It’s 3 a.m. and sleep escapes me again.
Images clutter my mind: young girls tucked in brothels
instead of snug beds, a six year old African boy losing his underwater fight
with a tangled tuna net, a sweet little girl, wielding a machete, who will
never taste the chocolate she is forced to harvest. Thoughts of frightened
middle school girls climbing into the cabs of parked 18-wheelers interrupt any
hope of pleasant dreams. A glance at the clock reminds me that only a few hours
remain before I meet the morning’s demands; yet I know that violated teens
working to satisfy their pimp’s quota of truckers, desperately hope for
daybreak to end their horror, if only for a brief while.
Human trafficking interrupts!
It destroys the dreams of people longing to escape
poverty. It robs innocence from young children. And it messes with my life.
I looked forward to my early retirement. I had great
plans to enjoy my grandchildren, tackle some neglected hobbies, and to take
life a bit easier. All of that changed the afternoon I stumbled onto a
documentary investigating young women being forced to work in Asian brothels. I
sat in horror, watching emaciated girls, younger than the students I teach
every Sunday, waiting in squalor for their next depraved customer while their
toddlers played under filthy cots. And I knew those precious babies were being
groomed for the same life of bondage.
Why had I been clueless to this tragedy? How could I
have allowed my tidy Christian life to become so insulated that I had no idea
that 27 million people were trapped in slavery?
Months of research left me staring at a Goliath and a
looming question: “God, why don’t you
end this tragedy?” He whispered, “Have you and the rest of my children asked me
to move?” So I invited a small group of
women to pray with me once a month alongside Interstate 1O, a major human
trafficking route in our nation, and our church’s anti-slavery prayer group was
birthed. Local ministries, politicians, law enforcement requested prayer for
safety, wisdom and rescued girls. Our list of petitions grew and so did our
burden for victims in our city. God began opening opportunities to educate our
congregation and to support a local ministry serving teens at-risk of being
trafficked. We gathered toiletries and clothing for a new safe house for
under-aged survivors and assembled bags to thank local police officers involved
in recent sting operations. It seemed
like each week God was handing us another stone to throw at this giant. One act
of obedience had led us to form a new women’s ministry, one ready to raise our
sling shots.
Two years later, this tragedy continues to mess with my
life. I can no longer sip on coffee or snack on chocolate without asking if the
beans have been harvested by a slave-child. I research a company’s supply chain
before I buy a new cotton shirt, making sure there is no hint of a sweat shop.
I keep a cautious eye on customers patronizing questionable nail salons as well
as young girls hanging out at the local mall. My husband and I have become very
intentional in helping impoverished families begin cottage industries, in hopes
they won’t become desperate enough to sell their young daughters to trafficking
rings. Our Christmas shopping is no longer completed at the mall, but from
village women providing for their families. My retirement is now filled with
petitions, public awareness events, and great purpose.
But mostly, I continue to pray. Staring at this evil, I
realize only God can end the constant demand for sexually exploited women,
cheap labor, child soldiers. So, like
the persistent widow begging for justice, I fight this monster on my knees. Not
only do I plead for a way of escape for vulnerable victims, but for the Church
to fully participate in his plan to set captives free. I’m grateful for the
many groups working to end human trafficking, but I know that only the children
of God can offer real freedom, liberty that only comes from relationship with
Jesus. Other warriors are called to enter brothels and border check points; I am
called to enter His Presence by a busy freeway, in a crowded mall, and in the
3a.m. darkness.
My recent article published in February 2013 Texas Baptist News Feed
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