“McCall. Jones. Wright. ” the guard yelled, “Ready for baptism”? It was 7:30 in the morning and I’d been awake since breakfast call at 5a.m. just thinking about today and why I wrote my name on that piece of paper the preacher lady passed around last Sunday in cell block 9. She said, "If anyone accepted Christ today and you've never been baptized, then sign the piece of paper i'm passing around and we'll baptize you next Sunday." I’ve never been baptized. I’ve seen plenty of folks do it at the creek next to Granny’s church. I always thought it was crazy how folks would wade out in that freezing cold water and stand there while Preacher Grant would pray over them. He’d take five or six people out at one time. They’d line up and act all excited like they were lined up to get tickets to a football game or something. Then they had to just stand there cause Granny and everyone from the church choir would start singing. And that choir must have liked the way their singing was carried out over the water and through the trees cause they didn’t just sing one song, they sang two or three. Finally, everyone would clap and you’d hear lots of “Amen’s” and then Preacher Grant would grab the first the one in line and proceed to dunk them under that crystal clear cold water. We won’t be going to a creek today. We’ll be taken up the hall to the front part of the jail where they have an old metal horse trough filled with water. The guard takes us to the holding area until the preacher lady and her singer friend arrives. They give each of us a dry jumpsuit to put on after we’re baptized since we have to wear what we’ve got on when we get in the water. At 8:15 we hear the buzzer sound as the locked doors slide open and we see the church ladies. We have a big glass window in the holding cell and they wave at us when they see us all sitting in here. They’re smiling like those people at the creek next to my Granny’s church and they wave and somehow I feel comforted by that simple gesture. The guard comes to get us and we line up against the wall. The preacher lady comes over to talk to us. She say she wants to tell us again about baptism, to make sure we understand the significance of what we’re doing. She speaks quietly but emphatically about how Jesus was baptized and we are following in His footsteps. As she speaks I can see her looking at each one of us, as if to let us know that we are not just a “group” of women being baptized, but each of us is a soul that matters in this world. She tells us that although family and friends are not here to witness this event, that all of Heaven is watching. We enter the cell block and she tells us we might want to take our flip flops off so as not to slip when we step out of the water. She tells us she’s going to take our hand as we step in and that we can hold our nose when we go “down in death with Jesus, and rise up to new life.” The other lady starts singing and it was a song I recognized. I can’t remember the name, but I can still hear my Granny singing the chorus, “It is well, with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.” I decided to go first. So I placed my flip flops to the side and the preacher lady helped me in. The water was so cold. You’d think they got it straight from the creek. But I didn’t have much time to think cause pretty soon I was down on my knees and she was telling me to hold my nose…. When I came up out of the water I tried to picture what the preacher lady told us to picture….a Dove from Heaven saying “this is my Daughter in whom I am well pleased.” Maybe it was the way the sunlight came in through the tiny window from high in the wall, maybe it was the water still in my eyes, but I swear I saw a tiny dove. It only lasted a brief second, but it was enough. And although i felt the weight of a prison jumpsuit soaked with water, my heart and spirit felt light and free! I picked up the towel I’d been given and stood to the side as the other two ladies were baptized. I wasn’t really seeing them though. I was at a creek down by a church and I started humming….it is well, it is well, with my soul. *this is a fictional series about an inmate, not based on any one person
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I tried my second yoga class last week. The first one was about two years ago. Why did I wait so long? Mainly it was a time issue to add one more thing to my schedule. I’m sure you can relate. If we signed up for everything we wanted to do, there’d be no time for sleep! Ha! And I must admit one more thing, yoga feels like such an indulgent thing. All about me, for me. That sounds funny now that I’ve said (or written it) out loud. I mean isn’t all exercise indulgent? I take time out of my schedule and do something that’s just for me when I go to my spin class in the mornings. It’s just “me” time when I go to Body Pump Classes. But those don’t feel like they’re just about me. Both classes feel more like a group exercise. When we’re at Spin Class, the instructor encourages us to imagine ourselves in a race, leaving no one behind. So we all work hard