A Small Window to the Big Picture

" Isabel Hernandez, right?" I say looking at the place where there
should be a door but there is not, instead there is a slab of wood
with hinges. Sister Van Langen nods, jiggling the rough medal that
acts as a handle. With a little force the slab of wood swings forward
and she ducks inside. I follow, slipping into the space that is left
behind. Inside there are creaky wooden stairs and a smell that reminds
me of something I can't quite get a grasp on. As we ascend up steps I
think about the reality that they might just fall through on us, I
grab ahold of the bannister and it wiggles, I let go. At the top of
the steps there is another slab of wood pretending to be a door with a
peep hole that has been scratched out with permanent marker.

We knock. No one answers, but there is scuffling inside. I look at
Sister Van Langen and she holds up her hand as if to tell me, "just
wait." The door opens a crack, and I see a tan little face peaking at
us. The door is quickly shut again.
" Mari, it's us, las misioneras." Sister Van langen calls. There is
more scuffling inside and muffled voices. "Mama, las misioneras!" A
minute later the door opens, and there is a small hispanic woman
standing there. She is pretty, but looks tired, I can tell that life
has worn her down at the edges. She pulls up her v-neck and looks away
from us embarrassed. "Passen Hermanas." She says, and lets us slip
past her into the kitchen. There are pots on the stove full of some
kind of mush most of it crusted onto the sides with age. The wall
paper is all but non-existent, peeling from the walls, and in between
the cracks I see a flash of disappearing antenna as a cockroach is
scared off by our entrance. The floor is full of stains and dust.
There are random bits of clothing scattered here and there and an
empty taquila bottle in the corner, she ushers us into the living
room, pulling out metal chairs for us to sit on. There is nothing in
the room except a dirty mattress with no sheets. Sitting on the bed
there are five more little children, all dark haired, tan skinned, and
barely clothed. The oldest comes in with us and also sits on the bed.
She looks to be about 13, she like her mother looks pretty but tired,
a piece of her black hair is cut longer than the rest, I can tell that
she has done it herself. Looking at how the rest of the children it
seems she has cut their hair also, making a variety of lengths and
shapes.The little ones jump up swarming around us, grabbing on to my
skirt and tugging at my hands. They want us to play with them. They
want us to love them. Isabel shoos them away, "No les toques!" There
is agitation in her voice, and the children drop back down to the
mattress. She stares down at them for a moment and then retreats to a
corner of the room.

I look at them. Something inside of me starts to hurt.

We start to teach them, we talk about Christ, we tell them stories.
They start to smile- there is still light in all this darkness. All
the while I cannot help but look at them.

"Hermana, podria usar su bano?" I ask. Isabel looks a little taken
back, she looks at the oldest daughter, Mari, and makes a face.
Finally she points back at the kitchen and nods. I leave my things,
stepping back into the kitchen I open the only other door in the
house. As I walk in I find a small bathtub with a dripping shower head
and a mountain of sopping wet clothes, they are all over the floor and
the sink too, and everything smells mildewed. The mirror is cracked
and speckled. I look at my broken reflection, my eyes start to water
and there is something caught in my throat.  I try to cough it away,
but then a single tear slides down my cheek and then another and
another. I try to stifle myself, thinking they can probably hear me in
other room.

I have so much. I am so blessed. They have so little, they are so
broken, this family struggling to survive. I think about Mari, she is
only thirteen, but she has already become a mother to the others, her
half sisters and brothers. She has seen things and taken on
responsibilities a thirteen year old shouldn't have to think about.
Every night Isabel brings in a different boyfriend, someone else to
take away the pain, to loose herself from reality. She tells herself,
"This one will make it better. This one will change everything," but
the people who pay for her self deception are the one's she is trying
to protect. These children, who have no voice, no way out, no one else
to depend on except Mari who is just coming out of childhood herself.
My heart aches for her, for all of them- even Isabel. She doesn't know
how to get out of this trap. She doesn't know where to turn, but we
do, and that's why we're here.

We want to help her, we want to bring her out of her darkness. That is
our purpose. That she may be at one with Christ.