Prisoners of Hope

by Dayna Curry

  Eventually, I became the only one of my friends who remained a virgin. I had a boyfriend of several months and thought I loved him. According to my own moral code, it seemed right that I should be intimate with the first guy I loved. One night my boyfriend persuaded me. I badly regretted it, and I told myself I did not want to do that again until marriage.

  Junior year I met an older boy at a party, and we started dating. He experimented with drugs, and I followed his lead. One night after we had been dating several months my boyfriend took advantage of me. Tears streamed down my face, and I remember thinking: I tried to stay pure, but what’s the use? I’m dirty now, and nothing can change that. I might as well go along with it. Afterward, we became sexually involved.

  During the same period, I began attending a new church with my mother. I enjoyed the modern music and worship style. People at the church seemed happy. They would dance and sing out to God from the heart, and I enjoyed it. I would bring my boyfriend with me and wanted him to like the church. I was beginning to believe we were not living right.

  One time the preacher talked about “riding the fence,” having one foot in the church and one foot in the world. I knew he was talking about my life, but I had no clue how to get out of it. I had no friends living the kind of life the preacher was talking about—a clean life. I felt totally defiled, as if I already had blown every chance for purity. How was I supposed to change?

  At some point, I began to worry that I might become pregnant if I wasn’t careful. I wanted to break off the physical relationship with my boyfriend—I had a sense I was being warned. But I could not seem to follow through. It wasn’t long before my concerns caught up with me: I got pregnant on my seventeenth birthday.

  Fear took over. I was afraid of shaming my family. I was afraid my father would disown me. I was afraid my mother would send me to a convent or that I would have to go before the preacher. Someone at school mentioned that I might get expelled if anyone found out I was pregnant. I did not know if that was true, but the prospect contributed to my fear. I began to think abortion was the only way out. One girl asked me in the bathroom at school if I had considered adoption. I don’t believe I ever thought it through. I just reacted by saying, “There is no way.” And I never heard the suggestion again. Some of the women at the restaurant where I worked had gotten abortions and knew where to take me. The abortion law in Tennessee did not require parental consent.

  I remember being so confused in the waiting room. My now ex-boyfriend—we broke up before I knew I was pregnant—sat beside me weeping. I, on the other hand, was hard as a rock. If he wanted me to keep the baby, why was he here? I would have kept it if only he had agreed. I felt angry and betrayed. I remember praying to God, “Lord, let this baby go to heaven and send me to hell.” I was so mixed up.

  After the abortion, I felt like a stone. I felt dead inside for several months. I made a pact with myself that I would never be intimate with a guy again until marriage; but two weeks later, I went to a party with my cousin, got completely drunk, and ended up having a one-night stand with a stranger. I was utterly ashamed of myself. I thought, I’m out of control. I need help.

  Eventually, my father found out about the abortion and my one-night stand from my aunt. He invited me to dinner and confronted me. It was my worst fear come true. I was so humiliated, devastated, and broken. But my father just looked at me with tears in his eyes and told me he loved me. Later I told my mother about the abortion. She cried, too. She did not understand why I had not shared the news of my pregnancy with her. She said she would’ve helped me through it, but I had not thought of that.

  Back at church I began to experience awareness that God was drawing me to him. When I sang from my heart I would feel joyous and peaceful inside. I was still living fast on the weekends, however, and I knew I needed power to get out of the cycle. I needed something. I would go to a Chinese restaurant with my fake ID, order mai tais, smoke cigarettes, and tell my friends, “I know God is real. I know there is something more.”

  When it came time to apply to colleges, my mother chose Baylor University for me. Among other criteria, she was looking for a school with a good business program and a Christian emphasis. I was not interested in the application process. I only knew I wanted to get as far away from Tennessee as possible. I wanted a new life. That was it. My mom would not let me go farther than a day’s drive, so Baylor—located in Waco, Texas—fit the bill. Baylor did not allow smoking in school facilities, either—another plus from my mother’s perspective.

  Once I got to Baylor I encountered a group of students from a Baptist church that later helped establish my current church—Antioch Community Church. The students were so alive and loving and passionate for God. I never knew people like that existed. When I visited the church, I experienced freedom in singing and worshiping God like I had never known. But I still carried a heavy weight of guilt for the abortion. I remember meeting someone who had been adopted and thinking, Wow, if this person’s mom had opted for an abortion he wouldn’t be here—this sweet, wonderful person wouldn’t be here. I so wished I, too, had thought about adoption, or that I had gone to my parents. I knew I could have made it nine months.

  At the end of an evening get-together on campus, a pastor said to those of us gathered, “There may be some of you who feel like wounded puppies. It’s as if you are under a table and do not want to come out because you’re afraid. If you would like to raise your hand, we would love to pray for you.” My heart was pounding in my chest. I raised my hand along with a few other people. The pastor instructed the students to gather around and pray for those with their hands raised. Three students started praying for me. I just cried and cried. It was as if waves of heat were washing over me. I knew God was touching me. “It’s a terrible sin,” I told the students. But for the first time I felt I was forgiven.

