Breakfast with a Hooker

I stirred the eggs on my plate and made polite conversation with a half dozen women circled around the breakfast table. I was the retreat speaker and this was an opportunity to learn more about the women attending.

Next to me sat Briana, a tall black woman with sculptured features, saucer eyes, and a thick British accent. While the other women laughed and shared stories of late night games and conversations, Briana’s downcast eyes seldom left her plate. I wondered why, so I softly attempted to engage her. 

“Where are you from, Briana?”

I stirred the eggs on my plate and made polite conversation with a half dozen women circled around the breakfast table. I was the retreat speaker and this was an opportunity to learn more about the women attending.

Next to me sat Briana, a tall black woman with sculptured features, saucer eyes, and a thick British accent. While the other women laughed and shared stories of late night games and conversations, Briana’s downcast eyes seldom left her plate. I wondered why, so I softly attempted to engage her. 

“Where are you from, Briana?”

“Haiti—my family lives in Haiti.”

“What brings you to Dallas?” I inquired.

Her answers were evasive at first, but as she sensed my sincere desire to know her story, the words gushed out. Barbara, the woman sitting next to her, placed her hand on the woman’s arm. Briana spoke of her escape from poverty in Haiti, deception once she arrived, and several years in “the life,” as she called it. She had been off the streets for almost a year, thanks to Barbara, who dedicated her days and resources to giving women like Briana a roof over their heads, job training, mentoring, and, most importantly, new life with Jesus. 

I was humbled and awed by Barbara’s courage and her fierce determination to fight for women caught in “the life.” And I was glad she and Briana had come. It took guts to join “squeaky clean” white women at a Bible church retreat. None of us is squeaky clean, of course, but few women attending were in the habit of sharing breakfast with hookers either. I hugged Briana, thanked her for sharing her story, and prayed for her. 

If you had asked me the day before if I wanted to eat breakfast with an ex-hooker, I’m not sure what my answer might have been. I remember when I ministered in prisons that sometimes when I held inmates’ hands to pray, I fought against feeling dirty. But more and more I realize these women are just like me. Jesus is helping me love them wholeheartedly, and, strangely, in the process also helping me to accept myself, flaws and all. 

That morning, I walked away from Briana and Barbara, honored to be a servant of Jesus, who alone can transform Brianas with his amazing love. And I praised God for her mentor, sitting quietly next to her, doing the work of the gospel. I might have been teaching the Bible that weekend, but Barbara was living the Bible. The last shall be first. 

How do you think you might respond if you found yourself sitting next to an ex-prostitute? Why do you think Jesus kept running into wild women? What are the lessons for us today?