It was written on a scrap of paper in big child-like print, the letters formed perfectly as if the paper was going to be turned in and graded for handwriting. It was a prayer taped to a small bulletin board on the wall. Patti was in the middle of sharing with the inmates when she noticed it, the Holy Spirit must have directed her to it.
“This is what I pray, that Jesus can save, and for me, it won’t be too late.” She instructed the women to put two fingers on their wrist and proceeded to do it, just like a nurse taking her own pulse. “Do you feel that?” Some heads nodded. She instructed them to move their fingers to their neck where they could feel a stronger pulse. “Do you feel that?” More heads nodded. “You’re alive. Today is a brand new day.” She pointed at the prayer, “It’s not too late!” She told them that some of them might be experiencing an identity crisis; the enemy was out tell confuse people about who they were. But we’re here to remind them who they ARE in Christ. And it’s never too late to find out who you are supposed to be. Some women weren’t afraid to claim it with an “Amen!”, some women studied Patti hard as if she were extending a gift that if they were to reach for, would be snatched back from them and they would be left empty handed, again. I couldn’t help but see what else was hanging beside the prayer, it was a smudged printout of the month of May. Each day survived in the jail, marked off with an “X”. Today was Sunday, May 29, 8:30 A.M., and today’s square already bore the large “X”, crossed off as if to show there was nothing more to the day than to wake up and acknowledge it came, and X it out. The calendar on our frig bears the same squares, but each day is filled with activities, dinner meetings, end of year banquets to attend, “Beach Day”’; the month displayed partly in anticipation of what our days will hold and partly in wondering how we are going to get it all done. To cross it off is to have lived a full, wonderful day. Not so at the jail. To cross out the day is to wish it away. But on this Sunday, the day would not be just another day to be survived. Today, Jesus came to cell block 10 and changed the cement floor to holy ground. 11 women became a choir. 8 hearts became an altar where they surrendered to His love. Some may have been surrendering again, for the 99th time, some may have been doing it for the very first time, we never know. But I do know this. Jesus sees the woman who walks to that page of the calendar taped to a jail wall and as she draws the big black “X”, He sees the day He has redeemed for her. He sees how He wants to love her back to life. He sees what her life will be on the outside and a calendar on the front of a frig. And for today, hopefully she’ll glance over at the prayer next to calendar and remember when the jail floor became holy ground and that with Jesus, it’s never too late.
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They call the girl in cell 3 “Big bit” cause she’s a skinny chick, but tall, with a large, angry voice. My personal nickname I’ve given her is “stormy”, although no one knows this, because to talk about Big Bit would be to take your own life in your hands.
Big bit don’t take anything off nobody and if she likes you, you’re kept under her long skinny armed-wing, but if she don’t take a hankering to you, then you’re left out in the cold. No extra food passed your way, no smokes, no confiscated chocolate bars, and no one to watch your back. She’s kind of like a storm just waiting to happen, as if angry clouds are gathering around her, just waiting to throw down the lightning and thunder. Her eyes are dark pools of mysterious brown and when they look at you, they challenge you to look back. They say this is her fifth time at the jail and she knows all the guards by their first name. And they know her. That’s why she gets the extra food and stuff, and that’s why you want Big Bit to be your friend. In the few weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve noticed that she never comes out to the table on Church day. It’s not that she’s sleeping in—Big Bit is awake long before the 4 A.M. breakfast tray call. She just never comes out. I imagine she just lays on that plastic sponge they call a mattress and stares hard at the grey block wall. Probably just counting down the minutes till those church ladies leave. I’m kind of glad she doesn’t come out. It makes it easier for me to pay attention to what the blond lady is saying. I call her the “preacher” cause she’s the one that does the talking. This morning, after we’re done with the singing, Preacher tells us she wants to tell us the reason why she comes in here. She says it’s her testimony. I remember my Granny using that word. She would load us in her station wagon, the kind that looked like real wood was running down the sides, and say “ok kids, hop in, cause we’re off to testimony service”! She’d roll down the windows, cause the air never did work in that stupid thing, and the hot air blowing in my face mixed with dirt and little pieces of freshly mowed grass was only the beginning of a long summer night. The little church, planted right on the edge of Mr. Earl’s farm, was always packed. Granny wanted us to sit as close to the front as possible….something about a spout, and being where glory came out. The hard cold bench at the jail is nothing like the pew in Granny’s church, but I do try and get as close to Preacher as I can. I don’t know why. It’s a small table, and I can hear her fine from any seat, but I reckon I’ve never forgotten those testifyin services and the feeling that would come over me when folks stood up and started talking about trials and temptations, and deliverance and peace, and a whole lot of other words I never really understood until recently. When I heard em’ talking, I would try to look at their face. Sometimes I had to turn all the way around in the pew and sometimes Granny would tell me to turn back around, but other times, when Granny was really into it too, she wouldn’t notice me turned all around, and I could get a