They didn’t come today. It happens some Sundays.
I’m not really sure how they decide what cell to go too, but today, for whatever reason, ours didn’t get picked. I guess there’s not enough of those women preachers to go around. I’m stilling sitting here with my hand resting on this page I’ve been reading. I had a few questions. This week has been a hard one. I found out my court date isn’t for another 6 weeks. The docket was full, some cases had to be moved around, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how I can make it another six weeks in this place. A day in here can feel like forever. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and it feels like the morning will never pass. The sweat is starting to form on my neck; any minute now, enough will have gathered to form a small bead and my spine will become the tiny river it will travel down. Even sitting near the fan isn’t enough to stifle the heat. I used to love a hot day. There was a creek behind Granny’s house and in the heat of the day, we’d grab our bathing suits off of Granny’s back porch, kick off our shoes, and run down to the water’s edge. We were innocent and young. We tore off our hot clothes, threw on our suits and hurried into the water to see who could scream the loudest at that initial shock of freezing cold creek water. I remember the feel of hot, sticky blades of grass under my feet, and the moment my toes hit the top of the water as if I’d been wandering in the hot desert and stumbled upon an oasis complete with a crystal clear pool of ice water. I loved that cold, clear, water. I would look down through what seemed like clear glass, and gaze at my feet standing on the rock bed. There were so many different kinds of rocks--big white smooth ones, jagged brown hard ones, and in between, little tiny pebbles of all colors, as if an artist had absentmindedly left his art pallet on the ground in the midst of painting. I would give anything right now for one more swim in that creek. I can almost see my Granny coming down the hill and hollering for us kids to come in for supper. Granny never came in the creek for a swim. Granny came down to the creek for something else. She never saw me follow her. She never heard the rustle of the leaves as I would settle down behind the old stack of trees that had rotted and fallen many years before I was born. I would wait a few minutes until I knew she’d already started before I even came to my spot. Cause I knew once Granny started talking to God, she wasn’t listen to nothing else. I don’t remember exactly what Granny would say to God. She talked to God and Jesus, at the same time. They both seemed to be listening, at least Granny thought so cause she kept calling them by name. What I remember the most, and the reason I wanted to sit still and listen, was how everything seemed to grow quiet and peaceful when she was in conversation with them. I swear that even the creek and birds hushed for a little bit. And I would close my eyes and imagine that peace and quiet drifting over to me and enveloping me like the clouds cover the sun on a stormy day. I could always tell when Granny was about through. She’d start saying “Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus!” And then the tears would come and I’d know I better hurry back to the house. I’ve been reading this morning from the Psalms. That’s what I wanted to ask the preacher lady about. Psalm 23 says something about being led beside still waters and it made me think about that creek getting all quiet when Granny was praying. I’d like to know how that happens. I’d like to have some of that peace I felt, kneeling behind that old tree. Oh well, there’s always next Sunday.
1 Comment
When you’re hanging out with a songwriter, chances are, you’ll be talking a lot about songs and writing. You’ll talk about the latest songs you’ve written. You’ll talk about some song ideas that are floating around in the atmosphere right now. You might even stumble upon a new song idea while you’re talking! You’ll talk about some places you’ve found songs. You’ll talk about the songs that have inspired you to be a better writer.
