They Are Not Forgotten

It has been one month.

Last night I sat in my living room running a slideshow on our television, a month’s worth of pictures, stories, laughter, moments I’ve been carrying around like something precious and fragile. My mom leaned in close to the screen. My dad asked questions. My Aunt sat soaking it all in. It was the kind of night you wish you could stay inside forever. Take my family to work night, a month of ministry viewed through my phone. And then the pictures changed.

It started in Manila, parents meeting racers after 7 months apart, Fairview City, survivors, then – Angeles City.

I kept talking. I could feel myself still talking – but something happened to my voice. It didn’t disappear. It just… strangled. The words came out but they were wrapped in something I couldn’t shake loose. The tightness flooded back into my chest the same way it did the first night I walked under that neon sign. A month later and my body still remembers Red Street before my mind even catches up. There was something else I felt too, sitting there in the soft light of my living room.

Anger.

Not despair. Not just grief. Anger – the kind that rises when you’ve seen something that should not exist, when you’ve stood in the middle of a place the Enemy has claimed as his playground, and you’ve had to walk back out of it and fly home and resume your life while knowing it’s still running. Still open. Still lit up in neon. I ached to go back. To step back into the fight. That ache has not left me.

A few weeks ago I found myself in a hot bath staring out into our backyard. Normally I love this view. We have a lake behind our house and the sunsets are beautiful. It is one of my favorite quiet places to sit and breathe. But that night my mind was not there. It was back on that street. Back in that bar. Back looking at those women standing on that stage.

My eyes wandered across the yard and I noticed a small flower growing in the grass. The kind most people would call a weed. And I found myself wondering if the women on that stage ever see something that simple. Do they notice a flower growing somewhere? Do they ever sit long enough to marvel at the beauty of something God created? The thought hit my heart in a way I couldn’t explain. And once again, my chest tightened. My sleep was still filled with their faces. I kept replaying the moments, trying to make sense of what I felt. The only words I could land on were simple.

They are not forgotten.

When our bus first pulled into Angeles City I turned to my friend Kathy and said, “Do you feel that? I cannot breathe. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.” She knew, she felt it too. It was not anxiety. It was not fear. It was something heavier than that. A spiritual weight that settled over me the moment we arrived.

I had been preparing for this ministry for almost a year. It was one of the first ministries I was ever told about when I started working with Adventures in Missions. Because of my passion for fighting human trafficking, I believed I was ready for this battle. I had even said to parents before the trip, “Not every ministry is the Instagram version of feeding children or playing soccer at an orphanage. Sometimes the ministry is down the dark alley you do not want to look down. And God is needed there too.”

The Sunday before I left, Pastor Joby preached on being the salt and the light of the world from Matthew 5. I remember sitting there feeling like God Himself was strengthening me, calming my anxiety about leaving my family and reminding me why this work matters. But nothing prepared me for the moment we arrived.

Looking back, it also became incredibly clear how hard the Enemy was trying to keep us from doing this work. This was his city. His playground. And we were stepping right into the middle of it. The day before we were supposed to go out on the streets, everything seemed to unravel. Disruptions, miscommunications, tension among the squad, leadership challenges, logistical issues, emotional exhaustion among parents. It felt like the Enemy was working overtime to create chaos and distraction. That first night I did not even get to go out. I had to stay back and help work through issues with the team. At the time it felt frustrating, but looking back it makes sense. The battle had already started.

But by the second night, something had shifted. Every parent chose to go. God was so clearly present. We stepped out together.

Kathy’s sister Kara and I walked with a group of parents and Racers, led by Bekah and Shantel, our local Filipino guide. We passed under a large neon sign that read Red Street. My entire body went on alert. I noticed everything. The lights. The noise. The overwhelming number of men walking the streets. Do I smile? Do I make eye contact? What am I supposed to do here?

Even writing about it now, my breathing changes, the tears flow unknowingly and my face begins to crumble into that ugly cry.

Bekah led us into what she called the “tamest bar.” We sat down at a table and the women began walking out onto the stage one by one. Each woman had a number. The faces are something I will never forget. Blank. Emotionless. Numb. They danced to preset songs, moving through the motions of a routine they had likely done hundreds of times before. It was mechanical. Hollow.

