My Time In Prison

Last night I went to prison. It was bound to happen at some point.

• I have no filter.
• I am the world’s most distracted driver (which I rightly blame on my four children).
• I rip off the pillow tags that say, “under penalty of law DO NOT REMOVE”.
• I’ll even admit to having committed a felony or two…in my mind. (Walk a mile in my Hokas and you’re welcome to judge).

But alas, I was not there as a resident.   Thankfully, I was only there to sing and play in a service during an incredibly difficult time of year to be an incarcerated woman. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s momma. Forced by the consequences of their choices to spend Christmas in a jail cell instead of around a decorated family tree.

I knew it would be an insightful evening, as I gathered with 11 other friends to go through extensive searches and pat downs (which I did TWICE since I had to go back to my car for my license – yay me).

I noticed that all the women accompanying me to serve were wearing black and red. As if it were obvious how one should dress for a Prison Christmas Service. Of course, I showed up in jeans, a royal blue shirt and brown jacket. My sadness at “not fitting in” was short-lived, however, as the inmates began filing into the chapel – all one hundred of them – in…wait for it…jeans, prison-issued royal blue shirts and brown jackets. What are the odds?! I was enjoying myself already. (Art says it probably upped my street cred. One can only hope).

The keyboard made available for my use was like something out of a toy catalog. No kidding, I bet it had 25 keys max and 2 possible volume levels – loud or soft. But the rest of the singers were gracious, sang loud enough to cover the clinking keys, and even though we were surrounded by high-security fencing and armed guards (whom we had the privilege of hearing declare in unison during shift change, “stay alert, stay alive” :-0), a night of freedom ensued.

Yes, freedom. My first observation was the joy, the “Amen’s”, the loud singing as we worshipped God and celebrated the sending of his son into the world. Their hope was not based on their current position in life, but their eternal position in CHRIST. And their worship was not based on their circumstances, but rather on the circumcision of their hearts – their salvation. And they obviously didn’t need the latest in technological instrumentation to worship in spirit and truth. They just needed Jesus.

How many times do I, someone with every freedom known to man, chain myself to my positions, my circumstances and the world around me, when all I need is Jesus? To know Christ personally, to experience his power, tobe a partner in his suffering, and go all the way with him to death itself. Because he alone is LIFE. He alone is FREEDOM. A fact I’m too quick to forget.

My other observation came as my friend was teaching the Word to these ladies. The inmate next to me was taking notes and writing down scripture references like a pro. My first thought was: this lady has knowledge of the Bible. I mean, she had to have read it growing up, was probably raised going to church faithfully, as her exceptional Bible reference abbreviations were evidence of. But that knowledge alone could not keep her from making choices that led to her incarceration.

A fire was lit in my spirit: I want my kids to know the Word of God, but that’s not enough. They need to know JESUS. And continue to grow in him, rooted and built up in him so that when they face those choices, they have the living Spirit of God in their hearts and minds infusing them with strength to stand.

But even more convicting was the thought, that, although I know the word of God, I too often make choices that lead me back to “bondage”. As Paul says in Galatians 5:1, “For FREEDOM Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit AGAIN to a yoke of slavery.” I would never willingly “admit” myself to a correctional facility, but I too often allow myself to be imprisoned again by sin, by doing things my own way, for my own pleasure, at the expense of my own spiritual freedom.

Praying that as I’m faced with choices to go back to my old nature, I’ll picture those fences, those guards, and ask myself, “Is it worth it? To yoke my heart back into slavery?”

It was a beautiful and insightful evening. I hope to have the privilege of going back. Preferably as a visitor:).