Sometimes those conversations diverge into some deeper woods. What makes a successful songwriter? Do your songs need to be recorded to be validated? Will one of your songs ever be a “hit”? And the question that Heather and I discussed this weekend…..what do we want to see happen with our songs. The very first song I wrote was by request. I don’t remember who asked me….or if I just volunteered. Our church was sending a mission team to Argentina. I think it was around 1992. We wanted a theme song to be able to sing at church to really involve the congregation to feel a part of the trip and to keep it before us all. So I wrote a lyric. Our church pianist read it and suggested the words fit perfectly with the structure of a song called “In The Temple”. I think it was a children’s song. And so my first “song” was performed at our church and sung for weeks in preparation of the departure of the mission team. It would be nine years before I would pick up a pen to write again. I was a stay at home mom. I had quit my job in 1994 to stay home with Karlee and along came Paige in 1995. I loved being at home. I loved working in the church and managing my Premier Designs business. I had no aspirations to write. But one day this little “diddy” was stuck in my head. A lyric and a melody I would sing around the house. Finally, I sat down at the piano to play what I was hearing. I didn’t know anything about charting chords, so I painstakingly wrote out every note on staff paper. I still wasn’t sure if I had a song or not, so I took it down the street to the girl’s piano teacher and played it for him. I figured anyone who taught kids to play songs, would know what one was. He seemed a little surprised when I called and asked if I could come down let him hear something, but told me to bring it over. And for the first time of many times to come, I put a sheet of paper on the piano and let someone else hear my heart. I was almost afraid to turn around after I’d finished the song. And he told me he’d heard a lot of attempts at songwriting, but he was pretty sure I “had a good song there.” I later sang it at church and then it started. “What are you going to do with that song?” “I’ve heard of a songwriting contest going on. You should enter that.” “Do you have a copy write on that song? People will steal things you know.” “You have friends in Nashville, you should call them and play your songs.” And so it went. And I guess the big question is, when you write a song, what next? It’s the question writers have to answer for ourselves. And every journey of every songwriter I know has been unique in its path. And each writer defines what successful is to them. For me, to follow this path where it takes me and never give up is success. Doors have opened for me to record some CDs. *Cool. Doors opened for me to be a part of a team of writers for a publishing company. *Sweet. Doors opened for me to be a part of a writer’s community that meets yearly to co-write. *Blessed. And now cell doors have opened for me to sing my songs. *Redeemed. I guess it’s not just writers who have this quest for success in their endeavors. We all do. We’re all called to something. And we want to know that we’re doing it right, and to the best of our ability. To know that God is taking us down a path that’s giving Him the glory. Which is what we’re created for. And I believe if you keep searching with your whole heart. You will find it. And you will know. One of my favorite movies is Eat, Pray, Love based on the novel of the same title by Elizabeth Gilbert. Julia Roberts plays Liz, and this is what she says at the end of the movie: ”I've come to believe that there exists in the universe something I call "The Physics of The Quest" — a force of nature governed by laws as real as the laws of gravity or momentum. And the rule of Quest Physics maybe goes like this: "If you are brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting (which can be anything from your house to your bitter old resentments) and set out on a truth-seeking journey (either externally or internally), and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue, and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher, and if you are prepared – most of all – to face (and forgive) some very difficult realities about yourself... then truth will not be withheld from you." Or so I've come to believe.” My truth, be brave and see what happens! “I can’t believe you came today”….I’ve heard that three times in my first year of going to the jail, and every time it gives me what I call “Holy Ghost Bumps” cause I know God is up to something.
