“He locked me up in a crack house for a year”, she said. “I thought God had forgotten me.” She stood nervously in front of the room, holding onto a brown paper towel that someone had given her when the tears started. I’d wished I was closer; I had soft Kleenex in my purse that I could have handed to her, but she’d endured worse things than having to wipe her tears with scratchy, brown roll, bathroom grade, paper towels. Her story started out innocently enough. “I met a guy.” It was 2013 and she thought he seemed nice enough. They got along so well in fact, that within a month he was living with her. And a few months after that, she found out she was pregnant. She said the abuse started out as emotional and verbal. Slowly he drove all her friends away. And soon after, he alienated all of her family. She said there was no one she could turn too except him. She repeated the words as if hearing some stranger say them, “I lost all my friends, all my family and I even lost my child.” The room that we were in was so quiet by now that you could have heard a pin drop. No one wanted to make a sound, as if she were a baby bird that we wanted to save and we couldn’t make a noise or else she would be gone. She was brave enough to make eye contact with a few of us, and I know we all tried to give her an encouraging nod. It takes a lot of guts to stand in front of a room and spill your life out for everyone to see, to judge. As far as I could tell, there was no “judging” going on in the room, only broken people with their own stories to tell. Yet the fear remains, doesn’t it? That when we speak, we will be judged. It’s why so many people remain in their own darkness; the darkness of secret sins, the darkness of secret abuse, the darkness of secret addictions, the darkness of loneliness and depression. “If I tell, what would everyone think?” “If I go down front and pray, what will everyone think?” “If I risk my fear and confide in someone, what would happen?” Maybe if this precious girl had had a friend who would have REFUSED to let themselves be pushed out of her life….maybe they could have been a lifeline to save her. They wouldn’t have judged her behavior, they would have fought to love her and find out what was going on. She said that soon he decided they needed to move away. And soon she was in a city she knew nothing about. And before long, he’d locked her up in a crack house. Now I’ve never been in one and I couldn’t tell you what it looks like, but obviously people are high all the time and no one is going to care about some girl with a sob story hanging out in the bedroom. She went on, “For a solid year I never spoke to another human being except him. He controlled everything I did. He was ex-military and He called me his little P.O.W.” But one day something changed. Someone came through the house and wanted to pray for people. Some stranger with a mission of mercy….to share Jesus wherever they could, even a crack house. She said as they prayed together, for the first time in a long time she could feel Jesus again. “I thought God had forgotten about me” she said. And in the crack house, there was a crack of light and God’s love showed through some weary Christian who promised Jesus they would pray. The girl who was ready to give up all hope, now decided she had to get away. So when she saw an opportunity, she ran. It was the very day her captor had decided he was going to kill her. She said she ran to the first house with a light on and begged them to call 911. They didn’t want too at first, they didn’t want police to come to their neighborhood. But she pleaded for her life and they finally made the call. She was taken to the hospital and spent two weeks there and was then transferred to the local shelter for abused women. It didn’t take long for him to discover that’s where she was, and so the local shelter made plans to move her to The Haven in Valdosta. “I just spent my first happy Christmas in my own little house with my own tree. I was all by myself, but not really, because now I have Jesus.” I sat in that room amazed at what God had done. But also amazed at how Jesus uses ordinary people to be His hands and feet. The people who finally called 911 (He will use anyone!), the nurses and doctors at the hospital, all the volunteers at the shelter, the people who donate furniture and clothes for victims of abuse to have a fresh start, and the one obedient Christian soldier who willingly went into battle in a crack house to pray. I don’t know where God is calling you today. Maybe you’re a volunteer somewhere, maybe you religiously donate clothes and items to Goodwill or Salvation Army, maybe you pledge financial support to a worthy organization, or maybe you are on your knees every morning praying for that lost soul. Just know this, she needs you, he needs you. The giving you do. The loving you do. The praying you do. It’s making a difference. You’re a thread in a rope of hope that someone will be clinging too. A woman named Rahab once hung her rope of hope outside her house and it saved her life. And today, I saw another beautiful woman talk of how she was saved, just in time.
