Who is my neighbor?

A couple of weeks ago, when I heard about the work-place raids conducted by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, I was immediately heart-broken.  It’s not that I am unaware of the complications surrounding the situation, before, during, or after the raids.  Actually, my experiences in ministry have made me very aware of some of the complicating factors.

Fifteen years ago, I worked with undocumented families, most of them from Guatemala (indigenous peoples who spoke neither English nor Spanish).  I was a church and community liaison in Scott County, appointed by the United Methodist Church.  I taught English as a Second Language to adult migrant workers and helped with grant projects to bring goods and services to children. Most of the families I worked with were employed by local chicken processing plants, the very same as the ones in the news this week.  From observation and testimony, it was a gross job.  Hard, hard work.  What was more difficult were the circumstances by which many of these families arrived to work.  Families were basically “recruited”, and “sold” these positions: they paid or became indebted to “coyotes” who carried them over the border (and who knows how terrifying that journey was with small children…it wasn’t a Delta flight and a chartered bus to their pre-arranged hotel…that’s how I travel when I visit or work in other countries). They were smuggled.  They were brought to a housing complex or trailer park that was in deplorable shape but ignored because the right people had been paid to look the other way.  They were told to be outside before dawn and to crowd into a non-descript van and someone would tell them how to get their kid in school and where their spouse could find food. But who knows if that happened?  Eventually someone in the same situation, but who had been there longer would start to explain “the ropes.”  Think you’ve been lied to? You are correct, but you have no recourse.  You thought you were paying your coyote to get the right papers, do the right thing, secure a job and housing.  But your coyote lied, stole your money, disappeared and left you undocumented and vulnerable.  Your job conditions are appalling, but you can’t stop working because your rent and grocery tab are connected to your paycheck.  You can’t complain to anyone because it has now occurred to you that the documents you purchased are fabricated or illegal.  You are stuck.  So, you get up, go to work, feed your family, send your kids to school. 

When these migrant workers would finally find our offices and ask for help, we had to break the news that to get appropriate documents is nearly impossible.  The expense alone is unfathomable.  But also, because they were guilty of a crime (that their coyote committed on their behalf) they will not be allowed to enter the process of applying for citizenship without serious penalty and/or significant fines.  And it would dawn on them: I’m stuck.  What they thought was a good opportunity to save their family from terrible situations back home has become a new hellish prison of their own making.

These were some of the stories I encountered as I taught English.  We worked on grammar and spelling, but we also worked on forms and resumes and translating papers sent home by teachers and doctors and lawyers.  It was survival English.  Today I tutor high school kids in the EL department.  They are the same age as my kids.  The stories aren’t very different.  I spoke with a friend, a young woman who immigrated here as a child from Central America and works as a social worker.  She confirmed that my experiences are hers as well.She said, “you haven’t even discussed the PTSD these kids deal with after such a frightening trip…leaving their homeland, navigating a new culture and school with a language barrier, sensing that your parents live in a high level of anxiety.  And then being told you can’t go home after school because your parents have been detained.  We can all imagine how terrified a child would be.”

Have these adults broken our laws? Yes.  Are they living and working in the US illegally?  Yes.  Should these undocumented workers have known better, done better?  Maybe…maybe not.  Have you ever traveled to another country that does not speak your language? Did you trust your travel agent or country host?  When he or she said, “I have your tickets, your admission papers, your reservations, etc”, did you trust him/her?  When your host did things on your behalf with your name and your money, did you trust that “that’s just how they do things?”  I have.  I have watched a host bribe rifle-toting men with money intended for mission projects just so our bus could cross a bridge.  I have watched a host pay off a driver with money I was taking to the bank to exchange because we got in a fender bender.  I have been told that the hotel manager has our documents and will tell us when our transportation arrives.  And I’ve trusted that these people who I’ve never met and to whom I’ve paid thousands of dollars will be honest with me, will have my best intentions in mind.  Of course, I am also an educated traveler.  I know to carry my US passport which gives me a great deal of power and leverage.  I have never been detained longer than it took to pay off the thugs that boarded our bus.  But I have been afraid, and I have wondered what I would do if I were suddenly abandoned, penniless and without proper documents to prove who I am.  Those were long moments.  I can’t imagine waking up to that situation every day of my life for months, watching my children grow in this place where none of us are free.  A prison of my own making.