I heard it again this Sunday. It was my one year anniversary of singing at the jail. Father’s Day 2015 was my first visit to the local women’s jail. I had no idea what to expect that Sunday I walked into the lobby. I use “lobby” very loosely, it’s more of a big room with cement blocks walls and two little chairs backed against the wall as if they are afraid they are about to be noticed. There are no signs when you walk in, just a half-wall on the other side of the room with an old half-door swinging open, the kind that Andy Griffin had in his jail to walk through to get to his desk. Only there’s no friendly Sheriff, there’s a big glass window with an aluminum tray beneath the window, waiting for you to deposit your keys and your ID. This Sunday we deposited our items in the tray and the guard told us it would be just a few minutes. It’s not unusual for us to have to wait, and usually before the guard comes to get us, several women have arrived to minister. But not today. So in just a few minutes, the guard came out to search us and the devotional booklets we were bringing in. We were cleared to go back. We entered cell block 6 today and I recognized a few of the women. I wish I could say I always remember their names, but because we rotate cell blocks, it can be weeks before I see the same woman twice. I would say it’s been at least 6 or 7 weeks since we’d been to this cell block. Six women gathered at the table and we even had one in the balcony---she was housed on the second floor and seemed more comfortable staying up there, just peering at us through the railing as if she were window shopping and wasn’t sure yet if there was anything here she was interested in. Someone handed her one of the song sheets I was giving out; she took it although she never joined in the singing that I could tell. At least she was holding a paper with words declaring the power of God. Maybe it would be something she would read again later. I was excited about the worship time because one of the songs we were singing was a song I wrote with Val Dacus and Daryl Johnson, but that’s going to be a whole ‘nother blog! Just suffice to say that the praise went up and the glory came down!! Then Patti began to speak and shared her testimony (something else that will have its own blog!), and she began to speak of deliverance and healing from first- hand experience. And there it is. God using a broken person that He’s restored, to show another broken person that there’s hope. God using a testimony to speak to someone else’s heart. God letting us share our wounded places, so that someone else might believe in healing again. God speaking through us. I’ve no doubt in moments like that, that the ladies aren’t really even seeing us. The Holy Spirit takes over. He replaces the image of Patti and they see themselves. Patti becomes a big movie screen in which they began to watch the scenes of their lives unfold. They see the days they were bound, long before prison bars held them. They see the dark nights of their soul. They see the loneliest moments when they feared they might do the worst. And through it all, they can still hear Patti saying, “who wants more of Jesus? Who wants to be free?” Several women were already in tears. And I knew without a doubt that today, those women were about to taste freedom. One lady shared how tired she was of alcohol. One lady said she was desperate to overcome her meth addiction. One lady said she couldn’t read or write and wanted us to pray for her since she was going to court on Friday. The women lined up and lifted their hands to heaven and Patti gently placed her hands on their shoulders and prayed heaven right down into that little group of women. It was camp meeting. It was running through saw dust to the altar to pray. It was hot air blowing around the pews as shouts of praise filled the air. And it was deliverance. And if they’ll hang on to God, He’ll keep right on delivering them. After prayer time, that’s when Jasmine quietly came up to me. “I can’t believe you came today,” she said. Jasmine was the compassionate one. The girl who had been running back and forth to the bathroom to retrieve small squares of tissues that would hold the tears of repentance. “I just feel a connection with you. I’ve met Mr. Rick at your church and then I met you. And I was just telling the girls this past Thursday that when I get out in a couple of weeks, I want to go to the church where that red headed lady goes too. But I couldn’t remember the name of your church and I wondered how I would ever remember it. And then you walked through our door this morning”, she said with her eyes gleaming. Because she knew what I knew. God is always listening when we call, and He’s always on time. So I wrote down Northside Baptist Church and even drew her a rough map of where we’re located. I told her I couldn’t wait to see her. And I know I will. I can already see her walking through our church doors. This might just change everything. She’s arriving in one week, and she doesn’t have a floor to walk on yet. Yikes. I must confess that sometimes my optimism gets me in trouble. I’m one of those “I have a GREAT IDEA” people. “What if we……?”, and then I