The diminutive house was simple but tolerable. It consisted of one large room on a rutted and dusty street. Its red tin roof was one of many in this poor neighborhood on the outskirts of the obscure Brazilian village. It was nondescript but a passable home. Maria and her daughter Christina had done what they could to add color to the grey walls and warmth to the inflexible dirt floor: an old calendar, a wooden crucifix, a faded photograph of a family patriarch. The furnishings were unpretentious: a single bed on each side of the room, an artless washbasin, and an unfashionable wood-burning stove.
Maria's husband had died when Christina was an infant. The widowed mother, stubbornly refusing opportunity to remarry, found employment and set out to raise her young daughter alone. And now, fifteen years later, the most difficult days and times had passed. Though Maria's salary as a maid afforded no luxuries, it was reliable and provided life's necessities. Now Christina had reached the age where she could work and contribute to the family finances.
Christina was a free spirited young lady. Some say she got her independence from her mother. More than likely it was the combination of her mother's self-sufficiency and the absence of a father figure in her life. She cringed at the cultural view and traditional idea of marrying young and raising a family. And this was not because she had no suitors, for she had her pick of men. Her curvaceous figure, shimmering olive skin, and riveting brown eyes kept a steady stream of hopeful prospects at her door. She possessed the rare magic some women have that causes men to become entranced, reeling them into a captive spell, sending their heads turning, their minds spinning, their thoughts wandering, their hearts racing. But it was her spirited curiosity and idealist hopes that pushed the idea of marriage and family away. She longed for something bigger and better, something vibrant and exciting, a place where dreams are discovered, where life is more than subsistence.
Christina spoke frequently of moving to the city. She visualized trading her dirt floor and impoverished barrio for the paved roads and bright lights, for the nascent excitement of the mystical shining city sitting on the sapphire water's edge, rimmed with lush green mountains, protected by Jesus towering high above. Just the thought of this horrified her mother. Maria was always quick to remind Christina of the harshness of the city, "People do not know you there. Jobs are scarce and life is cruel. How will you survive and what will you do for a living?" Christina ignored and dismissed her mother's questions. She refused to allow anything to dissuade her from pursuing her dreams. Yet, Maria knew exactly what Christina would have to do for a living. In a country with a sparse middle class, migrants with limited resources, inadequate skills, and no contacts are usually forced into a sordid underground world of survival. That is why Maria's heart broke when she awoke one morning to find her daughter's bed empty and the one family suitcase missing.
Maria knew immediately where her daughter had gone. Instantly, she knew what she needed to do. Time was of the essence. She quickly rifled through her drawers and threw some clothes in a bag, gathered up her life savings, and ran out of the house. On her frantic rush to the town bus stop, she entered the local drug store to purchase one last thing she needed - pictures. She sat in the photograph booth, closed the curtain, and spent all she could afford on images of herself. With her purse full of black-and-white photos, she boarded the bus for Rio de Janeiro.
Maria was aware that Christina had no means to earn enough money to build a life in the city. She also knew her daughter was too determined to give up. When hope meets hunger, when dreams meet desperation, a person will do things once deemed unthinkable. Knowing this, Maria began her search in areas of the city known to grant opportunities for a beautiful woman to make money fast – bars, hotels, nightclubs, casinos, burlesque halls – any place with a reputation for prostitution. She went to them all, searching desperately for her beautiful daughter. At each venue, she anxiously asked managers, bartenders, servers, dancers, patrons, if they had seen Christina. Repeatedly she was met with disappointment. So at every locale, she left her picture somewhere - taped on a bathroom mirror, pinned on a hotel bulletin board, glued to a corner phone booth, tacked in some high traffic area. On the back of every photo was a written message.
After some days, both the money and photos ran out. Maria was forced to go home. With a broken heart, the shattered mother inertly returned to the bus station and boarded the bus to her penurious village. She wept throughout the long and lonely journey home.
A few weeks later, young Christina descended the stairs of a cheap and seedy hotel clothed in a skin-tight guise that accentuated all her curves. She looked nothing like the gorgeous young lady who had arrived in Rio filled with life and hope. Her young face was tired. Her laughter was suppressed. Her innocence was lost. Her spirit was broken. The radiant brown eyes, once filled with vitality and vibrancy, now reflected pain and heartache. Her dreams were dashed and her hopes were crushed. Many nights over, she longed to trade the myriad of strange beds for the one familiar bed back home. But she did not know how. The shame, the disgrace, the dishonor turned her life upside down and distorted her view of a mother's love. In so many ways her home village was too far gone, too far away, to far removed from her innocent days. Her spirit told her she could never return again.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stumbled awkwardly in her vampish stilettos. Stabilizing herself against the rail, her eyes roamed the petite lobby. Suddenly they stopped. She closed her eyes, rubbed them, and looked again. Staring straight ahead, they fixated on a familiar face. There on the lobby mirror was a small picture of her mother. Christina's eyes moistened, her throat tightened as she rushed to the mirror and removed the small photo. Written on the back were these words "Whatever you have done, whatever you have become, it does not matter. Please come home."
She did. Love was waiting. It never stopped believing.
This is a true story originally shared by Max Lucado. I took the liberty to rewrite a majority of the narrative in my prose.
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