I learned during my time in Scott County that the workers with stolen or faked SSN’s actually paid taxes.  Or at least taxes and social security are taken from their checks like every other documented employee.  They are taxpayers.  They just can’t access all the benefits that other taxpayers can because they lack other proper and legal documents.  And because they understand their illegal situation, they are afraid to call safety authorities or go to the hospital except in extreme emergencies.  They take care of one another, adopting practices that are more native to their home country…which further alienates them.  What I learned was that these men and women contributed to society.  They worked hard.  They avoided trouble. It is my opinion that the workers of Scott County processing plants are not a threat to the citizens of Scott County.  By many, they are embraced as residents of the community, part of the fabric. When I lived there, they were my friends.  We worshiped and ate together.  My kids played in their homes while I worked in their church.  They trusted me with their fears, and I trusted them with my life.  My friends and colleagues that are still there demonstrated this fabric as they set aside what was convenient or “the letter of law” in favor of long days and nights caring for children, raising money to pay rent and utilities, and collecting food and medical needs for their neighbors.  The undocumented workers that were detained this week weren’t pushing drugs on the corner, panhandling, or sitting in homeless shelters or police stations or emergency rooms “stealing services.”  They were at work.  They were being tax-paying productive community participants while their children attended schools that their tax dollars helped support.  It wasn’t drug houses or prisons or even trailer parks the authorities raided.  It was a place of employment.  They were at work. But now they can’t work. Now they are dealing with the reality of no money to pay rent, buy food, or take care of the kids. 

But why am I just now saying something? The story has almost faded from the 24 hour wash and spin cycle of our news.  And that’s part of it.  Because things that are important are worth repeating.  But I also wanted to hear different sides of the story.  Regardless of the outcomes 24-48 hours later, that was a scary day.  And for many, the nightmares (real and perceived) continue.  I talked to citizens of the community, people who have lived and worked around there for decades.  They all know that something needs to be different, but none of them seemed sure that this was the best solution.  Our current system of things “has lent itself to human exploitation, pure and simple.”  And that’s not ok. That is a failure of the “American Dream.”  It is a failure of just living as a human.  I also talked to families for whom one or both spouses immigrated here through legal channels.  They expressed frustration with people who try to take short-cuts.  They recalled how long, how difficult, and how expensive the process is.  But they always circled back to say, “but, I get it.  Sometimes you take desperate measures because the situation is desperate.  I wish there was a better way.”  They hope for reforms that include programs we have all discussed before: worker visas with time constraints…student visas for kids who were brought here very young…humanitarian allowances for individuals with children who are natural-born citizens, who have been contributing to society, and who have otherwise no criminal background.  “Or,” suggested one international friend, “at least don’t lock them up in cages.  Just take them home.  Why are we treating children like criminals and guarding them with the elite forces of the US military?  Just take them home.”  But mostly I am saying something because I have a voice to say something.  I know that people with whom I have a lot in common will disagree with me.  I know that it is demeaning to some very smart people to just dismiss this story with a quick scourging.  I don’t like conflict, and I don’t want to be demeaning.  But I also don’t want to be silent when I should have spoken up for those without voices.

But the story will go on...for the communities who lost neighbors, and for the families who are losing their homes.  There are glimpses of hope and good will amidst stories of fear and heart break.  I hope to hear stories of ICE tracking down and prosecuting coyotes who traffic humans across the border.  I hope to hear stories of government agents busting hackers who steal SSN information and sell them to profiteers.  Maybe a better ending is that after the Church responds to the humanitarian crisis created by this action, we begin to have productive conversations about how we create immigration legislation that addresses the reality of numerous undocumented people living and working and paying taxes in our borders. Maybe we continue to learn how to extend radical hospitality, express love and not hate, and respond with kindness rather than react with fear.  Every Sunday I share communion with my congregation and we pray together words along the lines of, “we have failed to be an obedient church, we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves, we have not heard the cry of the needy…free us for joyful obedience…make us one with Christ, one with each other, and one in ministry to all the world.” And the past few weeks, it is the faces of my EL students that I see as I pray. Maybe our story is, we continue to learn to be neighbors. Let it be so.

You're Welcome Here

"With what shall I come to the Lord and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come to him with offerings? Does the Lord take delight in my sacrifice? He has told you, mortal, what is good: and what does the Lord require of you? But to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God." ~Micah 6:6-8

When we first started to plant The Bridge, we focused on creating small groups and we only had pop-up worship services on a monthly basis.  We located them just about anywhere in coastal Harrison County that could seat 100 people and we could afford.  One of the places that welcomed us in was Seashore Methodist Mission.  That’s significant because they provide a space for worship for folks who are homeless or housing displaced.  We brought lunch and our offering.  They brought space and hospitality.  And we churched.