proceed to shout out whatever it is I’m dreaming up at the time. I’ve always figured this to be one of my pretty decent attributes. It’s why I’m not fond of negative people. I’m just not even floating around their wavelength. Why would you ever want to look at a situation and go down the deep dark whole of “we just can’t do that”? I mean where there’s a will, there’s a way, right? The only little glitch, and really it’s minor glitch, that I see in my BRIGHT IDEA mentality is that I don’t think to factor in any problems on the road to the fulfillment of this wonderful thing that’s going to happen. Case in point. My co-writer friend from Canada tells me she’s coming to see me the end of June. That’s a big YAY! I met Heather in 2013 on the internet. We were taking a writing class together online. Heather happened to throw out one day that she was working on a song and would love to co-write it if someone was interested. Yes I was. We began to email each other, send voice memos, and begin the writing process. It was such fun. I’d never met someone who could fill up an email page with as much chit chat as I could. We had huge conversations about the song. What would make it better? Are we losing the main idea of the song? What will make the chorus stronger? Does it need a bridge? Somehow in the midst of all this, Heather had a BIG IDEA (yep! A kindred spirit all the way in Sylvan Lake!). “Why don’t you come to Canada and write with me in person?” My first thought was that I’d love to do it! My second thought was that I have two girls in high school and just couldn’t afford the ticket. Bummer. Heather wasn’t stopped that easily. No worries she said. She wired me the money to purchase the ticket. I cried right there at work in front of my computer screen when I read her email that she was sending me the money. Who does that? For someone who is practically a stranger? So in October of 2013, I boarded a plane in Jacksonville, Florida and headed to Canada. Our first face to face meeting was at the airport. Heather was actually flying back from the States after attending the conference “Write About Jesus” in St. Louis, so I waited at her gate. She’s petite and full of life! And I liked her immediately. She was the kind of person that if you saw her out somewhere, you just wanted to be in her circle of friends because you knew that laughter and hilarity would ensue…if you’re into that kind of thing. I sure am! We had a great time. Finished a few songs. I taught her the recipe to Cranberry Fluff, which is now one of her favorite recipes. And she made me a delicious Canadian Bacon treat to take back on the plane that involved baking the bacon in several stages while adding layers of syrup and spices. So she and I were talking a few months about her upcoming vacation and how she didn’t know what she was going to even do with herself and I had a BIG IDEA. “Hey, why don’t you come visit me in Georgia?” And so she is. That’s when I had my next BIG IDEA. “Hey honey, why don’t we pull up that yucky carpet in the bedroom and have wood floors installed?” But remember how I said I never factor in problems or delays? Well I didn’t. I didn’t factor in that the wood would take longer to ship. Or that the wood man who said he would come would cancel. Or that the next wood man would show up but not actually do a very good job. So we stopped him at one room and have decided to do the other room ourselves. I’m such a fan of all those renovation shows. I like this girl. But unlike that girl, I have no idea what I’m doing. So I’ll probably just hand Ben the pieces of wood and stay out of the way.
Now THAT’S a great idea! Big Bit doesn’t talk a lot, but when she does, it can sometimes be profound.
“Lose the boyfriend, kid. Find somebody worthy of who you are.” Those were the most words I’d heard her speak in the five weeks we’d been locked up together. I was sitting at the table trying to write a letter to my daughter. She thinks mommy is away working, trying to earn money so I can come and pick her up soon to take her to our very own house. She sends me drawings of this house and the yard she imagines will surround it. In bold red crayon, there is a swing set in the yard. Because she’s only four, I’m not quite sure what the little animals are that seem to be running around on top of the green stalks of grass she’s colored with large, bold, forest green strokes. She’s always loved playing in the grass, so perhaps that’s why it covers half the page and looks like it needs to be mowed. Big Bit looks over my shoulder. “Your kid draw that?” she asked, less like a question and more in the form of a statement that meant she already knew the answer. “I’m not worthy of anybody” I replied, deciding to respond to her first statement. I wasn’t ready to discuss my little girl with anyone inside of these grey walls. “Well I bet that kid would say different.” And with that, she walked away, back to her cell. I’m still not convinced. When it was new, when she was just a baby, I would dream of the wonderful life we were going to live. I was going to quit the drinking. After all, I’d stopped when I found out I was pregnant, so surely this was a new chance at life…..for the both