good look. Folks would cry, then laugh and sometimes I swear they looked almost as if the sun was setting on their face, they pure glowed. That’s kind of what Preacher reminds me of this morning. She’s telling us that she went through some tough stuff, and after it was over, she wanted to really do something for God, just cause she loved Him so much. She said a few years ago she was at some conference and waiting for God to speak to her and tell her what to do, but she never heard Him. It was about time to leave and the last prayer was said and she was picking her purse up off the floor and she heard a voice just as clear as day say “Go the jail, and tell the women I love them, and that I have not forgotten them”. Preacher kind of chokes up here, and it kind of feels like I can’t swallow, like I’ve taken too big of a bite of an apple and it’s lodged and not gonna move. Preacher says that was God’s voice. And she heard Him say it again. At testimony service, I remember hearing folks say stuff like that; “Jesus spoke to me” they’d say, “I was praying and I’m so glad I heard God’s voice”. I wasn’t really sure I believed it, but when I looked at their faces, it sure seemed like they did. Preacher did too. And she went right to figuring out how to get in the jail. She said it took a long time, there wasn’t really anyone around to help her figure it out. But she said she wasn’t going to give up until she got in. She’s talking loud now, loud enough for Big Bit to hear her. That was seven years ago she tells us. And she says that’s mostly what she’s come to say, “God loves you ladies, and He has not forgotten you.” Her face looks like the face of those testifyin folks in Granny’s church. She really believes it. And oh how I want too. Through Her Eyes
When the buzzer sounds, the cell doors are locked for the night, and I can close my eyes….that’s my favorite time of day. It’s taken a while, but I’ve found the best position on the cot; there’s a big bulky lump that runs down the right side, so if I scoot over and turn on my right side, I can put my arm over the lump, as if my sweet little girl has crawled into bed with me after a bad nightmare has driven her from her bed with the Snoopy sheets, to the safety of mom’s arms. I close my eyes and let myself drift away from here. I picture the ceiling magically opening, as if my Fairy Godmother was waiting above the roof to wave her wand directly over my bed. I gently float up into the night sky. I picture how bright the stars would be without all the security lights flooding the night sky with their penetrating beams. There’s a cool breeze and the smell of fresh air. I would give anything to smell the clean, fresh, night air again. Not saturated with the smells of sweat, stale sheets, and dust being circulated in the air from the big industrial fans that run day and night because we don’t have any air conditioning. The stars become my own personal road map to my parent’s house. That’s where my daughter is staying until I can get this mess straightened out. At just the right time, I begin to descend to the green grass in time to peek through the window to see my Mom saying bedtime prayers with my precious girl. I stay completely still, just taking in the view. And then I wait until she’s fast asleep and I am magically transported into her room, on the soft bed with layers and layers of blankets, and my arms are around her, so close that I can feel her breath on my cheek….like the sweetest kisses of an angel. That’s how I spend my night dreaming. Most nights I make it all the way until 4 A.M. when the buzzer sounds, the doors open, and the guards are yelling “Breakfast trays”! Sunday mornings have become the one thing I look forward to around here. After that early breakfast (really? Who serves breakfast at 4 A.M.), I take a shower and grab the paper back Bible they gave me the first week I was in here. I used to own a Bible, but I haven’t laid eyes on it for at least 15 years and I couldn’t tell you where it is. I may have even donated it to Goodwill that time I cleaned out my apartment to hit the road on my own the summer that everything changed. But that’s another story. I read as long I can, drift off maybe a little and then I hear it, the guard is opening the door and the ladies are calling “Church time!” My bunk mate has already been sitting out at the table, writing a letter to her mom. She writes one every week, but has yet to hear back. I join her on the hard steel bench and the church lady with the red hair is handing out papers. She calls it the song sheet. I can’t sing worth a lick, but I like to read the nice words. I still have my sheet from three weeks ago when they were in our cell. I kept it just to read over it every day…I wish I could sing it. My bunk mate has a pretty decent voice, and it’s ok that she can’t remember the tune to the songs. She just sings whatever she wants too. But I like it. My favorite one is the one that talks about me being a friend of God. When I first read it, I thought to myself, you’ve got to be kidding. But the red hair chick said that the cool thing about God is He chooses to be our friend and we can choose to be His. And she said he wouldn’t ever turn his back on us like some of our friends have. So I tried to sing along with it. And I clapped when she clapped. And I try to believe it. But I couldn’t quite find the smile, like I saw on the face of the two church girls. But as long as they keep coming back, I’m gonna keep trying. It started when I was invited to go the music offices of Provident Music in Nashville, TN. I was going to meet with a publisher to discuss my songs. I was so nervous; I had no idea what to expect. This was my first real professional meeting so of course I had to dress “professional.” I pulled out my sharpest black pantsuit and topped it off with a silk scarf tied loosely around my neck for a splash of color---just to show that I could be “cool and colorful” as well as serious and hard-working when it came to songwriting. The jeans packed in my suitcase were just for the trip home.