This is a common practice for their director and pastor, Judy Cottrell.  She’s been serving at the mission for hand full of years now, and she has built genuine community among these neighbors.  She invites local churches to worship and lunch with her congregation. 

That Sunday Judy and I shared worship leadership.  We spoke the Apostles Creed together and I was amazed by the sound of heaven as very different people all together spoke of shared belief.  “I believe in the communion of the saints, the resurrection of the dead, and the life everlasting!”  Doesn’t matter who you are, that’s good stuff.  Already overwhelmed, I began to introduce myself and explained that we didn’t have a church home yet.  One of the men, someone who obviously had not spent time in a home in some time, said, “You are always welcome in our home.”  I won’t point to the reality that many other churches would not have welcomed us as part of their worshiping community, only that in that moment I knew the kind of hospitality I wanted to offer as a pastor.

As a congregation of only 2 years, we have very few traditions (may it always be so).  But worshiping with Seashore is one of them.  In this blog I’ve invited some of our members who have done this on multiple occasions to respond to the question below.  I also asked Cliff to ask this question of his members since they also worship with Seashore regularly.  In the some of the answers you will hear a reference to prayers and celebrations. During prayers of the people, many of the Seashore congregants will speak aloud successes they have had during the week, and often the responses are very personal and raw.

What is your favorite thing about worshiping at Seashore Mission?

“Seeing the openness of the people who live on the streets.  The hope they share feeds my soul.” ~ Michael, who provides sound tech when we worship there

“It feels more real there.  Like more “grit life” real for sure, but also more like heavenly real, like you can really feel Jesus.  It’s too easy to fake that in other places, but nothing is fake there.  And I get like a real Jesus high.  I’m not sure if they know more than I know.  I may know more things, but I think they love it more.  They love worshiping Jesus together more I think, and I love it with them.” ~Josh, age 17

 “I am so blessed by the overwhelming presence of all the people that come.  And I love how they share praises with everyone during worship service! Judy is truly a saint because she handles them all with such grace!  I love going there.” ~Mary Martha

 “Being humbled by watching the homeless dig into their pockets for any money, usually their last penny, to put in the offering plate.  Brings tears to my eyes every time!!! Also, I love how open and honest the community is when making prayer requests or a celebration.” ~ Rhonda

 “Our favorite thing was being able to serve meals.  I cook 3 meals daily at home and it’s one way I enjoy showing love, by acts of service.  It felt good to know those that attended ate a warm meal.  First we fed their spirit, then their bodies.  I also appreciate the concept of “church outside the walls.”  I’ve been thinking all week that it’s what we should aim to be every day, not just on a day when we worship outside.  It made me think about the walls that separate us from others who need God’s love the same as or more than us.  I want us to be a wall-less invitation to God’s family, his forgiveness, his renewal, his love.” ~Wendy, Diamondhead UMC member

 “ ‘When you do this for the least of these you do this for me…’ the perfect opportunity to get out of serving self and serve others…watching people who, by our standards have nothing, smiling and enjoying a short, impromptu jam session.  I thank God for giving me gifts so I can constantly give them away. 

“The clients are so appreciative of our humble efforts, but more than anything I enjoy seeing Judy interact with her flock. She has an inner light that you don’t see often, she loves them and it shows all around her! If the Methodist church had saints, I would vote for Saint Judy!

“I was in the world while being able to worship. I was surrounded by the world while in that place, yet I could feel the Holy Spirit more in that place than I do in a normal sanctuary. I’m not 100% sure why, but I have a few understandings. Christ came to save the Jews and the world. Paul was used for the Gentiles, but the more I read, the more I felt the Jews needed more saving than the Gentiles. I can see the church as the Jew and the “lost” as the Gentiles. We are all lost without Him. But when we are there we are accepting that we are no better than the Gentile (or the lost).  We all need Him.  For me the Holy Spirit made me feel at home in an otherwise uncomfortable situation.  I just simply felt at home with the rest of Christ’s body.

“My favorite thing was the reality check it provided. The things that I worry about daily pale in comparison to the problems they face. It made me realize how truly blessed I am.  Thank you for the opportunity to serve.

“My favorite part is all of us worshiping together and I am reminded that any single one of us could end up in a shelter. It may be because of illness, bad choices, or a natural disaster. We are all God’s children, no matter what we may be going through.  He loves all of us and wants the best for us.