of us. I wanted so badly to hold onto that tiny little hand that clung to me as if I was the Savior of her world. I would look at her angelic face and silently promise her that I would never let her down, that I would always be there for her no matter what—words I could never say out loud for fear of breaking that vow and having to hear her plead with me someday, “But Mom you promised!” I keep staring at the swing set. We never actually had one in our yard, but I would take her down the street to the park and swing her high in the air until it literally took her breath away. She loved it! “Higher, Mommy! Higher!” And then next to the swing, I see him. He knew that eventually I’d head this way and he was relentless in his pursuit of me. I’d already told him I was going to make a new life for me and my baby, one that didn’t include him. He never seemed to hear that. He’d talk right over me. “Aw, Babe, that kid’s fine by me. I don’t care who she belongs too. You and me have a good thing going.” But I knew it was lies. I knew it with every fiber of my being. Why did I fall for it? Why?? He’d done nothing but drag me down, into his world of abuse, alcohol, drugs…..whatever gave him a high. But the highs never last. That’s the problem. The highs are a big liar. They tell you they’ll make you happy, you can trust them, they’re the only thing that’s real. And when you fall for their lie, watch out….you’re about to be lower than you ever imagined. I remember that clearly. I study her picture again and drink the images in, as if they are real, as if they will be real one day. I do my best to draw a smiley face and lots of hearts on page. I draw a nice big whole one, not the broken one inside of me. When i opened the front door and put my keys on the side table, I was already thinking, “Man, it’s hot in here!” We usually turn the thermostat up when we leave for work so the a/c doesn’t run all day, but this was not the comfy 76 degrees I normally experience when I open my door, this was the “hot and muggy, sitting on the park bench while your kids play on the playground in the summer and you’re hoping they will hurry up and want to go home for lunch” kind of hot.
Great. All we need is for our a/c to be broken. We’ve been moving furniture all weekend getting ready for the flooring guys to come, and they were supposed to arrive in the morning. Tonight’s assignment was going to be pulling up the carpet and the tack strips and the nails from the floor. Not a fun job by any means, but when it’s 82 degrees inside and climbing, that just changes everything. I was picturing us bent over and ripping out carpet with large drops of sweat rolling down our brows like hired hands out in the field without the advantage of the occasional breeze that might at least blow through the trees. A call was placed right away to the a/c guy and I held my breath until he said yes, he could come after he finished the job he was on. And you know what? Within the hour he had stopped by, investigated and solved our problem, installed the new part, and the thermostat slowly began to register 83, 82, 81, 80………. And then i remembered what happened this past Sunday at the jail. It takes a while to get used to the heat. The lobby of the jail is deceivingly cool. That's because the lobby and office where the guards monitor the cell blocks is air conditioned. But after we are checked over and allowed to go through the big double doors that lead to the cell blocks, all a/c is gone. The industrial floor flans blowing in the hallway only serve to remind us that if we wore a dress with any kind of sleeves, we're now wishing we hadn't. When we got to cell block 10, a few women were already out of their cells and sitting in front of the fan. We started to announce church and that’s when one of the girls let us know-- “Last night was like being cooked in an oven. Our cell doors, which usually remain open so we can feel the fan, were closed and locked last night. We’re not sure why. So most of us didn’t get any sleep. They wouldn’t let us get any water, so we mostly just tried to lay still so as not to stir up any more heat than necessary. Now that the doors are open, some of the women are finally getting some rest. So although they’ll be sorry they missed church, right now they’re just weary and tired.” I could tell by the t-shirts sticking to their skin, painted on with sweat, that they were speaking the truth. She continued, “I know we’re in jail and all, but we’re still human.” Was it any coincidence then that Patti had felt impressed of the spirit to teach this morning from the book of Daniel, the story of the Hebrew children thrown in a fiery furnace? I think not! More than ever, I realized as I looked at the 11 beautiful women that gathered around the table, these women know what it means to be in a furnace. We talked about how God sees our struggles, God knows, God cares. It doesn’t bring the temperature down, but it cools the spirit. And then I got to witness the Choir from Cell 10. They lined up against the wall, like a group of convicts called to the Line Up to face a glass window knowing someone on the other side was about to accuse one of them of a crime, only these women were smiling. And then someone led out in a beautiful, strong, confident song, “I need just a little more Jesus”, and the remaining women sang back in echo “I need just a little more Jesus.” And then i joined in....cause don't we all?! When my Aunt Marilyn died two years ago, I remember my Uncle Steve saying something at her funeral that I thought was the most beautiful tribute a husband could give his wife. He said he was going to share something he once told his Sunday School class. I've been married to five women." There were looks of disbelief and people trying to laugh, but not sure if they should yet. He continued....."and they were all named, Marilyn. And you know what, i fell in love with each one."