  Later that year, I thought God wanted me to talk openly with my new friends about the abortion. I was afraid they would reject me, but I believed I needed to share. I told some friends about my experience at a small group-prayer meeting for freshman students. Afterward, each of the girls kissed my cheek as a sign of acceptance. I felt incredible freedom and joy. I could not quit smiling. In those days, whenever I started to feel shame or guilt, I meditated on this scripture: “Those who look to [the Lord] are radiant, their faces are never covered with shame” (Psalm 34:5).

  Meanwhile, I faced some temptation to go to parties. One night I went to a party, but I managed to get out of there without drinking alcohol. When I got back to my room, I made a declaration to myself: “Okay. I’m just going to give this Jesus thing a try. I’m going to give myself to you, Lord, a hundred percent and see what happens, see if you really meet my needs.” I started reading the Bible regularly for the first time and was awed by what I read—stories about healings and other miracles and the lives of Jesus’ apostles. Oh my gosh, I thought, no one told me all of this was in here. I read the Bible and other books about God all the time. Some days I would pick up a take-home lunch from the cafeteria and spend time talking with God. I went to the church every time it opened. My heart overflowed with love for God. I was beginning to see my way out of the terrible place I had inhabited. I thought, This relationship with God is what I was created for.

  On an outreach trip to Mexico spring break of my freshman year, a pastor and others prayed for me during a special prayer time. I immediately felt a sense of God’s presence and love and began to cry. While the pastor prayed, he said, “Dayna, one who has been forgiven much loves much.”

  The pastor’s words helped me understand why I had such incredibly passionate and tender love in my heart for God. I loved God more than I ever imagined was possible. I could have ended up addicted to drugs or alcohol. I could have contracted a sexually transmitted disease. But God helped me get off the wrong track, and I was so grateful.

  Later, during one college summer break, I wanted to make some things right. I went back to the stores where I had shoplifted a
nd paid back some money. I gave $100 to one store. The manager seemed a bit shocked, but he took the money. The other store had closed down. I also called the ex-boyfriend with whom I had gotten pregnant and told him I forgave him. I explained that God had changed my life. Nothing in my life was hidden any longer. I felt free and clean.

  As an outgrowth of the profound change I had experienced, I got involved in the lives of young girls as a mentor through the Waco Center for Youth. Many had been sexually abused, abandoned, or convicted of crimes. I befriended them. I took them to church with me. My heart broke for girls who were down and out, pregnant, addicted to drugs and alcohol, or in any kind of serious trouble. I wanted to give them the kind of support I could have used myself not so long ago.

  This same motivation took me to Guatemala and Siberia with church groups during summer breaks. I even told a gathering of Siberians about my abortion experience and the power of God’s forgiveness. My desire was to serve people who had never had the opportunity to hear about God’s love for them through Jesus. Knowing God as a loving father, experiencing his forgiveness—these things had completely changed my life. I wanted others to experience that same kind of love.

  I graduated from Baylor in 1993 with a degree in social work and decided to do a year of discipleship training with my church. At the end of my training, I learned that the church needed people to go to Uzbekistan to help teach new Christians. I was not sure what to do with my life at that point—to serve overseas, to apply to graduate school, or to pursue a career. I prayed that my pastor and church leaders would give me the right direction about my future plans. Before a scheduled meeting, I picked up my guitar and began to play a song I had not sung in years: “Here am I, send me to the nations, as an ambassador for you, as an ambassador for you, my Father.”

  At the meeting, my pastor and church leaders suggested I pray about going to Uzbekistan. When they mentioned it, I felt great excitement. Thanks to my mother, I was not saddled with debt from my education. I was free to go. I reflected on the verse of scripture written into the song I had played on my guitar: “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’ ” (Isaiah 6:8). After much prayerful consideration, I believed God simply was looking for someone who was willing to go wherever there might be a need. I wanted to be such a person, so I committed to go to Tashkent for two years.

  In Tashkent I learned Russian and some Uzbek, worked at an English library, and taught Christians mostly from Russian backgrounds. For much of the time I was the only longtime worker from Waco in Tashkent. The church sent people to the city in shifts to support me, and soon after I arrived a married couple came and carried the pastoral weight of our group. But at various points I served as the unwitting leader of some thirty new Christians.

  Our meetings were discreet. The government of Uzbekistan, once part of the former Soviet Union, approves certain brands of Islam along with Russian Orthodox Christianity and other Christian denominations; but the law places heavy restrictions on religious activity. In our group—which later became two groups—we studied the Bible, sang worship songs, and prayed together. We supported one another in friendship. I taught a few people how to play the guitar.

  In Tashkent I first saw women fully covered in Islamic dress. I would see the women walking in groups on the city’s main square, and I would want to talk to them. They wore black coverings called chadors. I could see the women’s eyes through slits in the fabric. I remember thinking, How do you approach such a woman? How do you offer her love and comfort? How can you reach her?

  In the second year of my stay in Tashkent, a young married couple from our church came through on their way to Afghanistan. Chris and Katherine Mason met with our group and talked about the desperate needs of the Afghan people. Once the Masons left, our group began to pray regularly for Afghanistan. The Masons also told me that they hoped I would join them in Afghanistan one day.

