The Night I 

“Come to our prostitution outreach!”

Tara and Liddy*, her assistant, ran a faith-based shelter for women they rescued from human trafficking. Every weekend this daring duo roamed Los Angeles streets, vying with ruthless pimps. Tara would drive while Liddy handed the women a plastic rose, a lip gloss bearing the organization’s 800 number, and a beverage of their choosing.

Which is where I came in. My assignment, should I accept it, was to pass to Liddy a box of Capri Sun or a cup of steaming water with three scoops of chocolate powder stirred in.

“Meet me at midnight,” Tara instructed.

I felt like a female (and Asian) James Bond.

Every few yards Tara made a U-turn, drove a few feet, braked, and made another U. Liddy narrated, “Some girls assumed we’re undercover cops. They’d cross the street to avoid us.”

The dizzying pattern of u-turns garnered me a glimmer of God’s persistence. He’ll trail us—in circles if need be—for the chance to arrest our attention with His gifts.

Finally! A prostitute decided to humor us. As we screeched to a halt, the young lady’s face lit up. The woman’s relaxed posture showed me how Tara and Liddy must’ve earned her trust. She was thanking us for the hot cocoa when a guy—a pimp?—started yelling. “Hey! Stop!”

Tara gunned the engine, jerking me against the seat belt, squeezing my windpipe. “Uh, Tara, have you guys been harassed before?“

At her crisp “No,” I exhaled. But my relief proved premature because she soon added, “Once we had goons trailing us for blocks before peeling away.”

Visions of guys riding in a tinted car, shattering our windows with bullets, flashed in my mind’s eye. The mental image sped my heartbeat. I tasted the tang of fear I imagined prostitutes knew well.

How can they not when their pimps terrorized them with various forms of physical and sexual violence—including torture—forcing them to subsist on living in insanitary conditions, imposing severe stress as an occupational hazard? The American Psychological Association’s task force on trafficked women and girls reported how these survivors experienced “severe and potentially life-threatening physical and mental health consequences, which can be lifelong.”

“That’s Diamond*!”

Liddy’s exclamation interrupted my reverie. She gestured to a tiny figure in sky high heels, super short shorts, and a skimpy top, as though it wasn’t winter outside.

We pulled to a stop next to the heavily made up girl. “She resided in our shelter before her pimp recruited her back,” Tara whispered.

This dazed skeleton is the bright young woman Tara said she nurtured? Diamond’s empty expression, Tara continued, reflected nothing of the vivacious girl who longed to redeem her future.

When the prostitute’s lips parted, the voice that emerged matched those vacant eyes. “I think about your program often,” she intoned. “I know people are praying for me.”

Indeed.

The clock ticked 2:43 a.m. as I greeted my warm bed early that morning. Before sleep consumed my consciousness, I prayed:

Lord,

Please free and heal these women.

In Jesus’ name—Amen.

Would you join me in interceding for over 40 million sex slaves around the globe?

*Not their real names.