* Wow! That wasn't what i was expecting and it brought tears to my eyes. When I was in college it was all about discovering who you were and finding the right career path, the right friends to surround yourself with and yes, that right “one” to spend your life with. If you found all those things, then you were bound to have the life you’d been destined to live. And you would settle into your life and live happily ever after. The end. No one told me about change. I’m not talking about the change you expect to come. I knew when I got married I would be changed, I would be a wife. And I knew that eventually my husband and I would want children. And things would change. I would become a mom. I knew we would take on responsibilities at our jobs and at our church, and things would change. I was prepared for that. I’m not talking about the changes when life throws you curve balls that brings change. Your job relocates you. You have that sweet baby that is born with special needs. A loved on passes unexpectedly. Those are changes you don’t see coming, but by God’s grace, you are sustained. I’m talking about what my Uncle Steve discovered, that women can rediscover themselves every decade and become someone different, like a tree that’s been planted as a seedling and grows to have beautiful branches, lovely blossoms and leaves that give shade on a hot summer day. We grow. We don’t remain an undeveloped seedling. We let our roots go deep. We find that our branches were made to stretch in all directions. Our beautiful changing is like the leaves. We are strong, healthy green; we are vibrant reds and oranges, and we have seasons when we wither, but we are renewed. And here’s the beautiful thing I found, there’s no reason to fear or to apologize for changing. I changed from a professional in the workplace, to a stay at home mom. I chose that change. I was ready for it. And I loved every minute of it. I changed from a stay at home mom to a stay at home mom with her own business. I chose that change. I saw a business I thought I could do, knew we needed the extra income, and set out on a new adventure. And I loved every minute of it. Then an unexpected change occurred, I became a songwriter. I didn’t call myself that until much later, but there was no denying I was writing songs. At least I thought maybe I was. Somehow by accident I seemed to be doing it, like a 6 year old playing miniature golf who suddenly gets a “hole in one”! And I almost felt like I should apologize. It was the voice of my inner critic I heard talking. “Who do you think you are? You have no idea what you’re doing. Why are you wasting time at the piano like that, with a pencil propped in your mouth and a notepad on the bench waiting to be filled with words?” So I took my song to a music teacher who lived down the street to ask, “Does this seem like a song to you?” I asked as if everything hinged on his answer. His affirmation would be the permission I needed to proceed. “I’ve seen a lot of songs,” he said, “and this certainly seems like a song to me.” I was overjoyed. I had written a song! Surely it was ok to continue. But the inner critic wasn’t giving up that easily. And I found that at every successful turn, recording my first five songs, traveling and singing, meeting a Nashville producer and recording two more albums, the critic never gave up. “You’re spending time away from your family, you selfish girl.” “Why are you attending that writing class?” “You’re wasting good money for nothing.” “You really ought to give up, you’ll never be any good.” The day finally came when I stood up and gave MYSELF permission to write. Because I realized writing is what made me come alive. Writing was adding colors to my life like a plain white egg being dipped in cups of colored water to be lifted up forever changed. Songwriter was just another evolution of who I really was and to deny that would be to deny the little treasure I believe God enfolded into the core of who He was creating me to be. When he formed me in my mother’s womb, he had all the ingredients He needed, knowing each one would come to life in its own time. So what are you dreaming of becoming? What change is happening for you now? What is that nasty little inner critic trying to talk you out of? Well, consider this your Permission Slip! Go, do it. We’re all waiting to cheer you on. (*updated after talking to Steve and getting the exact quote right!) I’ve been locked up for 21 days, 7 hours, and 35 minutes.