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She’ll come as close as the stairs and that’s it. It’s the second time I’ve seen her. A dimpled, sweet smile and a huge tattoo that runs across her neck to her shoulder. I’m not sure when she appeared on the steps that first week. I had handed out the song sheets and we’d started singing. Maybe it was the motion of someone coming down the stairs that caught my eye, but I turned and there she was….4th step from the bottom. She smiled, but didn’t seem interested in coming any closer. I still had extra song sheets spread out on the table so while we were still singing I walked over and handed her one. I wasn’t sure if she’d take it or not, but she did. I’m fully aware that sometimes the ladies come out of their cells just because they’re bored, or they come to see who it is that’s making all the noise and disturbing their Sunday nap. Some may come out because they like free things, and we give out free bibles, devotions and, of course, a paper with the lyrics to songs on it. She holds the paper and I see her reading the words, but she doesn’t offer to sing. She looks around and seems to observe the other ladies with a kind of curious fascination. I’m sure the interruption of this music to the normal sounds of the Officers locking doors, inmates yelling at each other, the ever dripping/running water in the community shower and the flushing of the toilets in the cells, must seem an odd interruption. Music? Ok, well, maybe not music. It’s more of a joyful noise we’re all making. On any given Sunday there may be a lady who sounds like she’s singing bass, someone singing in a key that doesn’t match one note of what we’re singing, and the boisterous singer who comes in and out of pitch as if she’s weaving on a road, not paying attention to the center line. Maybe the dimples keep appearing because my stair sitter friend is amused at the inmate choir gathered around the table. Or she could be amused at the loud red head walking around singing, trying her best to lead a group of inmates to the throne room while surrounded by bars and locks. If she would join in and sing, maybe she would understand. It’s in the singing that we are freed. The Spirit of God isn’t hampered by a trip down Prison Farm Road; He’s not held up, searched and required to present His I.D. for verification. The Holy Spirit willingly travels down the grey, cold hallway and makes Himself known to the soul who searches for him. He doesn’t look to see if you’re sitting on pew, in a coffee shop, or locked away in a forgotten cell. He only sees the heart that’s lifted up to receive Him. And He comes close. And He asks to abide. He knows without His power abiding in you, taking full control, you’re still a hopeless mess. He sees my friend on the steps. He beckons to her. He woos her. He never gives up calling. Right now, maybe she feels she’s come close enough. After all, she’s at least gotten out of the bunk. Several girls are still sleeping in their cell, or at least trying too. They want nothing to do with “church”. Maybe too many churches have let them down already. Maybe their opinion of Christians is someone who signs up to feed the hungry at the local shelter every Thanksgiving but happily sits at their dinner table the other 11 months. Or someone who gives them a flyer about coming to “Revival”, but never offers to give them a ride. Or maybe they’re the one who looks disapprovingly out the window at the cardboard sign, refusing to look at the person holding it. She’s at least sitting on the stairs listening. That should count for something, right? She’s close enough to hear the songs and the message. Ah, my sweet sister I want to say…..close enough only counts in horseshoes. Close enough won’t cleanse your heart of the sin. Close enough won’t free you from addiction. You have to leave the steps to find the Savior. Not because He can’t come to you, but because sometimes the true repentance only comes when we’re willingly to move away from the dark and come to the light. She’s obviously a bottle blonde with deep dark roots growing out. Her hair is swept up in a half hazard ponytail. Her nails still hold onto a little of the red polish that was so carefully painted on before everything got crazy and she was arrested. She carries a tattered, paperback Bible to the table and joins the other inmates for “church”.
Society may label her a failure, I see an Angel. You know the verse. We’ve all read it. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:2 I don’t know if you’d call going into the jail “hospitality”? So I looked up the definition. Noun…the friendly and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors, or strangers. Adjective….relating to or denoting the business of housing or entertaining visitors. They are strangers and we are friendly and generous to them as we share fellowship with them, so maybe we are showing hospitality. I’ve never noticed this before, but the root of that word seems to be hospital. Wow! Maybe we’re actually being a “hospital” for people when we love and reach out to them in tangible ways. That’s an AHA moment for me! But here’s an even bigger one. Had I ever seen this before? Did I always stop at verse 2?? Because I promise you that I don’t remember seeing Hebrews 13:3 before. So here it is: “Remember those in prison as if you were bound with them, and those who are mistreated as if you were suffering with them.” AS IF YOU WERE BOUND WITH THEM. Not as their judge, not as their jury. Not from a distance, not from sympathy. Not from pity or self-righteousness. But BOUND with them. Together in their suffering. Less you think I’m writing any of that as someone preaching at you, let me correct your thinking. I’m writing this as someone who has done all of the above. When I think of the “easy” life I’ve led as a Christian and the state of apathy I was in for quite a while, and the resulting self-righteous person I became, it truly saddens me. I was with a past Sunday School teacher of mine recently and he was speaking about how God gets our attention. Sometimes it takes years and it can even take some difficult circumstances, but in every Christian’s life, God will get your attention. We are human after all. He knows we like the focus on us. He knows we like to think we know it all. So at some point, He needs to make sure our eyes our TOTALLY on Him. He got my full attention. That’s another story for another day. I wish it hadn’t taken so long. But just know that I gave up doing it my way and I have no wisdom or worth without my Savior. And I have no purpose except to live for HIS purpose for my life. And because He loved me extravagantly, I am called to love others the same. Welcome to the jail. God found a great place for me to put that love into practice! He has a place for you to put that love into practice too. I’m not advocating that everyone has to sign up for jail ministry. Or maybe I am?!!! But I know this….He does have someone for you to love. AS IF YOU ARE BOUND WITH THEM. Who do you see in need around you? Who is bound that could use some extra love that might just set them free. Who needs a little kindness? Who needs a phone call? Who needs a batch of those cookies you’re so good at making? Who needs a book that you’ve read and would just collect dust on your shelf? Who needs that scarf you almost bought in the mall last week? AS IF YOU WERE SUFFERING WITH THEM? Who needs that hug that you meant to give them last week? Who needs a handwritten note reminding them they are not alone? Maybe you’re thinking right now that someone needs to do that for you. After all, we’re all broken and in need of repair. I know this much. When I step out in my brokenness and give a cup of cold water, the hand that I hold out suddenly looks a lot like the one that was nailed to the cross. He loved the forgotten. He sees the forgotten. He died for the forgotten. And if you can step out in your brokenness and hurt, He will show you more than you can ever imagine. You might even see a few Angels. *The Blonde angel is a fictional character, not based on any one woman from the jail |
AuthorHi! I am Donna and I'm traveling. It's a journey to discover who I am in Christ every day....no looking back, face to the Son! Come join me! Archives
October 2017
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