together. We all push hard together as we get up those imaginary hills. Body Pump class is all about developing individual inner strength, but we all count out loud---together—as we do pushups and leg lunges. We all collectively groan together when we’re finally finished with the triceps workout segment! And when I feel like I can’t do one more sit up, I can keep at it because the girl next to me isn’t giving up, so why should I? No one tells me in those classes to listen to my inner self. No one tells me to focus on my breath and how it sounds as I exhale. No candles are lit to give a sweet aroma to the room. And no one gently places a cold cloth infused with essential oils on my forehead at the end of class as I rest and picture myself floating up to the ceiling. That’s the beauty of Yoga. It’s time for working hard, yes, but working hard on body, soul, mind and spirit. It’s indulgent. The dictionary says the definition of indulgent is “a tendency to be overly generous to or lenient with someone.” Maybe I’m strange, but taking a Yoga class feels like me being generous to me. Am I allowed to do that? Be generous to myself? Obviously I’m answering yes to that. Because I felt the benefit of how wonderful it was to be encouraged as the instructor would tell us how strong we were. It felt as though she was speaking to each of us individually though, not to the group. She would complement us on how well we held a pose. She would look at our hands outstretched and remind us to open the fingers and let energy flow if she noticed someone with hands gripped tightly shut. She SAW us. That’s what made the difference. You know what I thought about as I lay on my mat at the end of the session? I thought about all the sweet women in the jail. I wondered to myself, when is the last time someone told them they were strong? When is the last time someone reminded them that they have courage within themselves if only they draw on it? When is the last time someone put a cool cloth to their weary brow? When is the last time they felt seen? I know it’s crazy, but I wish I could roll up my mat and walk into that jail on Sunday and teach a yoga class. I would show the women the “warrior” pose and remind them they have power over their lives. That they don’t have to let addiction define them. I would light candles and talk about the light of the world who died to save them (cause it’s my yoga class and I can do that). At the end of class we would all sit still on our mats and just be still. We would let the world fade away, and see that Jesus is as close as our next breath. I would see them, each one. Because Jesus does too. I always look for the singers when I’m at the jail on Sundays. I’ve heard some amazing voices over the last 15 months.
The women may be quiet when we first enter and begin to hand out Bibles and call the ladies to church. They gather around the table and for those who are new, they seem to eye us suspiciously as if wondering how we’d made a wrong turn on our way to church and ended up here in the jail with them. We begin to share with them, as we do every Sunday, that we’ve simply come to remind them that Jesus loves them. We have experienced His grace and love and we can’t keep quiet about it. As we sing, some read along, some sing quietly as if to gently soak in the words they are singing, and some sing joyously, loudly and off key. It’s ALL a joyful noise and music to God’s ears. Occasionally a beautiful voice can be heard in the room and I focus in on that voice. Since music is my passion, I’m drawn to someone who seems to love it as much as I do. And of course, I’ always interested in what they’ve, done or want to do with the spiritual gift of music they’ve been given. Today was the first time in 15 months that I heard harmony. We had a group of about 15 women today and they were all singing boisterously. In fact they were boisterous at the end of the hour as all of them said the sinner’s prayer with us. I’d never heard it spoken that loud. It was amazing! So when I heard someone harmonizing with me, I had to find her after the lesson and talk to her. I approached her and told her how I’d heard her beautiful singing. She begin to tell me about how she used to go to church, how she played the drums and sing in the praise band. I could see in her eyes that for a moment she was back there, at the church, on the platform, the choir in their places behind her, hands raised and she was singing and playing the drums for the Glory of God. The Holy Spirit gave her a glimpse of what was to remind her of what could be. It was time to quit running from His calling. She began to cry and told me she was “so tired”. I held her and began to pray as she rested her head on my shoulder. She looked young enough to be my daughter and in that moment, I felt like a mom praying for their child. “Where will you go when you are released?” I asked her. “I don’t know.” She told me. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, I’m not welcome anywhere.” My heart was so heavy. I wanted to whisk her away from that place. I wanted to be able to tell her there will be options when she walks out, but for her, I’m not sure what they are. As Patti and I walked back to our cars, we talked about how much New Hope Horizons is needed in this community. I wish we could open our doors tomorrow. For tonight, I have a new name on my prayer list. I hope she’s looking at the song sheet of the songs we sang today. And maybe somewhere, there’s someone singing harmony with her. What strums your string? What colors your canvass? What rings your bell? What strings your racket? Ok, you get the idea. Everyone has it….that place that says “this is it!”…..that hole that can only be filled by doing what you were made to do. It’s quite extraordinary when you think about it……the Creator of the Universe thinking about you as you were “woven and spun”, as Nichole Nordeman puts it. “Ah hah!” He says. “This one needs a tiny thread of music to weave in and out of the sorrows of her life, she’ll take that thread and weave it into songs for my precious children to hear.” “Yes! This one will have a strong thread of prayer that will be strengthened into deep faith as He uses it to bring others unto my Throne” declares the Creator. “This one is given a thread of compassion that will be bound to threads of mercy,” says the Great Weaver, “so that she will be enabled to see what others overlook……the needy children crying out for help.” Each one of us, touched by the Father. I believe that. The world would lump us into categories with our personality traits and tell us what jobs best suit us. And there’s nothing wrong with a great personality test. I’ve taken my fare share. But never forget there’s a higher caller than any book or test can tell you about….it’s the calling that was woven into your very being. I have loved music since I can remember. What I don’t remember is anyone “pointing” me in that direction. I don’t remember my folks necessarily playing music all the time. No one told me to join a school choir. No one suggested I should audition for a music group at college. Yet I was drawn to all these things. Like so many, it was the songs sung in the little church in the woods that I first remember hearing and loving. My Dad was pastoring a church in the hills of Tennessee and even as a toddler, I loved singing along. My mom tells me that I would sing “specials” by standing on her lap and facing the congregation as she sat on the front pew. I sang constantly. Maybe that’s why the elementary school, Red Bug Elementary, slated me to sing a song in our school program? I didn’t know what it meant to “leave my heart” somewhere, but none-the-less, I sang “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” with all the heart I could muster at 7 years old! My high school choir director, Miss Sandefur, would make a big impact on me. She was ALL IN when it came to music and how it could change your life. She chose “student directors” to lead our choir and when I was chosen my junior year, I was thrilled! It was such an amazing feeling to direct students in crescendo and decrescendo, into legato and staccato, and watch their faces as they experienced the song with me. In college I decided at the 9th hour to audition for the school’s public relations group. I knew nothing about auditioning and how I should “showcase” my voice, instead, I just picked a song I liked. It was in a lower range. So when the listings came out, I found I was chosen to be the alto in the group New Direction. I’d always been a first soprano in the high school choir, so this was something new, but I loved it. I learned a lot about singing harmony! The next twenty years I would sing at church, at weddings, at funerals, pretty much wherever and whenever anyone asked. Although I would often be nervous when I sang, I was also at my happiest. I was doing something I knew pleased the Lord. I could feel His blessing on me every time. It wouldn’t be until I was 37 years old that I would pick up a pen to write my very first song. And I would be 40 years old when I recorded my first CD of ten original songs. I’m sitting here trying to think of a way to tell you what songwriting is like for me. Because maybe you’re reading this and you’re a writer and it’s different for you. I can’t tell your story. I can only tell mine. Writing is like buying an old house that you decide to remodel. You see nothing but ugly painted plaster walls, so you decide to start there. You buy the most fabulous color paint and the best brushes and prepare to start. Then you notice a slight tear in the wall and you go closer to inspect. You decide to peel it back and see what happens and to your sheer amazement, underneath is the most glorious, imaginative, and beautiful wallpaper you’ve ever seen. It existed, it just needed you to find it. That’s writing. The songs are there, waiting to be uncovered. I can’t tell you the joy this brings me. To be writing and to begin to find that magical wallpaper and the process of uncovering it. I get chill bumps just thinking about it. Then a feeling of gratitude washes over me. Thank you Jesus, for this thread you wove