  In 1996, I returned to Waco for nearly three years and took a job as a social worker in an alternative school for troubled youth. I wanted to experience workaday life in America. I enjoyed my job with the kids at school, but I soon began to long to go abroad again. I missed the slower pace of life in Central Asian culture. I missed being a part of overseas prayer and worship meetings. My exposure to the life stories of Mother Teresa of Calcutta and Jackie Pullinger—a British woman who traveled alone to Hong Kong while in her twenties to serve the poor and drug-addicted—stirred the longing in my heart to demonstrate God’s love to the poor in other nations.

  My pastor began to encourage me to get my feet wet again. I had hoped to get married and go back overseas with a husband, but I could not put my life on hold waiting for a husband to materialize. The needs of the people in Afghanistan were as great as ever, and our church wanted to send people to join the Masons long-term as aid workers in Kabul. I took an exploratory trip there in the summer of 1998 with a small team that included Heather.

  When our group was evacuated from Kabul after the Taliban clashed with the foreign community, we spent the rest of our time touring the Afghan refugee camps in Peshawar. One day I had the opportunity to give my blood in a refugee hospital to help save a little Uzbek girl’s life. I was deeply moved that the needs of these people were so acute that my small act could have such an effect. I thought, OK, I can do this. I can come and work here.

  I read in the book of Isaiah: “[I]f you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness.… The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame” (Isaiah 58:10, 11). Afghanistan qualified as a sun-scorched land. The Afghan people were most certainly hungry and oppressed. If I would just give myself to the Afghans wholeheartedly—if I would give my life over to the poor and needy—then God would satisfy me.

  A few months after that 1998 summer trip, I heard someone describe overseas Christian service like this: “Whether you feel called and go, or simply volunteer and go, the end result will be the same. Your fulfillment and reward will be the same.” In other words, I did not need some big dramatic sense of calling or vision to go to Afghanistan. I could just go. It actually seemed crazy not to go, since so few people were willing to serve in such a desolate place. I was not afraid to go, and I was not bothered by the idea of living humbly. I said, “God, if you provide me with the finances, I will go.” Within a few months—thanks to the support of friends and family—I had enough money, and I committed myself to working in Kabul for a year.

  My decision frightened my father. He was concerned for my safety, with the war between Taliban and Northern Alliance forces raging in the northeast corner of the country. Also, though he later saw how fulfilled I was by my work, my dad was initially disappointed in my choosing to go to Afghanistan. In the big picture, he hoped I would go to graduate school, earn a good salary, and start saving for the future. I felt bad about letting him down, but I did not want to live what many consider a typical American life. I desired to serve people and show them God’s love in places where others did not want to go. By living and working in America, I learned that God loved me whether I stayed or went; but I also realized that serving overseas was a tremendous privilege and an incredible adventure.

  My mother—an adventurer herself and one of my motivators—agreed. As a young woman, she had considered joining the Peace Corps to teach French in Africa. By the time I committed to going to Afghanistan, my mom was used to my own overseas wanderings and even had visited me while I lived in Tashkent. She offered to do my taxes and send out a regular newsletter for me while I was in Afghanistan; and she said she would see me in Kabul. In fact, she made it to Pakistan in 2000 but could not get an Afghan visa. When she finally did get into the country, it was to visit her daughter the prisoner.

  As I prepared to move to Kabul in August 1999, I envisioned a simple life of helping the poor. I also planned to pr
ay for Afghanistan—I strongly believed prayer would make a difference for the Afghan people. The country was under tight religious restriction, so I knew I would not be able to share my faith openly. I wasn’t sure how I would fare without being able to talk about Jesus, but I thought if I could look just one desperate widow in the eyes and tell her God loved her, then the time would be worth it. I was delighted to find later that God would provide many opportunities to speak about him.

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  HARD QUESTIONS

  Heather & Dayna: Before we committed to working in Afghanistan long-term, we each asked ourselves hard questions. We also answered hard questions posed by our families and friends. Extraordinary are the parents who do not balk at the idea of their child moving to a third-world, war-ravaged, drought-stricken country—and, in this case, a country serving as a hub for international terrorist activity. That we had decided to go as Christian aid workers to a country where a harsh, unpredictable regime severely curtailed religious freedom gave most of our loved ones pause at best, and otherwise prompted serious alarm. We were asked: “Aren’t you being foolish? Why would you jeopardize your own safety?”

  Of course, countless individuals choose to put themselves in harm’s way every day because they believe in what they are doing. Police officers, firefighters, journalists, U.S. Special Forces, United Nations peacekeepers—these people sacrifice their own security to pursue their passions, convictions, and dreams. We were no different. Our dream was to go to hard-to-reach places and demonstrate God’s love by serving the poorest of the poor.

  Just as some people are motivated in their vocations by political ideology or patriotism, we were motivated to serve the poor by our love for Jesus. He loved us enough to rescue us from our destructive behaviors, selfishness, bitterness, and isolation. He was a faithful friend who protected and provided for us. We wanted to do the things that he considered important.