“I enjoy being around fellow Christians but going to Seashore Mission is a different experience. It gives me a chance to worship with others who are not like me. They are a diverse group of people that don’t have much in the way of possessions. They aren’t complaining about that. They are praising the Lord. To me, that shows strength, and that inspiration is hard to find…or for that matter describe! It’s something you have to experience to understand.

“I love seeing the Seashore Mission come alive with the music. You can see everybody’s spirit lift, and their congregation is not shy about worship the way ours is! Live music is a special thing. It touches the soul in a way that recordings can’t. I was gifted with some musical talent, and I am blessed to be able to share it with people who appreciate it so much.” ~various members of Diamondhead UMC

 “Seashore Mission brings me back to the simplicity of the Gospel of Christ. Perspective is important, and it is far too easy to lose it in our First World Problems. It reminds me that I’m a camel who too often still thinks he can cram his big butt through a needle’s eye.  I’m a wealthy man, relative to the vast majority of the world, and do know what it is to truly go without. I have no true concept of persecution or desperate poverty. The lesson I learn is that, it is not the wealth that causes the difficulty during the journey to God, but the complacency.  The congregation at Seashore Mission rejoices in school supplies, dry socks, and the ability to eat lunch. I take those things for granted, and don’t generally see them as Divinely Provided, almost as if it is on God to impress me with some higher level of signs and portents. It’s wrong, but I do it, and places like Seashore Mission, and the people who worship there help to reorient me. So my favorite thing about worshiping at Seashore Mission is that it is a compass that I can use to re-calibrate my spiritual focus, and God knows how good for this sinner’s impoverished soul that is.” ~Sean, who has provided worship leadership for The Bridge, Diamondhead UMC, and Seashore Mission

 

I hope you will check out Seashore Mission and all the work they do, not just on Sundays!  Judy is always looking for church partnerships, so make sure your church is partnered with hers today!  Don’t miss this blessing.

https://www.facebook.com/seashoremission/

All God's Children

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." ~Psalm 139:13-14

When I was in seminary, I volunteered one weekend to do yard work as ministry to area shut ins and area ministries.  We ended up raking leaves and painting walls at a house called “All God’s Children.”  They were a home for women who were pregnant but without resources.  The director explained that she was convicted/convinced that if she was going to take a stand against abortion, then she would also need to take responsibility for crisis pregnancies.  Women were invited to stay in the home for the duration of their pregnancy, and up to 6 months after the baby was born, whether the baby was surrendered for adoption or not.  Her only regret was that she could only house 6 mothers at a time.  Her story, and the beauty of her home, made a lasting impact on me.

Fast forward a dozen years.  As I was getting to know the community ministries in my new parish, I learned of Women’s Resource Center, a place for women facing a crisis pregnancy where they can get pre- and post-natal support in a loving and godly environment.  From their website: Our mission is to uphold the sanctity of life while encouraging the physical, emotional, educational, and spiritual well-being of the whole person. Through collaborating with organizations that share similar values, we work to promote personal health, strong family units, and thriving communities.  They offer counseling classes, necessary referrals for medical services, housing, and treatment.  They offer clothes, baby supplies, birth partners, and mentors.  A visit will include a free pregnancy test, confidential peer-to-peer counseling, and advocacy.  Over the years I have hoped to become more involved in their mission, but I’ve only managed to support them as a pastor within a supporting church.

I am blessed by the relationship that one of my friends and church members has with the WRC.  The following is a transcription of our interview about her work there.

What has been your primary task when you volunteer at WRC?

I teach pre-natal classes to pregnant teenagers.

Did you get trained to do that? That sounds specialized.

I’ve had the overall training for the center which includes how to interact with all the women who seek help through the Center.  Classes are a very detailed set of DVD’s and informational work sheets that we go by. I guess my primary job is to be a support system and encourager more than a teacher. The videos pretty much do the teaching and then I let them talk and share with each other and tell me the things they want to.  And we always pray before they leave.

Why did you decide to volunteer there? How long have you been doing this?

I think it’s been about 7 years. I believe God led me there. Because I was going through such a difficult separation to be followed by divorce, I knew I had to find something to help others in an effort to get my mind off my own situation.  If I didn’t change my focus I knew I was going to sink deep into a place I might not be able to recover from. For years I passed the building every day as I drove to work so there was a frequent reminder.  When God kept tugging on my heart, I went there to learn about what goes on and met with one of the volunteers. She was so compassionate and filled with love for God and also helped me spiritually to accept and deal with my circumstances.  I felt like I belonged there. Even though I knew I was a mess, I also knew God was directing me there. I really never envisioned myself teaching classes but after doing other various things, that’s just where God placed me…and I love it! Not only do I help others but God blessed me with an awesome group of Christian sisters who love and support one another.

