"La Septima"

“So GOD said in effect, ‘If that’s what you want, that’s what you get. It wasn’t long before they were living in a pigpen, smeared with filth, filthy inside and out. And all this because they traded the true GOD for a fake god, and worshiped the god they made instead of the GOD who made them—the GOD we bless, the GOD who blesses us. Oh, yes!” (Romans 1: 24)


“La Septima” (Seventh Street) is in downtown Tegucigalpa. But it is much more than a street, and is seldom given to taxi drivers or vendors as a destination. The wares hawked on “La Septima” are only for regular clients, heavily armed newcomers (or cops), or the occasional fool. “La Septima” has a major rep, so much so that even its name is sometimes whispered, eyes widened to emphasize the danger.

Jasmin grew up on “La Septima.” One of the pimps, Sara, started taking her there when she was nine years old. Yep. Nine years old. Last week when Jasmin slid into a severe depression again, she ran back to the Septima. When I caught up with her, she ran into a bar, locked herself in the bathroom and screamed, “I don’t want to see anybody! I don’t want to see anybody! I want to die! This is where I was born, and this is where I’m going to die!” During the next twenty-four hours or so she beat her hands against walls and posts until they were bloody and bruised. She “went crazy” (her term) on drugs. “What did you take?” I asked. “Little green pills,” she said. Whatever they were, she hoped they would free her from what the Septima had done to her. They didn’t.

Then Sara, who could see that she wasn’t going to make any money on Jasmin, had an idea: she took Jasmin, fully loaded with little green pills, down to “La Primera” (another redlight district) where some people had threatened to kill Jasmin before she went into the safehouse a few months ago. Sara, Jasmin’s “best friend” (according to Jasmin), decided to help Jasmin die. I guess that’s what friends are for in that part of town.

Jasmin says a guy held a pistol in front of her face and was ready to shoot. But he didn’t. Despite Sara’s encouragement, he inexplicably (unless you believe in the power of prayer) hesitated, and Jasmin ran back to the Septima where a guy from the safehouse had arrived to pick her up. With some help from a few other unlikely angels, he loaded her into the safehouse pickup and drove her, kicking and screaming, to a grubby place run by “Missionaries of the Street.”

Since the night was still young, Jasmin tried to throw herself from a balcony inside the safehouse. She cut one of her fingers badly, and apparently the blood caught her attention. She began to calm down. By the next day she was weary and hurting all over, but calling to say, “I’m sorry. I’m going to try again. Will you come to see me?” Four days later she was cheerful again: “They had some heavy prayer for me. They chased away the demons.” She was talking again about her little boy, her plans for the future, her desire to live for Jesus.

While I was trying unsuccessfully to rescue Jasmin, I had a spiritual encounter on the Septima. I saw Satan and I saw GOD. I saw Satan everywhere, in the drugged eyes and battered women, the tottering young people and the dark doorways. The Septima is clearly Enemy territory. But a woman tending a little fruitstand nearby was reading her Bible, and an agitated lady suddenly ran over to me, put both arms around my waist and pleaded, “You mustn’t be here! You mustn't be here! Come! Come!” I laughed, put an arm around her shoulder and said, “I’m covered with the blood of Jesus, and now I’m going to cover you, too!” “Cover me, cover me!” she agreed, closing her eyes. So I did, and under the best cover available to God’s children, especially in Enemy camp in broad daylight, we moved on.

The “Missionaries of the Street” are mostly recovered drug addicts and prostitutes, and they look rough. But they have a heart for rescuing the lost, and they cruise the streets day and night looking for someone to save. One of their “lookouts” had spotted Jasmin that day, so they went to get her and take her home. Every day they leave the ninety-nine to rescue the one. They know that inside each one of these frightful faces there is a lost lamb yearning to go Home. Thank you, Jesus, for Your street missionaries. I see You in them. Their grateful service very likely saved Jasmin’s life, and Jasmin has said more than once that she hopes to join this missionary band one day. That would be an incredible “Thy Kingdom come”!

“Lord Jesus, more missionaries are needed on the streets of our cities. More missionaries are needed on “La Septima.” Speak words of courage to our hearts, dear Savior, and send us out to seek and save the lost. In Your precious Name. Amen.”