into my life. I know it’s there to glorify you. So is your thread, dear Reader. Maybe your thread won’t be used in front of everyone….you won’t preach, or sing, or play in the orchestra. You aren’t a Doctor or a Lawyer. Or maybe you are. Either way, don’t doubt the thread is there. Maybe it’s not unique you think. Maybe it’s something simple like a thousand other people have? Oh I know, others have been given the thread of music. I’m certainly one singer/songwriter of millions. But what makes my writing unique? It’s the thousands, millions of other threads that God wove into my life. My thread of music and writing, with my personality, with the threads of my family, and the threads of my upbringing, and the threads of my broken journey…… So I ask again. What floats your boat? What speaks to you? What keeps you gazing at the stars? Find it. Use it. The Great Weaver is waiting, and so is the world. One thing jail time gives you is a lot of time to think. My cell phone is locked up with all of my other personal belongings from the night I was arrested. There’s no TV to watch and no radio to listen too. I’ve been locked up for 8 weeks now, but it feels more like 6 months. I can barely remember what it felt like to relax in nice warm bath, slip into some comfy pants and cozy up in my favorite chair and just chill. Or remember how wonderful it was when I used to sit on my Granny’s front porch in the swing waiting for the warm summer breeze to decide to blow up on the porch, as if it’s choosing to travel through the cornfield first before it comes up to caress my cheek. I could sit there for hours daydreaming, Granny’s homemade lemonade in my glass. Anything was possible on her porch and the world was a wide open to me. I never saw boundaries, I just knew at the edge of the horizon was a boundless story that would be mine to write and live. Where is that girl? Does she exist anymore? It’s all because of that dang song that this has been on my mind. The Bible ladies showed up, like they always do, so happy and cheerful and calling us to come out for church. I’d been waiting for the sound of them coming down the hall. It’s a mixture of high heels and chatter. When the guards come, all you hear is keys rattling. The singing lady told us she had a new song she wanted us to learn. She said she’d heard it on the radio this week and thought of us. When she started singing, it was like my heart was being laid open on the table for all to see what was in it…… “What if you could go back and relive one day of your life all over again And unmake the mistake that left you a million miles away From the you, you once knew Now yesterday's shame keeps saying that you'll never get back on track But what if I told you… You're one step away from surrender One step away from coming home, coming home One step from arms wide open His love has never let you go You're not alone” (Casting Crowns) How many times have I asked myself “what if” since I’ve been in handcuffs and dressed in a jump suit? My pillow has been drenched with hot tears as I’ve regretted the mistakes I’ve made. I remember the first step away. I’d been invited to a party. A couple of my friends were going and told me it would be fun. It was the party that “everyone who was anyone” was going too. I knew what my Granny would say. She’d ask who was going to be there, and was there going to be any alcohol. And then she’d put her arm around me and ask me if this is what Jesus would do. I wasn’t up for that conversation, so I lied. It was the first time I’d ever lied to her and I’ll never forget the feeling that the lump that had been in my throat as I lied had become a rock lodged deep in my gut. I felt the weight of it all evening at the party. So I joined in with everyone and tried to drink it away. You know how they say one wrong step can lead to another, and then another? Well, it’s true. The other steps have become kind of blurred in my mind, but I’ll never forget the moment I left Granny’s house as she hugged me and said “Have a good time at your sleepover, Sweetie. And don’t forget to say your prayers.” All the wrong steps that followed, I’m so ashamed of. I’ve felt as if I’ve walked so far from God that there’s no way He could possibly see me, let alone hear me. You can’t really turn your back on someone for that long, and they would still want you back? That’s not the way it works. No one wants me back. But the song says I’m only “one step from arms wide open.” I keep reading that line over and over. I haven’t been hugged in so long. The only arms opened to me, were ones that hurt me. When the church ladies left, I listened to their footsteps, so confident, so assured they were heading the right direction. Maybe there’s still a chance for me. One step led me away, maybe one step really can lead me back. I look through that locked cell door and begin to imagine a porch swing and the cornfields……. *fictional series "In Her Eyes".....imaging life through the eyes of an inmate. |
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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