The lady I don't know her name

There’s a lady that’s always at center square. I’m ashamed to say that I still don’t know her name. But we know each other. I listen to her story. She’s kind to me and doesn’t ask for things - although I know she desperately needs help. Her and her husband are sitting under a tree in center park with a piece of cardboard full of homemade jewelry - hemp bracelets, braided bracelets, and cheap earrings. She over charges for fake tattoos. Sometimes her kids are sitting around with her, sometimes they’re not and I wonder where they are if they’re not with their mom. The little girl was a baby when I met the mom - still nursing. Now she’s probably 6. There are others in center square that are selling things and I shy away from them because they are in your face and pushy. She isn’t. She waits, hoping someone will buy something. And we talk. We hug. We talk about our kids. 

Once she came up and told me that she’d found Jesus. Someone invited her to church and she started going.

Once (a couple years ago) we hadn’t seen her in a while and I had just commented to Tristan how I was worried about her, and we happened to at the beach (4 hours away) for the weekend and guess who we saw selling jewelry on a piece of cardboard on the boardwalk? Yep, my ‘lady’.

Sometimes I help her with food, I brought her clothes for her girl, medicine for some wound she had. Mostly I just come give her a hug and we chat for a minute.

Her life is so hard. It’s painful. What can I do?

Last week we were in center square with a team of volunteers. We’d just eaten way too many pupusas and tacos and went to stroll around the park. As I came out of the restaurant the team relates what they’d just seen - a scuffle between some police officers and a lady gripping something tight in her hands (a cardboard of jewelry). It’s illegal to sell in the center park without a permit - and the police chose this day to enforce this law that is usually overlooked.

I knew immediately they were talking about her and my heart broke for her a little more.  She came limping up to me a few minutes later sobbing uncontrollably asking me to pray for her - to pray for peace and to pray for answers.  So I did. I held her tight and we pretended that the entire square wasn’t watching, judging, and wondering, and I begged God with her for peace. For open doors. Then she hurriedly limped out of the park, afraid and sad, knowing that if she didn’t sell enough, she couldn’t buy food for the day for her kids.

I’m sad for her. I wish I had something to offer that was more than a band-aide to her depressing, dark hole called her life. There’s no such thing as government assistance in Honduras. Friendship and prayers don’t seem like much.

It sounds silly to say I ‘know’ her when I don’t even know her name, but I do. I can’t do much for her. But I hope that her knowing I see her counts for something.