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Freed to Forgive

By Julie B Cosgrove

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CHAPTER ONE
San Antonio, Summer 2023
Marisol Hernández did a double take. An icy tingle slithered down her arms. She recognized the woman’s face. One she never thought she’d see again. Jen Westlaw. Except now her name read Wilson? She backstepped a few paces to peer into Jen’s pixelated bluish-green eyes displayed on the Abundant Life Church’s marquee as it flashed the latest posts from their social media site. The face beckoned her—once again. Yes, definitely the same woman. They met in 2013. The year Marisol’s life changed. Hadn’t the news reported she’d disappeared without a trace and was presumed dead years ago? Yet there she gleamed in 3D color. A man with a handsome smile stood next to Jen in the photo. Tom, it read. She’d never learned his name, but she recognized him all right. He’d helped Jen escape. He had appeared again at the shelter on that horrid day—held Marisol’s hand, whispered she could trust him. She had, and part of her still regretted the decision. Vivid memories flooded her thoughts, pressing against the emotional dam which she’d carefully constructed over the past decade. The hurt, once pooled deep inside, rushed from its stagnant state through cracks in her psyche. Waves of her secret torment rolled and crashed within the walls of her heart, threatening to drag her under. She gasped for breath. “Watch it. Other people use this sidewalk.” A sharp male voice jolted Marisol back to the present. She’d absent-mindedly edged into the passenger’s path. She dashed her gaze to the concrete. An old habit. Never look a man in the eyes. That had been pounded into her brain. And her back. Her last jefé once beat her with a belt for doing it. Ten lashes. Obey, or suffer. A tough lesson learned for a spirited, angry teenager who’d fought so hard to survive. She twitched her shoulder blade, the old pain jabbing her once again. Some scars never heal. In a low voice she apologized to the stranger. “Lo siento. Um, sorry.”
“Yeah. Well, this isn’t Mexico.” Disgust vibrated through his words. “Give them some help and they think they deserve the world.” His grumbling faded with his footsteps. Her eyes lifted back to the photo of the woman who had changed her destiny. Marisol should be grateful. But she wasn’t. The lady also represented every ugly, vile, and hurtful thing which happened to Marisol that year. Too many remembrances. So much shame. A tear trickled down her cheek. Oh, why did she have to see that face again? When could she finally forget? With arms tight around her torso, the twenty-three-year-old Hispanic woman gulped back the emotions ebbing in her chest. That was not her life now. She spoke excellent English, carried a permanent green card, and held a good job…for which she’d be late if she didn’t pull it together. So why couldn’t she break her stare? As if the eyes… A hand softly pressed onto her shoulder. “Are you okay, miss?” Marisol buckled in dread. Another old habit when any man touched her. Shoes shuffled towards her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You speak English?” She bobbed her head. He bent down to meet her face. A black shirt came into view as a whiff of woodsy men’s cologne filled her nose. A small, wooden cross dangled from beneath his open collar. Marisol dared to raise her eyes, just a touch. They were met by a warm smile. Two strong hands gently touched her arms. “Come into the church. We can talk. Perhaps I can help you.” Alarms went off. No. Never go anywhere with a strange man—ever again. Marisol twisted from his grip, her gaze returning downward. The man released his hands and held them out, palms up. “My name is Pastor Jake. You can trust me.” One eye cocked enough to peer into his. Honesty oozed from them, as did reverence, etched by slight crow’s feet. He appeared to be in his late thirties. A gold band glimmered on his left ring finger. A shudder raced under her skin. “No. I…I’ve got to go.” She didn’t deserve to be noticed by anyone who served God. She might taint him with her presence. She willed her shoes to move— away from the man, the marquee, and her memories. But they locked to the sidewalk. His eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”
Marisol inhaled a shaky breath. Yes, you do. She recalled him as well, though they only met twice before…many long and difficult years ago. But she’d never reveal it. To do so would dredge up too much sorrow. “I’m late for work.” Bottom lip tucked into her teeth, Marisol backed away, forcing her legs to pivot. She shuffled quickly down the street away from the pastor and the photo. Both dredged up her painful past.
* * *
Jake shook his head. The young woman displayed all the makings of a trafficked victim. Should he call it in to the National Human Trafficking Resource Center? No, not unless he could be more sure. He lifted his eyes to the sky. “If I can help her, let our paths cross again, Lord. In the meantime, bless her.” As he jiggled his keys to find the one that unlocked the main doors of the church, the Hispanic woman’s face invaded his thoughts. Where had he seen her? The workshops over the past eight years attracted quite a few girls. Perhaps she’d attended one recently. Yet, surely she’d recognize him. Jake shrugged it off. In three days, the woman who opened his eyes would be back in his pews. His church agreed to host one of the many events Jen and Tom planned for their third visit to the United States. The Wilsons helped run a home for once-trafficked young women in England. During the summer, the couple held healing conferences in the United States for the sexually abused and those who suffered from post-abortion guilt. This year, the Wilson’s three adopted children would attend church camp in the Texas Hill Country while their parents lectured. Their last two weeks in the U.S. would be a relaxed family time at Tom and Jen’s vacation home on the Pedernales River. Jake smiled as he patted the invitation in his shirt pocket requesting he join them for a few days. Memories of the screened-in porch cabin along the river filtered in. There, Jen confessed her secret shame. Jake gave her a pamphlet about the meetings—which he by providence attended a few weeks prior—designed to help women like her find healing. That one piece of paper catapulted Jake, Jen and Tom into a ministry which now reached into forty countries. When he left seminary for his first church assignment in 2013, little did he realize the path God intended to blaze. By His design, Jen had altered Jake’s life as much as she had her own.
As he crossed in front of the altar, Jake couldn’t shake the sense the young Hispanic woman on the sidewalk today was about to change it again.

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