What has been your biggest challenge so far?

Just the heartbreak of seeing young women go through the process of having to suddenly grow up too fast. They are precious, and for the most part try their best to rise up and become good moms. They are almost always without the support of the father of the baby. Most do have support from family though. We talk a lot about how they have to take on such a huge responsibility because of the choices they made in life. They amaze me with the strength and determination they have, and they do become good moms. My job isn’t difficult at all. The hard part is trying to convince them that they are valuable to God no matter what.  And their child is valuable to God!

What does a person who wants to volunteer need to know or need to do?

They must profess faith in God and just be willing. An application must be completed. It is a thick one and does require a written testimony. Someone interested would then go with their application to the Center for an interview and tour the facility. There is a job for everyone from the simplest tasks like sorting and packaging diapers to very challenging tasks like counseling clients.

Check out this link for more information about volunteering, supporting, or receiving the resources that Women’s Resource Center has to offer.

https://www.wrcgulfport.org/

The Ride-Along

"Suppose a brother or sister does not have any clothes or daily food and one of you tells them, "God in peace! Stay warm and eat heartily." If you do not provide for their bodily needs, what good does it do? In the same way, faith by itself, if it does not prove itself with actions, is dead." ~James 2:15-17

I’ve known Mr. Ted for almost 6 years and in that time I have always known him to be someone who serves people struggling with poverty.  He does plenty of other things too…he teaches Sunday school, he dances with June (his wife of 60+ years), and he loves to cheer for the Bulldogs.  But Mr. Ted is known well at the Salvation Army and the local “soup kitchen” Feed My Sheep.  He does a really great job of telling his story about getting engaged in this ministry.  He talks about it like an awakening, and he wonders why he didn’t see all these needs sooner.  He knows that octogenarians like himself aren’t promised many more decades to make a difference, so his plan is to make a difference with every day he’s given.

Knowing these things about him, I asked if I could spend a morning with him delivering meals on his “meals-on-wheels” route.  I had not participated in this particular ministry is some years, and even then, not regularly.  But I was familiar with the process: hot lunches cooked at a shelter or soup kitchen are delivered by volunteers to shut-ins in the surrounding community.  The deliveries happen every week day at lunch time and are intended to make sure that vulnerable or disadvantaged or disabled people who cannot make their way to a food pantry would be sure to receive one hot meal a day.

We started that morning by picking up the meals from Feed My Sheep.  Thirty-something clam shell Styrofoam containers were loaded into the back of his car.  But even before we left there, people were reaching out to Mr. Ted.  A lady on a bike called out to  him, “Mr. Ted, you got any money you can give me?”  He walked toward her saying, “you know I don’t carry money around to give to y’all” even as he was reaching for his wallet.  I don’t know how much he gave her, but he put his hand on her shoulder and began to pray for her.  They prayed for several moments, then she laughed at something he said, and he made his way to the car to begin the deliveries.

Mr. Ted is quite a conversationalist!  He will tell you that I what I mean by that is he talks a lot.  He does!  So, he talked to everyone on his route…all 29 people.  He introduced me, he asked about their recent surgeries or court cases.  He asked who was new to the neighborhood, or who had left.  He didn’t pray for all of them, but he prayed for many of them.  He demonstrated patience, compassion, and hopefulness as we moved from house to house.

 
  “I’ve learned over the years many of their stories.  Many of them on my route have died or moved away over the years.  I’ve even driven up in the midst of death.  Twice I’ve found family members in the front yard crying while EMT was inside the house.  I know I’m right where I’m supposed to be.  I’m able to pray for them.”  He would speak “seriously” to some of them.  “Are you staying sober?  Don’t go out on the street again since you got your house back.”  He worries about them being taken advantage of when he sees unusual people living there and he asks them questions too.  He tells me what many of them are paying for rent in residences that are barely habitable, and it’s obvious that he’s angry at the injustice.  “But it’s better than the street,”  he concedes.

I asked him what he’s most concerned about.  He says that the problems are getting worse, not better.  In the dozen years that he’s been delivering meals, their routes have grown like crazy.  “And we could double the route tomorrow if we had the volunteers.”  He wants the men and women in his church community to step into ministries like this.  He’s quick to name the people who run the routes with him.  He acknowledges that it was late in life before he got involved, but that makes him more passionate.  “I wish I had not wasted so much time.”  He talks about the men and women he’s met on the street with tears in his eyes.  He talks about the frustration and disappointment when they return to drugs or alcohol or prostitution.  “But the Lord says, ‘Ted, you’ve broken my heart too.’  And I know I can’t give up on them because the Lord hasn’t given up on me.” 

