One Story

It had been a long day and though it was only Tuesday, already the week's activities made it seem more like a Friday. Rachel and I sat facing the empty lobby of the Pregnancy Center. It was 8:30 pm and, likely, no one else would come this evening. The weather was cool; the first break in the summer heat, and often people will skip their appointments when it's not a sauna outside. Similarly, the rain was threatening. When the clientele relies highly on buses, the threat of rain and standing at a stop while buckets drop all around will keep some inside.

It seemed that way tonight. It was dead in the Center. I was mentally wrapping up my day and simultaneously vegging out in the DC Express. Rachel is a natural introvert and I know this about her. Better to let her read (as she was doing) than to force conversation. Sometimes it's nice to just sit with someone and each read. So, we did. Happily.

It was her turn to see the next client, but she'd gotten up to use the restroom and was in there when the bell rang. I closed my Express and listened for Rachel's footsteps. There was only silence.

Guess I am on duty.

I answered the door and in came Marta. Only, I didn't know her name yet. I checked her in and by the time I pulled a new chart Rachel had returned.

Since I'd already greeted Marta and didn't mind one last client before the night ended, Marta and I left Rachel to her book and went to a private room so I could learn just part of her story.

The Pregnancy Center is a nonprofit Christian organization. It offers a plethora of services: classes (parenting and childbirth), counseling (post-abortion and general), education (sexual health), material resources (i.e. items like clothing, diapers, car seats, etc.), Bible studies, and free pregnancy tests. The Center is an organization that gives what it receives. The donations are often given by local churches and neighborhood ambassadors who want to help others in their community. There's nothing fancy about the Center. Once it was a local grocery store, but was converted decades ago into what it is now- an organization that helps women (mostly) and men in need when they fall on hard times. I've been a volunteer there for four years and never hear the same story.

Marta sat across from me. She was articulate and, despite her strong accent, I could tell she'd been in the States for a while. Her English wasn't very broken and there was little "interpretation lag time" where she internally translated my words before responding externally.

She looks tired.

I always try to put my clients at ease early in our conversation and Marta let me. Though she seemed a bit nervous at first, she soon relaxed and we settled into our time together. She wasn't that young. The average age of the clients I see is probably about 22. Marta eclipsed that age by two decades. She was an experienced mother with four children. It was her latest, Marvin, who had been the surprise. He had arrived 11 months earlier and eight years after his closest sibling in age.

Marta is married, which is also not the norm for the women I see. Her wedding ring is simple and gold. I barely see it on her folded finger. You can imagine my (slight) surprise when she tells me that she lives with just her sons.

I pause at this fact, but wait patiently and then dig a little deeper. Within a few minutes I learn that she and her husband, Carlos, are from Honduras. They moved to give their kids a better life. She was a few months pregnant when he was found working illegally and deported back to Honduras. He'd not seen Marta, baby Marvin, or their three other sons since his deportation. Baby Marvin just learned how to walk.

As she shared her story, I found my eyes welling as my heart broke. Yet Marta stayed strong. I guess when it's your story and you're living it, tears aren't always an option- at least not when you're sitting in a foreign place and speaking with a stranger. Marta is proof of that.

Without a job, she'd lost their home and the safe nest that she'd built with her husband. Their house had been foreclosed on because Carlos wasn't there to work and pay their growing family's bills. Marta was pregnant and then raising a newborn alone. Her partner had been stripped of her and her three eldest boys were relying on her. She took them to a shelter, even baby Marvin, when their house was foreclosed. At only a few months old, Marvin was seeing the inside walls of a community shelter, a place that the majority of Americans will never see themselves, let alone live.

There were no painted walls with family pictures hanging on them. No comforting sofa or inviting bed. Only a foreign mattress, empty walls and a community of strangers beyond Marta's small family.

Marta has received help from DC nonprofit organizations similar to the Pregnancy Center and she's found solace at a local Catholic church. The organizations helped her with her health care and given her advice on next steps. Her priest has offered her a shoulder and probably some needed hugs. Still. It's tough and I see it in her eyes. Nothing has been easy and some steps only lead her backwards. Depression has taken its toll on her. She tells me that at least she doesn't cry all day anymore. My heart aches and I share her burden, if only during our time together.

Keep it together, Meredith. I feel my throat tingling. The tears are welling and my face flushes. Listen. She needs someone to listen.

So I do.

She sits before me and tells me of her hope- a class where she can get become certified in nursing and hopefully find a job to support her family. Once certified, the program helps its graduates find work. Ana's eyes light up as she talks about it. I realize it's her ray. It may be her only sunshine right now. Then the clouds return. The class is $200.

It's not much, but the woman is sitting in front of me and hoping I'll give her $12 worth of diapers and some gently used clothes. To her, $200 is unreachable. She pauses and I pry more. The organization will let her begin the three month program in good faith that she'll find a job within the duration and be able to pay. She tells me that she's scrounged up $50 to show them she's committed. Marta sees it as her only option.

Marta will begin her program tomorrow. The program will provide a babysitter for her boys each night as she works on securing their future. While she listens in the classroom, the boys are a few doors down. In better times, the boys would have been at home at that hour and playing in their rooms while Marta and Carlos talked about baby names.

But these aren't those times.

Marta and I wrap up our time together and my mind is racing, my heart is aching and my spirit is mourning what she's lost. We pray together and I take comfort knowing that the Holy Spirit intercedes for me. My words seem like a scratch on the surface.

Marta's story is one of hundreds that I've heard. No two are alike. No stereotype exists within the walls of the Center. Politics fall away as faces and stories prevail. The night ends and the doors are locked until tomorrow when new stories will fill the Center's walls.

I can't leave untouched and I thank God that I'm not.

(*names have been changed for privacy reasons)