The Love of a Father- Erica Beiler
slight, small, insignificant is the reach of all of me
these hands, can they be of any use?
these hands You’ve made, lose their way
caught in time and space
feelings I can’t replace…
Intense. My trip to Amsterdam was intense and there are no other words that can describe it. In fact, intense doesn’t begin to explain the way it impacted me. I wrote this poem before I left, thinking of the hardness I knew I would experience and when I came back I still felt the same. Nine days seemed a small amount of time to even be exposed to the ministry there that has taken years to build.
As I flew home, my mind kept recalling the faces of the women of the windows… these are the feelings that I can’t erase: Here I am sitting comfortably in a room I have chosen for myself, pursuing my own dreams, while just a breath away are girls (for that’s what a lot of them are) that have been trafficked into the sex industry, targeted because they have a certain void. A void that is temporarily filled by a lie of some young “lover boy” and that lie eventually brings them to the windows in Amsterdam. At first unwillingly and after awhile because it is all they know, the only “love” they think is available to them.
I think about how I have struggled to fill this same void in myself through relationships with men… and how it has brought me finally to the arms of an Unconditional Love. I am not that much different than the faces I saw… the only things that separate me and those women are the grace and love of Christ… it’s as simple as that. And yet to reach them with the news of this, it has taken one Christian woman I met at the Cleft four years to even breach the topic of God with one of these women… The work there is great, and yet who wants to spend their life forming relationships with women most of society has labeled as mere “products”?
Not to be trite, but I think that is exactly what God has called us to do… to minister to the brokenhearted. Whether it be in the windows of Amsterdam or on the streets of Minneapolis, we all have our responsibility to share our lives with those who need God’s love…which is… everyone… really share our lives, not just hand out our spiritual band aids… I leave you with this thought and this poem.
eyes that see through broken glass
seeking love that lasts
chained to memories
their screams silently drift into the darkness
forgotten they sit in pools of despair
in a society that rejects them
products with a shelf life
used to fill another’s void
all along seeking a love that lasts
to be whole in a place that only holds pieces
forgotten yet remembered