We took up more than our allotted two hours that Tuesday.  We talked too much.  But it was easy to see how the work could be accomplished in that time frame.  A two-hour lunch break that impacts 30+ people.  What a return!  Interested? Here’s what you need to know…

http://feedmysheepgulfport.org/category/deliver/

https://www.mealsonwheelsamerica.org/americaletsdolunch

They Haven’t Let Your Mom Out of Prison Yet

"Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated, since you also are in the body." ~ Hebrews 13:3

This is my dad’s favorite Tuesday night joke.  Has been for nearly 2 decades now.  That’s how long she’s been going to the women’s cell block at the local prison to teach Bible study.  She’s usually there for a couple of hours, but sometimes she stays late to pray with inmates or guards, or she gets started late because of a lock down when she arrives.  I think he likes for us to call him or come by on Tuesday evening just so he can say, “they haven’t let your mom out of prison yet.”  Because he will say it every time.

As consistent as his “joke” is her presence there.  I asked, because of the effort I am making right now to try new avenues of ministry, if I could go with her to the prison.  She was very excited for me to do that.  When we arrived they all greeted her with enthusiasm.  The card game stopped, the upper tier banged on the doors so the guards would let them come down, they fussed at one another to get out of the shower and off the phone…Ms. Diane is here, it’s time for Bible Study!

As you can imagine, there is a process to getting into the women’s cell block.  Several weeks ago I informed my mother of my desire, and she contacted the chaplain.  The chaplain gave her the appropriate paperwork.  It was simple, but included permission to do a background check.  Glad that cleared! 😉 Then she had to get the chaplain to approve her as my trainer.  This precluded my need to go to a training event, but I recommend the training events provided by the chaplain.  They are held on Saturdays every so often.  My training was a bit more, “on the job.” I arrived at her house so we could travel together.  “You can bring your Bible, but you can’t bring your phone, your purse, or anything else really.  I’m allowed to bring an MP3 player and small speaker and a pen and a notebook.  And of course my glasses.  But nothing else.  You can bring a pen, but don’t let them borrow it.  Or if you let them borrow it, make sure you get it back.”  I did not bring a pen…or anything.  I wasn’t yet feeling confident.

We arrived during a heavy rain so we fished out ponchos since umbrellas are a ‘no.’  “There are lockers where you can put your stuff if you realized you brought things that can’t go back to the pods.”  I shoved my still wet poncho into a tiny “locker” the size of a small post office box.  I checked my pockets to see if I had inadvertently brought anything else.  She showed me the notebook, the log book, and clipboard requiring my signature and time stamp.  “And don’t forget to sign out!”  Then she directed her face toward the slit in the bottom of the window.  “Hello!?! We are ready to go in now.”  A guard approached the window and said dispassionately, “who are you?”  Undaunted, my mom said, “Oh, you must be new here!  I’m Diane Bennett.  I’m from the chaplain’s office.  This is Leanne Burris.  She’s a pastor.”  The guard quickly buzzed the door with a “sorry to keep you waiting ma’am!”  I know to say ‘how high’ when my mama says ‘jump’, but it always amuses me when others do it. 

We have to buzz through a few more doors.  Street clothes give way to full police gear to the striped suits of the inmates…some black and white, some orange. We buzz into the final room, the common area on the women’s pod.  An open room contains metal picnic tables that are bolted to a concrete floor.  One wall is lined with pay phones and the other is lined with shower stalls offering only curtains and half wall for privacy.  The scent of shampoo lingers in the room.  One table is full of women playing a card game…spades it seems.  It looks like peppermint candies are the kitty.  Another table has girls sitting with one another, but separated by their own thoughts as they doodle or flip through books.  Another table has one girl French braiding another girl’s hair.  A quick glance reveals she has been at work for a while, but likely has a few heads to finish.  The doors of the bottom 5 cells are open, large sliding doors flanked by windows.  The women in the common area are from the bottom cells.  Upstairs the doors are shut, but even from the common room, movement in the room is easy to see.  Fluorescent lights buzz above, and what looks like skylights also bring illumination…but there is not an actual view of the sky.  One girl sees that we are a little wet and asks if it is raining.  I wonder when she last ran from her car to a building in the rain.

