LOVING THE UNLOVELY

Chapter Two:  The Introduction

by Tricia K. Brown

Pastor Hos often spent Sunday evening in prayer.  There were no evening services in a place like this.  Most of the church-going community would never dream of stepping foot out of their homes after dark, but the church doors remained unlocked.  The church was open for anyone who might stray in—for a bite to eat, for a warm bench to sleep on, for prayer.  His apartment was above the church, but Hos made it a point to spend at least an hour every Sunday evening at the altar, praying by name for his congregants and for others in the community who he had grown to know and love.

The sound of the door flying open and slamming shut just as quickly startled him, and before he could get up, he heard the click of the lock.  He turned slowly but defensively, but then he saw a familiar sight.  It was the prostitute he had seen earlier that day, a fiery red head, even more scantily clad, disheveled, and dirty.  He could smell the alcohol on her breath, cigarette smoke on her clothes, and body odor, all mixed with the sickly sweet smell of cheap perfume.  As he walked closer, he noticed her thick black mascara and red rouge smeared down her cheeks.  

“I’m sorry,” she said, “It’s just that…” As her words trailed off, she glanced at the door behind her.

Pastor Hos had already seen the black eye, the bloody nose, the busted lip.

He pointed her towards the ladies’ bathroom. 

After a few minutes, she emerged, face and wounds freshly washed.  Hos was surprised at what a difference the little bit of soap had made.  She was actually rather young and had an attractive face.  He asked if she needed anything—something to eat, medical attention?

“I’ll be heading to my quarters in a minute, but if you need a place to sleep, there are blankets here,” he said, pointing to a pile stacked by the door.  Then he added rather hesitantly, “Would you like me to call the police?”

Before he said the word, she had already started towards the door, “No, no, really, I’m fine now.  Thank you.  I have to… to go back.. to… well, you know, work.”

And Hos felt it, that unmistakable push of the Holy Spirit.  He knew what it was.  God was telling him to do something, but Hos wasn’t sure what.  He had been a part of this scene many times during the past months.  The women were always different but always the same.  They would come in battered and leave battered, and within a few minutes they would be back in the bed of a stranger.  Still, he felt it.  “What Lord?” he questioned in himself. 

As she headed out the door, he said, “Wait!”  She paused momentarily, just long enough for him to ask, “Can you tell me your name?”

“People just call me G,” she said and shut the door behind her.