Oh Lord—Won't You Help Us?
Though it was daytime, I remember the dark clouds and heavy rain made it look like night. It was my favorite kind of day because it usually meant I could hang out with my friend, instead of having to be with some guy doing unspeakable things.
My friend was fifteen, a couple of years older than me. We met through our pimp. We were sitting around talking about suicide, when I showed her this poem I wrote about us.
We say we're scared to death about the future that we face.
What little hope we had at times, now gone without a trace.
We say there’s nothing left in all our days ahead but strife.
We look around and wonder just what happened to our life.
We're thankful for our friend's attempts to sooth our aching heart.
We strive to tell them where we are, but don’t know where to start.
We find ourselves alone at times just staring into space.
Oh Lord won’t you help us to get out of this place?
When she finished, she looked up with tearful eyes and hugged me.
Because we were so ashamed of what we had become, we never talked about God, thinking He wouldn't have anything to do with us anyway. But for some reason…….. that day was different. We just sat there in our little one room shack, emptying the pans every few hours that caught the rain dripping through the roof, and just talked—mostly about God.
We wondered if He even existed, or if He possibly cared about us. Could God really help us get out of this place?
As the downpour continued, we kept talking about God. The more we did, the better we felt. There was a sense of peace that we hadn't known for years. It was strange, but wonderful.
We fell asleep that night lying on the floor—holding hands and praying.
A knock on the door woke us up the next morning. I got up, looked through the peephole, and saw a policeman and woman standing there. I remember thinking they were probably going to arrest us for prostitution—which was sometimes a welcomed break.
All of a sudden the whole nightmare of how we ended up there flashed through my mind. At nine, I was kidnapped while walking home from school, and my friend was taken out of her home in the middle of the night, at age eleven.
We were forced into sex slavery, and constantly reminded that if we tried to escape, or report anything to the authorities, we would be severely beaten. And if we did escape, they would kill our parents. We believed it.
We also lived in constant fear of being tortured for no reason, or sexually abused in ways that you don't want to hear about—trust me. And we lived in poverty. The pimps got all the money. They said we were lucky to have a roof over our heads and food—but we didn't feel so lucky.
About the time I started to explain how we got there, the lady spoke up. She said our pimps had been arrested, and we were going home………...HOME!
As my friend and I broke down crying, I remember saying—"maybe God really does care about us. "
There are approximately 27 million human trafficking victims; most are sex slaves, 80% female, and about 50% children. Thirty thousand of us die every year, and it's not from old age.
We need help. What if I was your child? Your donation could save a life.
"Please, please wake up world!"
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