I went to my first writing conference last summer. David James Duncan was the presenter. He is the author of The River Y and The Brothers K. Interwoven into the day were writing assignments that had to be completed in fifteen minutes. The second exercise was “one long sentence” and the experience of writing without periods allowed for a fun and furious writing time. Recently our flight to an ICAP (International Christian Alliance on Prostitution) conference was delayed and we asked our friend Abby to write for fifteen minutes without punctuation. We had an intriguing time reading our “quick” writings and learned new things about each other. I challenge you to try it and read it aloud to a friend. Here is my long sentence I wrote entitled: “How long do I have to wait?” It is a long cry of grief for what is and always has been since the beginning of mankind.
I wrote about my year of volunteering on the streets of Seattle to the prostituted teenagers. Each Friday I wondered how I would have the strength and the heart to stand on a street corner for five hours and hand out food, warmth and kindness. Nothing obviously changed in the course of the thirteen months that I stood on the corner. The pimps, the cops, the girls, the undercover agents became a swirl of sorrow and madness. I expected at least some change in the cycle of violence, but to my horror, our words, our care, our prayers seemed useless. I know that God was at work in mighty ways, I just did not visually witness it. Why did I continue to go each Friday night?
Frankly, I had made a year commitment and that is why I lasted for a month. I remained for the next 12 months because of the woman with whom I served.
An Advent Lament: “How long do I have to wait?”
A day of dread because the weather is wet and windy
and it will be fourteen hours before I get on the ferry
therefore, I have to pace my mind, body, heart and soul before
I begin a volunteering on the street venture when night falls on the city
and I hike a rigorous uphill walk on the dark icy city sidewalks of Seattle
listening for unsafe footsteps behind me
as worship music emboldens my frame
to fill up canteens of hot coffee, gather condoms and wipes
for our prostituted teenage girls
and prayers of pleading against harming angry pimps
and those Johns who keep driving in circles
around our make shift Lucy-like lemonade stand
of psychiatric help, food, care and hope
as I load our van wearing nine layers of wool and fleece
along with hand warmers in mittens and my boots
which will armor me with fortitude as we drive to our location
that can never be spoken or shared
with those who are unaware of what really happens
in the darkness while they sleep in safety inside walls
and are cocooned in clean sheets and duvets
while I watch girls with five inch heels and uncovered fannies
run in the dark across a four lane highway
and come stand by our heaters
as we bandage their blistered, bleeding heels with hands of care
and spray whipped cream into their hot chocolate
with eyes borrowed from Jesus
while foul worlds collide with handouts of home baked cookies
and heartache and love
as the new girls are not released from their pimp’s clutches
and watch from the side lines
along with “renegades”, both female and male,
who enrage the enslaved
and the parade of the night begins
with awareness that five long hours are ahead
which will be reeling with violence, shame, abuse
and a foster care system gone amuck
and generational family businesses swirl in front of my eyes
and in cars that keep circling and circling like vultures of prey
while angels of light intervene in multitude of ways
and we give out hand knitted scarves and hats to our cold ladies
and tears and curse words of our girls keep intruding our small heater,
our coffee thermoses, our cart of hats and mittens
and our hearts and frozen feet don’t warm when jumping
to keep circulation circling doesn’t work and
we take a five minute break and use the restroom of a Holiday Inn
and return to our stand of love and supplies
while police and undercover cops and pimps parade
and give us puzzled looks
and the same proud cars of the Johns keep circling like sharks
and wives are pimped for private school tuition
and seasoned prostitutes tell the eleven year old twins to go home
and we stand close to the chained link fence
with a garbage bag tired to it to keep things neat
and the circling cars keep circling
and our girls keep disappearing in the shark tank of violence
and the people in their beds sleep on
and we eventually leave the streets at 2:30 a.m.
wondering why oh why is life so cruel
and our girls are left to be circled and raped at our abandoned corner
without a friendly pathetic Lucy stand of care
and we pack up our wares and drive away
to import the information into old, outdated computers
matching street names to real names
and guessed ages disguised by too much violence and sorrow
and the city now has data and the youth are still out there
and I walk across the street to my daughter’s condo
and take the elevator ten flights up
and turn the key and tip toe into a warm, beautiful home
and shuffle with frozen feet to stand over my grandson’s crib
and cry out in hollow silence deep in my heart screaming
as tears hit a baby quilt made with love,
how long, oh Lord, until you come back … again?
Friday Night Lights, my blog from my year on the streets.
bsp