The guard has followed closely behind us into the pod and starts barking orders.  “Get off the phones!  Step away from your doors!  Out of the showers!  You have one minute to leave your cell and come to the tables for Bible study.  Anyone remaining in their rooms will be shut in until it’s over!”  I’m thinking that most of the women would choose “freedom” and they do, but more than I expected stayed in.  This doesn’t seem to upset my mom, until she sees one face missing.  She heads up the stairs (is she allowed to do that???) and bangs on the window while asking the guard to open this door.  The guard is saying, “She doesn’t want to come out,” but Mama is already talking through the window.  It seems she is sick.  Mama comes down the stairs. 

The instructions to get seated and stop other activities must be repeated a few times.  Reminds me of getting the attention of a youth group.  But finally they are seated, signed in, and holding their Bibles and song sheets in anticipation of another Tuesday night Bible study with Ms. Diane.  “She’s my favorite teacher,” one whispers, and now I’m curious about how many of these they attend each week.  I’m struck in the moment by the irony that one can attend as many Bible studies as one wishes in nursing homes and prison.  I’ll have to ponder that later.

Mama introduces me, and they all begin to talk at once… “We know all about you!” “You’re her miracle baby!”  “Oh you’re the preacher with four children!”  “I remember you from when you were a little girl. I used to work with your Dad.”  All of this is a bit disconcerting considering where I am.  They are acting like it’s a family reunion.  One woman has just arrived that week, but she was there years ago and she and Mama hug and spend a minute “catching up”.  Another woman has been in and out so often over the years that she has become my mother’s assistant.  I’ve stepped through the looking glass.

She asks about their prayer requests.  They seem both routine and appropriate to the circumstances.  They begin to sing.  Singing started seated at the tables but soon we are standing in a large circle holding hands and singing contemporary Christian music whining out of the tiny speaker attached to the MP3 player she’s allowed to bring with her.  I know these songs in the context of my church life.  I haven’t sung them from prison.  And so they start to take on new meaning.  And the circle allows me to see their faces as they sing.  Some are familiar with the tunes so they close their eyes and let the words pour from their faces.  Others are unfamiliar with these church songs and they peer at lyrics or at the girl across the circle.  I wonder what they are thinking.  I wonder if they wonder what I am thinking. 

“We pray for blessings, we pray for peace, comfort for family, protection while we sleep…”
(I’ve never prayed this locked behind a sliding door and separated from my family)

“We pray for healing, for prosperity, we pray your mighty hand to ease our suffering. All the while, you hear each spoken need, yet love us way too much to give us lesser things…”        

(I’m hearing these lyrics that I know from deep memory as if for the first time)

“Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops, what if your healing comes through tears. What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You’re near.  What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise.”  (I lose sight of the second verse.  I am trying to sing this song wearing their orange and awful flip flops…what if the trials of this life are your mercy in disguise?!??!  Can they be convinced that the next time they enter a courtroom and stand trial that God’s mercy meets them there?)

The bridge of the song grabs my attention because now they are singing with gusto… 

"When friends betray us, when darkness seems to win, we know that pain reminds this heart ‘this is not, no this is not our home.’”  (They are exiles singing the songs of Zion on the banks of Babylon)

“What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy.  What if the trials of this life, the rain, the storms, the hardest nights are your mercies in disguise?” (Indeed.  What if…)

[Song Blessings by Laura Story...I do not own the rights]

Singing has stopped.  In the common ways of women, they have moved from the circle to clusters of comfort, crying on one another’s shoulders.  My mom gives them a few minutes to settle and find their seats again.  She teaches a lesson from Psalms about trusting in God’s promises and accessing those promises through faith in God’s mercy and obedience to God’s truth.  They are mostly attentive and even interactive.  They like it when she tells stories about herself.

Hair braiding resumes.  Several of them get up to make bathroom runs.  Some of the women who remained in their rooms came to the window during the music and now their faces are pressed against the glass in an attempt to hear.  The study has several points and moves past the point of a brief devotion.  Their attention is required, and they give it.  But then it’s over.  She invites them to stay and pray individually with her or with me.  A handful take her up on the offer.  Several are asking for help to find a rehab or a lawyer.  It’s time for mail call and for the upper tier to come down for showers.  We buzz out.  We buzz through several doors and halls.  We retrieve our still wet ponchos from the tiny mailboxes where they have sat but not dried.  We sign out.  She remembered to get her pen from them.  I’m glad I didn’t bring anything to forget.

It’s not raining outside anymore, but the streets are really wet.  She asks, “So, what did you think?”  I told her she would have to read this blog.  I can’t tell if she appreciates my sassy answer…she usually doesn’t.