The building was large and impressive, yet sleek and modern, the perfect backdrop for all the creative and ‘edgy” people who work in the industry of movies and music. I sat in the lobby waiting for him to walk in and was relieved to see a face I recognized, but wait, he was wearing a sweater and jeans….worn jeans, not new, crisp denim, with dark blue color…..jeans that looked like they’d been through a rodeo or two. Then it happened, we get off the elevator and he’s walking me around the floor that belongs to Brentwood-Benson and showing me all the writing rooms and I begin to feel like a tourist, with three different cameras hanging around my neck and big black-rimmed glasses on my face, peering out at the writers like they were some strange novelty on display to be photographed and documented. I was obviously over dressed, as everyone was in jeans, tshirts and flip flops. So this was the “look” of the writer? Well actually no. I would go on to discover that writers are pretty much like the rest of the world. They come in all shapes and sizes, all ages and from all kinds of backgrounds. Some are introverts, some are extraverts; some look out their windows and see fields of corn, some live the fast pace of city life. I have no idea why I thought a Christian songwriter would look a certain way. I never thought that about folks who write books, or even secular songwriters in general…..because obviously Willie Nelson can write a decent song and so can Adele. You can’t judge a book by it’s cover…..but it’s so easy to do for me. But I’ve learned as I’ve co-written with all kinds of folks, whether they have cowboy boots on or heels, it’s the writing that displays the true heart and soul of someone. It’s the same at the jail. I don’t look at the women and see their state issued grey jumpsuit, or the tan dollar store flip flops they give them, or the basic white man’s t-shirt-----I see women who just need to know that Jesus loves them and He still offers a chance to do what they were created to do. Cause He knows, that’s when the world will see the heart and the soul of who she really is. The guard walks me down the hall to the cells; all that can be heard is the sound of large industrial fans. There is no air conditioning in the local women’s jail. Short sleeves or no sleeves at all is a must for ministry here. The guard unlocks the cell door and one of the inmates sees me walk in and yells “church time, you guys!”
Speaking at the jail isn’t my normal thing, singing with the women is my comfort zone. But Patti was gone yesterday and so it fell to me to bring the word. I prayed and asked God to show me what they needed to hear. Do I believe God knew what cell I would be in and what women I would be speaking to? Oh yes! Do I believe I heard from heaven about just want to say and what scriptures to read? Again, yes!! After we sang songs like “Good Good Father” and “Awesome God”, I told the women I had a question for them. “If I had a get out of jail card for you today and all expenses would be paid and transportation provided, what would choose to do when you left here? Where would you want to go? What would you want to do?” As I looked at their faces, I saw some who seem to be struggling with the question in deep concentration…..as if the future was a thorn buried deep in their foot and must be carefully extracted. Others seemed confident of their answer and ready to share, as if this was a test question they had thoroughly researched and anticipated. Lacey* was one of the hesitant ones, “That’s a hard question,” she began. “I guess I would have to say that I need to get away from my parents.” I was a little surprised at the answer, and so to go deeper, I asked her why. “They enable me. They have my whole life. I’m 36 and have never had to pay for a thing. Even when I stole their credit card and they reported me and had me arrested, guess who came and bonded me out? My parents. So as hard as it would be, I need to get away from here.” When I worked my way around the table to Tracy*, she was ready to answer. “Change everything! I’m 46 and have been on drugs for 13 years and I have finally realized that life is a dead end. It always leads here. And I don’t ever want to come back!”, she said with tears in her eyes. “I have a 26 year old daughter who needs me. She won’t talk to me right now. But when I’ve been clean for maybe a year or so, I’m hoping that will change.” Desiree* was the last one to speak. She’d been so quiet, I wondered if she would talk at all. But when I asked her that question, she spoke with words of hope, not yet a truth she believed, but as if the words were a dream still up in the clouds, just out of her reach……”I want to go back to school. I was taking a class in criminal justice, I wanted to be a lawyer. Now maybe, I could be a nurse or something.” Or something…….the something that’s nothing like what we are right now. The something that means our life will have meaning again. The something that means we are making a difference. The something that was hard fought for. So I reminded them about Romans 8:31. If God is for you (and He is!), then who can be against you? Dream in that Something else that He wants for you. When the Guard came to get me, I wasn’t really ready to go. I wanted to sit with each one and hold their hands until they could believe with their