statistic

Statistics are crucial and provide bridges for transformation. Research shows us things like how many millions of people are internally displaced, or refugees crossing borders. Pressing 65 million from last count, with almost 20 million of them children. Children. Yes, you heard right. Children. 

But it moves from stats to reality when you go from paper to faces; to real humans, and their story; their trauma, their reality, their courage. Take Esther. Half Ethiopian, half Eritrean, she could no longer stay freely in either country. Leaving her mother to care for her young son, she went to the Gulf States to work, planning to send money home. Her husband had  divorced her, and she had to work. Fortunately, she was a school teacher, so she went confident of a job. 

But in spite of waiting in long lines at many agencies, the only work for “her kind" was house cleaning. At last, being desperate, she took a position. The work was hard, the boss was heartless, and his wife even worse. She had a mat to sleep on, with no means to counter the extreme temperatures. Then she was taunted for being stout, even though she worked hard. When it was the end of the month and she should be paid, they kept putting it off a week. Then the boss started flirting with her. Finally he cornered her and tried to rape her. In desperation she ran. 

Back at the agency they were indifferent. This happens. No, we can’t help you. No, the boss is the boss. If you go back, it’s on your head whatever happens to you. No, it’s not our job to make sure you get what you want. Do a little work on your own, girl! And that was that. She never got the money she had worked so hard for. She thought of going back to see if she might at least get her belongings. But friends warned her of other women who had been thrown in jail for less.

Hopeless she sat on the bench outside the office as night fell. A cheerful looking chap wandered over. She glanced up. He looked Nigerian. Engaging her in banter, he told a few jokes and made her smile. He sympathized. He listened. He knew of a place where girls stay when they fell on hard times. Sure he could take her there. Nice girl like her shouldn’t be out at night; bad things could happen to her. 

So she went. And the girls seemed jolly. She was grateful for a place to sleep. By the next day she thought she could clear her head and think of a plan. She soon found that these girls worked nights. Instead of answering her questions, they invited her along. It was a bar, with rhythmic music and disco lights. Her roomies showed her how they served the drinks and got paid. Clinking money in their pockets they winked at her. It seemed easy enough. So she thought to try as well. At least long enough to send money home to her mother. 

But it wasn’t that simple. They needed to pay ‘rent’ to be bar girls. So, although they had money in their pockets, it wasn’t all theirs. That is, unless they took customers. At first she didn’t know what that meant. They laughed at her for being so simple. Then she understood. She stepped outside. The noise of the bar sounded tinny and annoying. Her heart felt heavy. She felt trapped. She couldn’t go home; outcast from both her homelands. She had worked hard, but felt beaten by the trauma of nearly being raped by her boss, left defenseless by the office … and now this. 

Instead of going back inside, she turned and began walking. She didn’t know where; she just wanted to get away. The riff raff that was out and about made her jumpy. Every shadow seemed to contain something or someone fearful. She turned towards places with light in hopes of finding shelter. Hearing music, she was drawn towards a building where the door stood ajar. Hesitantly she looked in. It was a church. She had been in church a few times at home, but this one didn’t have priests and incense. She slipped in at the back and found a seat. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t understand the people; it just felt safe to be there. 

Soaking in the music and the presence of God, she had time to think. At the end of worship, she looked for someone who might understand her. A few Ethiopians were there and she told them her story. They prayed for her and invited her home with them. Within a few weeks they had helped her apply for refugee status that let her be considered for asylum. In the meantime they helped her find a new job office to apply at. And she asked a lot of questions about God. It was clear to her that he had guided her feet that night, bringing her to these people. And as she pondered the differences in the choices she had and the peace and safety she felt with the church family, she was overwhelmed with thanksgiving. 

“I want to belong to God, somehow, how do I, can I do that?” She asked. Her new friends explained that God loves us so much that He came to the earth Himself, Jesus, Emmanuel, and paid the price to ransom us from our sins. Esther gave her life to God, and felt that the peace was not just around her, but in her, along with a joy she had never known. 

The local church discipled her, and helped her. She got a job using the skills she had on the computer, assisting the UN with translation. And after waiting three years, she got asylum to America. She now lives with her son in a home she is buying with a mortgage, and has learned to drive to her job. Her smile is priceless and contagious. No longer a statistic, she and her son are anchored in a new community, found for them because someone at her church in the Gulf connected her to someone in the States. She thanks God daily for intervening in her life and rescuing her, both inside and out.