She's Somebody's Baby

I have never been called “mommy” by little girls until tonight.

This evening we did door-to-door outreach in groups of four just two blocks from our base, talking with people, asking if they had a church, offering to pray with them, etc.  We spoke with a woman, Daphne, at the very first house we approached and learned that her oldest daughter had run away. She had not heard from her daughter Shaquita since Monday.  Shaquita is only 14 years old, the average age for girls entering prostitution.  It sounds like the classic trafficking scenario.  My heart broke for both Daphne and her daughter. Her mother wanted her back. She was missed.  Shaquita—whether she is by herself or under the control of a boyfriend/pimp-- is somebody’s baby.

A few doors down, we came upon a group of about 10 girls, about 8-10 years old, playing in the driveway, climbing a wall, dancing, and just being crazy like little girls ought to be.  Hope and I began conversation with them and they were eager to make friends with us. They wanted us to watch them rap, dance, do splits, and play with them.  They just wanted attention and love. Hope and I were mobbed by a dozen little bodies all vying for our attention. After knowing them about 60 seconds, they were clinging to us. I don’t mean that they gave us a hug, or were holding our hands. I think they attached themselves with super/non-removable glue.  

“Will you hug me? Will you pick me up?” Will you pick me up and swing me?”

Ok, sure. I can do that. No problem. I love kids and though perhaps it’s not the most appropriate to be picking up an eight year old you just met, I did it anyways, because I could tell they desperately needed love and affection.  As I spun one precious curly-haired girl around and around until she was squealing and I sufficiently dizzy, I said “You are a beautiful girl!”

Her face glowed from that one compliment. Oh, God, please guard her and all the girls in this neighborhood from false love, from older boys and men that may come around to prey on these girls and in just a couple years lure them with false affection resulting in abuse and/or prostituting them. Not to sounds cynical, but that scenario is incredibly likely based on their situation and the statistics.

Then came the hardest request.

“Will you be my mommy? Can you be my sister? Please don’t leave me! I don’t want you to go.”

Oh. My. Word.  I wanted to cry.  They didn’t even wait for us to answer, but clung to us more, tugging on us to play and watch them, calling me their mommy.  More than anything else they could have told me, calling me their mommy revealed how desperate they were for a strong maternal figure. They did have mothers:  Daphne whom we met earlier was the mother of two of the girls, and the rest of the girls pointed out their nearby homes so that we could come back to visit them. 

Leaving them was so difficult. We had to pry them off of us, and tell them that we would come back.  As we left, we asked if they knew who Jesus was.

“You mean Jesus Christ? Oh yeah! He’s my father!”

I told that girl to always remember that no matter what, Jesus is her daddy and always will be. I am so thankful that they at least had some head-knowledge of God, considering that most of them did not have father-figures.  We learned that some of them had been to the church we attend, so leaving was slightly easier knowing that we might see them there. 

Turning around and walking down the sidewalk, hearing little voices pleading, “Please don’t leave! Don’t go! Mommy, come back!” may be one of the most gut-wrenching experiences.  I didn’t want to leave them so soon, but we had a time limit and I told them I would be back. I will indeed be back to visit them. I want to speak truth into them, to give them attention they desperately need, and to just love them. I know that they are in God’s hands and that we should not feel unduly burdened by them.  If I develop a case of the “Messiah Complex,” attempting to take on responsibility that is not mine to hold, I will burn out and I will fail.

These girls were so full of joy and innocence: I want them to stay that way, just as they are. I couldn't help but think of Shaquita, and wonder how many of these girls would find themselves in her situation.   Each of these precious girls is somebody's baby, no matter what path their life takes: homelessness, drugs, prostitution, or perhaps college and marriage. They will always be God's baby girls. 

“She’s somebody’s baby, she’s somebody’s baby girl and she’s somebody’s baby still.”