I never imagined in my worst nightmares, that I would be sitting on a bottom bunk, wearing a man’s size small, white t-shirt, ugly black shorts, and the cheapest pair of brown flip flops that even Wally world wouldn’t be found dead selling. Who cares, right? Before I went to jail, that's how I would have felt about what women in jail were wearing. “They’ve made their bed, let them lie in it.” No sympathy. And really, I’m not looking for sympathy. Just facing the reality. These aren’t clothes I’m wearing. Clothes are something that decent people pick off a rack, try on to see if the reflection in the mirror looks back at them and smiles, and then wear to work or to church, or on a date, or to a family reunion. It says something about who they are. I look down at the dime store flip flops and see my ragged toe nails with just a scattering of nail polish left. It’s amazing how long those nail salon pedicures last. I close my eyes to shut out the noise going on right outside my cell (Big Bit and Sara are fighting again), and I think back to the day I walked into that shop to the “pick out you nail color and we be with you soon” greeting from the nail tech. He had told me to get “dressed up real nice, nails and all” cause we were going to go on a real date. I’d known Nick for just a few months and I’d already discovered he was better at making promises than he was at keeping them. So I don’t know what made me believe him this time; maybe it was the way he put his hand on my knee and kept it there with just a small affectionate pat, or maybe it was because I was so desperate to believe I’d found someone really decent this time and all he needed was someone to believe in him. I walked over to the wall---a veritable rainbow of nail polish bottles. Did I feel bright and sunny yellow, hot and delicious red, moody blue, or dark and mysterious magenta? In the end, I opted for a turquoise blue because that reminded me of the ocean, and that was Granny’s favorite place to take us when we were little and still dreaming that we could live in the sand castles we built with our plastic shovels. These toes haven’t touched sand in quite a while. I’m beginning to wonder if they ever will. And as much as I try to stop it, I can’t help the tears that are forming in my eyes and it causes the tiny blue specks of chipped nail polish to merge into one, as if I have a small ocean contained right on the tip of my toe. I use my sleeve to wipe the tears away as quickly as they come. There’s no time for that here. And there’s certainly no one to wipe them away or tell you things will get better. Most of the girls in here don't offer words of hope about what the future will look like. They’re all fighting the same battles…waiting to hear when their court date is, waiting on a room to open up in that rehab facility, waiting on those fees to be paid…..waiting. I was never any good at waiting. But you learn that here. You wait for the cell to be unlocked in the morning to go to the community bathroom so you don’t have to do your stuff right next to your cot. You wait for the guard to yell out “pill call” so you can get medicated to face the day. And you wait for “tray call” so you can eat something. I say “something” because most days we aren’t even sure what the mystery meat is, but I’m sure it resembles something like the packaged foods the astronauts squeezed out of their space tube for dinner. At least their tubes were labeled with names like steak, pork chops or chicken. And now I’m waiting for the guards to lock us down for the evening. I’m ready for this day to be over. Tomorrow is the one day all week that I almost look forward to waiting for, it’s Sunday. And at 8:00 A.M. I’ll hear the cell door unlock and someone will yell “It’s chuu-rch! Ladies, if you want come out, we’re having church.” No one’s called me lady in a long time. After the church ladies leave, it always seems so quiet. The singing has stopped. No one is walking around the table touching us on the shoulder, telling us that God loves us, has not forgotten us and will never give up on us. The only sounds left are that drippy faucet in the shower and the blades spinning round in the big industrial floor fan we turned back on after the guards left with the church ladies.