Except for one girl.

She was smiling and waving at two of the Racers who were with us. They had bought her a Bible the day before and written something inside it for her. When they told the bar manager they wanted to call her down, the woman used a laser pointer to highlight her number. The girl came down and sat with them. And these racers… they were like high school girls, not seeing anything but God’s child. Not embarrassed or shocked, but loving, not fearful, but excited. As I always do, I sit in awe of these children, these racers. In awe of how God works through them.

I remember Kara telling me, “I don’t know what to do Noelle, I can’t look at them, I am so sick to my stomach.” And in pure Noelle bravado, acting like I completely have it together I say to Kara with confidence, “don’t worry I found you a girl”, pointing to the stage at number 23 and telling the waitress we wanted her. Her name was Jennifer. She came down and sat between Bekah and Kara while we talked. She said she was 27, but there was no way she was more than 18. We bought her a soda and listened to Bekah talk about Wipe Every Tear and we sat silently even though we could swear the world could hear the sound of the breaking and crushing of our hearts.

We decided to bar fine Jennifer – paying for the rest of her night so she could leave work. For one night she would be free from the stage. Free from being displayed. Free from the threat of sexual exploitation. We asked if she had a friend she wanted to bring with her. She did. The total came to 10,100 Philippine pesos – about $172.99. Kara laughed and said she didn’t have all the money. I remember immediately saying, “We have it. I have it. Let’s take both of them.” Joe had told me before the trip to spend whatever I felt called to spend. So we did.

As we were leaving, the bar owner came over and began talking with Shantel. She pointed to Shantel and said to me, “She used to be my friend.” The owner explained that she used to see Shantel walking these streets and was so happy she had found WET and was now living a different life. Before we left, the owner hugged me and thanked us for what we were doing. That moment alone held so much complexity it is hard to explain. Before we left the DJ even played a worship song in the bar for us. (What is even going on here!) We walked out into the street with the girls. Kara held Jennifer’s hand the way a mother holds her daughter’s hand. Jennifer held her friend’s hand. I walked beside them simply observing everything.

We took the girls to Jollibee for dinner. I showed them pictures of my children and of my father, who is Filipino. Later my mom asked me if it was harder because they looked like me. They do not actually look like me. I am only half Filipino. But in my heart it felt like they could be family. These girls could easily be someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, MY cousin.

Years ago, one of my junior high and high school friends was trafficked. I already hated this evil for what it does to women and children. Lisa is a hero for coming out of what she has gone through and I am her biggest fan. This fight has always been personal to me but being there made it so much more real.

After dinner we took the girls to the WET Welcome Center for karaoke. Bekah led the entire evening with a confidence and joy that left me in awe. This tall, blonde haired, white girl from Wisconsin had moved here for two years because she felt called to love these women. And then something incredible happened. The girls started singing. The life came back into their faces. Their laughter filled the room. Their smiles were genuine and radiant. Their voices were beautiful, like angels filling the space with joy. I remember just sitting there staring, feeling like I was watching Jesus wrap His arms around them.

And something inside me broke. We pray prayers all the time asking God to break our hearts for what breaks His. That night I realized what an answered prayer actually feels like.

It feels like shattering.

A few days later I was kneeling in front of Apo Whang-Od, receiving her famous three-dot tattoo. It is said to represent the past, present, and future. As the lemon thorn needle worked into my skin, I felt no pain. But a single tear rolled down my face. Those three dots took on a new meaning for me. Shantel. Apo. Me. Three very different Filipinas, connected in a moment I will never forget.  I chose to place the dots on my shoulder because I never want to forget the weight of what I saw. I want to carry the reminder of the oppressed, the poor, and the exploited. I want to remember that I am called to serve them.

One month later, the weight is still there.

I felt it last night in my living room when the pictures changed and my voice went strange. I felt it in the anger that rose quietly in my chest – anger at a place that stays open, anger at an enemy who has staked his claim on a street full of women with numbers instead of names. The story will never die. The weight will always be carried on my shoulder.

And the truth that continues to echo – across the ocean, across a month of restless sleep, across a slideshow in a quiet living room in Florida – is the same truth it has always been.

They are not forgotten.