“I am taking you to the red-light district,” our translator says, “so we must pray because there is much spiritual battle there.”   We pray, then dodge auto rickshaws and taxis and goats, crossing the main road. We step around the corner, into a lane and I see them: women in front of narrow doorways on a dark street. Some just sitting and staring, others taking care of daily tasks—cooking rice, washing clothes.  Ordinary things. We stop to talk with them, asking if they know of Jesus and would they like to hear His story, asking how we can pray for them.

As *Martha and *Laura sit on a rope bed to share the Story with one lady, I find a bench nearby and sit beside two women who are engaged in animated conversation. They stop, greet me—and I try out Hindi phrases, much to their amusement. As they rise to go, a thin woman dressed in red and gold shalwar kameez is rushing towards me, speaking broken English nonstop.  “Hi mem. I am sick, mem. My body is paining me. I tell my madam I not want ‘work baby’. They take my baby.  I have TB…” When she stops to take a breath I quickly speak of Jesus’ love for her…and does she know of Jesus?  “Oh yes, mem. I love Jesus. I love Jesus.” Again the litany of troubles and she holds my arm.  I ask if I can pray for her in the name of Jesus. “Oh no, mem. I must go.” But what is your name? “Sudah.”  She runs off, down the lane. The dark lane. My brain that has been struggling to think of Hindhi words remembers another language from another time. “Sudah” in that language means “finished.”  Her life story feels like that—torn, bleeding, brief, finished. Lord, have mercy. Healer of the broken, touch Sudah and make her whole.

*names have been changed for security reasons