I sat at the table for a while after they left. I guess I wanted to hold on to that feeling for a while. I still had my Bible open to the scriptures she’d read. I kept staring at the page; I wasn’t really reading the scriptures any more, I was remembering what the page out of my Granny’s Bible used to look like. It was all marked up. There were verses that were underlined, she had circles around some words and although I’m not sure what it meant, she would sometimes draw a heart on the page so I know it must have been very important. Granny would hold that Bible in her lap like it was a prized possession; when the Preacher said to stand up so he could read the scriptures and we could follow along, Granny would place her hands under each side of the Bible like it was a newborn baby’s head she had to support. Then when we sat back down, she’d take her pen out of her purse and go to marking up the words. Granny always had a handkerchief in the front of her Bible. It had gold edges and little daisies scattered all around like a field of wildflowers. Sometimes, and this was my favorite part, Granny would flip to the front cover and grab the hanky and then, if I was being good and wasn’t laying down or already on the floor studying everyone’s shoes, Granny would put the Bible in my lap. She would look over at me, as if to see if I was ready to take on a big responsibility, and she would pick it up off her lap and transfer it to mine. I was always surprised by how heavy it felt. I wondered how many words it took to weigh so much. I wondered if I put that Bible on the scale in Granny’s bathroom, if it would weigh more than me. The funny thing was, the pages actually felt lighter than a feather. Each one so paper thin I could see the outline of my hand underneath the page. I was always very careful when I turned the page. You couldn’t turn it fast like you’re flipping a pancake on the griddle, you had to turn it slow like opening the bedroom door when Granny was asleep. And though this may sound strange, I could swear I felt love in those pages. I knew that each one I picked up and put down was full of stories about Jesus. Granny had a big old cross over her kitchen table and she talked about Jesus hanging up there to die for my sins. I knew that was in the pages of her Bible. She told me how God was with a little boy named David and he caused a big old giant to fall down dead with little stones and a slingshot. And there was the story of a lady who needed to be healed and she secretly stole through the crowd just to crawl up to Jesus feet and touch his clothes. I remember Granny crying when she told me that one. I wasn’t sure what page those stories were on. But I wondered. I looked down at the paper back Bible laying on the scratched steel table, picked up my pen and carefully turned to page one. “My baby died while I was in jail,” she said calmly, the words spoken with the acceptance of one who has been through years of therapy just to be able to speak those horrific words without falling apart.
How did you get the news I asked her. She said someone from DFACS called the jail; she went to the phone and was told “your child expired.” Expired? Like a piece of meat that’s been in the frozen section too long?....that’s what she remembered thinking. “What do you mean, expired?” she asked. “I mean your child has died, there was nothing anyone could do.” After that, all she remembers is falling to her knees and screaming a loud, long, endless scream. He was only 11 months old when she was arrested on a probation violation. She asked a friend to watch her baby, but the next day DFACS came out and took her child because he was not staying with a “blood relative”. Her mother has passed away a few years before and her father was not willing to keep the baby because he was “mixed”. Her little boy entered the System where he was housed with a lesbian couple. And all she knows is that it was super bowl weekend and they had taken him to urgent care. He’d been diagnosed with pneumonia and given some antibiotics. With a high fever, and fluid in his lungs, he was left in the bed, alone, all night long. The next morning they looked in on him, it was too late. At 15 months old, he was gone. Her only comfort was that her mom, up in heaven, would be waiting with open arms. Sitting across the table from her, hearing her story, I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t have to say anything because she went on. “He’s the reason I’m going to stay clean and get my life together. I start school next month to be a Substance Abuse Counselor.” It’s the reason we were all sitting at the table. We were there to talk about our dreams….the what next. We all have the same heart and the same question on our lips, “how do we help women when they leave the jail?” If we take Jesus to them on Sunday, shouldn’t we care what happens to them on Monday when they leave? If we don’t, who will? I can tell you the answer to that. The “friends” from the house on the corner will. They will go pick her up, and they’ll put her right back where she came from. They’ll offer her everything she needs in the way of drugs and alcohol. They’ll tell her that’s who she is, forget about trying to change. This is what life is, day in, day out, the same old thing. They’ll tell her to “stay angry, and @%#$&#@ anyone who says they care about you….we’re the ones who care!” I’m glad that’s not what our friend heard. She was sent to a rehab center where she learned about steps to recover. She was given counseling so that she could grieve for the child she lost. And tonight she sat at a table and shared her dream of what tomorrow will look like. And we all dreamed with her, because we serve a God who is the Maker of Dreams. |
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
Categories |