieved, "Oh thank you, Jesus." She wasn't selling her body. At least she was "only" being damaged and crushed by dealing - and sometimes using. At least she isn't being violated every day by men - yet.
So, what does prostitution look like here? Attractive young women who could be college students on Nob Hill. Another woman - tired a still attractive after years of living "fast" and "easy money".. She lost her children to Child Protective Services and desperately wants to stop. Yet, how? What will she do? Work as a barista at Starbucks? Tend bar at some dive in Oakland? "Easy money" is killing her.
Butterfly sprawled on the sidewalk. The fact that she is still alive seems miraculous. "Little" walking a pirate's plank with dealing on one side, the threat of her own drug use on the other. Sharks circle in the water. One false step and she'll end up selling her body for crack.
On Saturday night the BJM team went into the Tenderloin for street outreach late one night. We don't do this often - not often enough for my heart. But, it's challenging. In a few hours I met Star - she might be 20....maybe. A beautiful, round face. Skin the color of a Latte. Dimples. Oh, Jesus....Chelsea - who took my little card with contact information for La casa - the area Domestic Violence women's shelter - yet would not go there that night. Taylor stood on the curb, waving and peering into passing vehicles. She wanted prayer. "But I can't take long. I'm working. I don't wanna be late...it gets real dangerous late."
Women standing every 3 or 4 feet along Leavenworth new the New Century strip club. Young men filed in the doors. It was so obvious that many of the women were high. They waited for those young men to exit the club...maybe they'd be ready to buy then.
Many let us pray. Many smiled when we offered little gift bags with nail polish, make=up and sweet-smelling hand lotion inside. Tucked in, also, was a tiny flyer about Nail Day and a card with emergency information ....La Casa. Homeless Outreach Team. Crisis line phone numbers.
It will be a year this week that i arrived in San Francisco expecting to spend a summer volunteering with BJM. Now, I know I'm here until God sends me else where.
Some have asked "what's next?" I don't know. Right now I'm hip deep in healing groups, prayer ministry, one-on-one mentoring, mothering and a passel of trans-gender "ducklings" I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing with - except loving and more loving. But, my heart is starting to stir. Not sure what it will look like or when, but DAD seems to be giving me opportunities to know "working" girls in the neighborhood. he seems to be pointing the water cannon of my heart toward these women. He's educating my heart and showing me how much he loves these beautiful, hurting be-loveds.
Not sure what it means. But, they are all so beautiful. so so beautiful.
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