whole heart in the new something that God wanted for them. I did something better though, I left them in His hands. *names changed I bring my keys, my ID, and my song sheets to the jail. I press the button and they ask “can I help you?” “I’m here for the jail ministry”, and a buzzer sounds and I know the door is unlocked. I take my keys and ID to the counter. I was the first on this particular Sunday morning, but I knew more would come. My friend, Patti, had already text me she was running a little late. A lady approaches the glass doors; “Mother Margaret” they all call her. She’s dressed in her Sunday finest, a beautiful salmon colored suit and shoes to match and carrying the biggest Bible you’ve ever seen. Not the family size Bibles, but almost. It won’t even fit in the Bible cover that tries to hold it in place, papers threatening to slip out like little children peeking around the corner on Christmas Eve. Mother Morgan arrives next; she’s been away for several weeks taking care of her oldest daughter’s brand new baby. She says she’s too old to be staying up at night with a baby and she feels like she’s still dragging. But there’s a briskness to her steps as she turns her ID in, she’s excited about spending another morning in worship with the women here. She always carries a large box full of Bibles and devotions for the women. Patti does fly in finally, but turns out there was no need to hurry for this morning they keep us waiting. They are supposed to let us in around 8 A.M., but now it’s 8:20, then 8:45 and after that 9:15. A few more ladies have come in and we’re catching up on the latest news….the new baby, the sad news of a house fire, an upcoming prayer conference….. Just when we’re wondering how much longer they’ll keep us waiting, Patti suggests we start singing and looks over at me. She knows I have song sheets somewhere; I hand them out and begin to sing. The ladies join in and I teach them some songs they’ve never heard and they teach me a few. There’s a new lady; the other women seem to know her, but I’ve just recently met her. She leads out in a song next. It’s beautiful. There’s something about those gospel songs and the way the women sing them…..deep down from their soul as if the song has been lifted from a secret vault that only they know about. She looked directly at me as she was singing….maybe we’re kindred singing spirits…..but she kept her gaze on me and I felt as if I was being lifted with her voice. I was almost sad to hear the heavy jail door slide back and open. We all go in, get patted down, our Bibles searched, and then we’re escorted to our respective cells. As we’re leaving, my new singer friend points her finger at me and smiles a smile that is literally lit from heaven and says “precious in His sight are His children”. I’m not sure if she meant it as a message to me, or if it was simply the topic of what she was going to share that day, but either way, I received it because we’re all God’s children. Reading is what I have always loved to do. In the summers as a young girl, I would go to the library and get a stack of books, sit on the floor next to my bed, open a can of Pillsbury Chocolate frosting and read. Hours would pass by; engrossed in the story I was transported out of that room and far away to somewhere else. I often read aloud and would change my voice to fit the different characters. I don’t know…seemed fun to me! Reading in an English accent was my favorite thing to do!
Singing is what I’ve always loved to do, too. I know, you’re shocked! Mom tells me my first audience was our congregation. At the age of 3, she would let me stand on her lap as she sat on the pew, I would face the congregation and sing. When I was at Red Bug Elementary School, somehow I was selected to sing a special for our end of year concert. I was supposed to hold a big red heart-shaped pillow and sing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”. Seems like an odd choice for a first grader. Maybe our songs were all supposed to be about the heart….I’m not sure….but I can remember what it felt like to hold the attention of an audience and sing your heart out!! I never dreamed those two loves would blend and I would one day create my own “stories” through song writing. In fact, the very first song I wrote was the story of people gathered around as a husband held the hands of a wife he loved and felt her slipping away to the shores of Heaven….a testimony of what I’d actually seen as one of our dear saints left earth for Glory. In 2006, I started a blog because I wanted to chronicle my journey of recording a CD, and because it seemed like a great way to practice my writing skills. I think I blogged for two years. The other day, I was cleaning out some drawers and found some of those pages from 2006. I don’t remember why I printed them out, but it was odd reading about my life 10 years ago. Where did the time go? Seems like a great time to start again. SO much has changed. Maybe I’ll share a little of that on these pages. Maybe a lot has changed for you in the last 10 years. What were you doing in 2006? I’ll bet, like me, you’ve seen some sunshine, some shadows and mostly you’ve held onto the hand of our Sweet Jesus! See you on the next page! |
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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