It’s late at home.  The boys are doing math homework at the table (which includes a lot of work on Instagram for some reason…)  Zoe and Joel are curled up with Cliff finishing their TV program before prayers and bed.  And what strikes me in the balance of the previous three hours is how much my children have in common with the women at the Hancock County Detention Center.  Yes, my children are free.  They will sleep in bedrooms, not cells…although one recently lost a door due to misbehavior, so there’s that.  They are surrounded by family, they will come and go tomorrow doing activities of their choosing (mostly).  But the women there, except for a few minor tweaks, could almost have been girls at a retreat or in a sorority house.  Survival skills, I guess, but they are their support system.  They are doing hair and nails, they are telling stories of boyfriends and babies, they stay up too late telling secrets, they gossip with and about one another.  The vine of sisterhood can wind its way up any trellis at all!  Some detour in life has them here instead of a dorm room or a retreat center.  Tonight they chose to sing of a hope that says this detour brings God’s purposes to light for them.  Amazing. Grace.

So, does prison ministry change lives?  Yes.  Probably.  Surely.  Does my mom’s weekly presence make a difference?  Without question.  Would your presence make a difference?  Well, being present with them made a difference in my life this week. 

You can volunteer locally through Good News Jail and Prison Ministry:

https://goodnewsjail.org/

 Kairos is a special weekend retreat designed for prison ministry.  Learn more here:

http://www.kairosprisonministry.org/index.php

The Mission of the Trip

"And how are they to preach unless they are sent? As it is written, "How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!" ~ Romans 10:15

I’m trying to see it all through her eyes.  My eyes were about the same age when I took my first international flight, a little older on my first international mission trip.  Probably just as wide. We are taking a quick flight from New Orleans to Panama to Honduras.  From there we will catch a bus that will take us to a little lakeside village near the coast.  Lloyds of London Insurers have reminded us that we are traveling to an incredibly dangerous neighborhood.  She told her Daddy that it was called a murder city.  He asked why I wanted to take her again? I asked, have you seen our local news recently?

I’m taking her because leaving my bubble at her age changed my life.  Of course, I learned important things about needs versus wants, what privilege looked like (even if I couldn’t name it as a preteen), and what true poverty is.  But the most important thing I learned as I climbed aboard plane after plane during my teen years was that really, we are all the same.  
Just people.  
Just people with hopes and fears.  
Just people with hopes and fears who need love.
Just people with hopes and fears who need the love of Jesus.
  I learned to pray, “break my heart for the things that break the heart of God.”  And I learned that sometimes that was the dire circumstances of a little girl in Africa or South America…and sometimes it was the selfishness of a little girl in Mississippi.  I want her to know how small this big, big world really is.

I’d give almost anything to see it all again the way she’s seeing it now.  Almost anything but this…seeing her see it all.  She’s already a better human than I am.  She has created a prayer journal for every person on the trip and she has taught all the adults all how to use a prayer journal.  She also taught them about scorpions native to our destination and they’ve all bought black lights to protect themselves at night.  She has prepared herself to lead among a group that is significantly older than she is, and to minister to children who don’t speak her language.  She has organized her notebook dutifully, chosen practical clothing, and kissed her Daddy one more time.

She handled international travel with all the grace and patience that I’ve come to expect from her.  She is currently passed out on the bus seat across the aisle, mouth open in deep sleep.  Her Daddy wants to know she’s safe about every four hours.  “I’ll get her home,” I assure him.  But I remember the first trip I took…I never made it home.  I mean, my person made it home safely.  But my heart…

I don’t want to superimpose that experience on her though.  I want her to encounter the Holy Spirit, to discover her own super-powers, to find that mystical and miraculous place where she ends and Jesus takes over...and I know from experience that this is the right time and place. 

She always enjoys the task of unpacking.  She has claimed the tiny single bed in our spacious boarding room.  I will probably have to hide the bug spray from her.  She asks me to braid her hair.  She asks me what to expect.  “Do you want to hang out with the kids your age, or rock the babies in the Butterfly House?”  I want to rock the babies!!

We are serving for 3 days at Mission on the Move in Honduras.  From their website: "In Honduras, our foundation is an after school program that focuses on the holistic development of the child. Your support provides all school costs (uniforms, books, fees, etc), a nutritious hot meal, clean drinking water, medical care, and dental care for each child. All of these things are tools to teach children the love of Jesus Christ. The program is basic discipleship for children that allows us to witness to their families as well.  We have a Gateway Home program for fostering children until they can be adopted by Honduran families. These homes provide all needs for children from formula to vaccinations until they go to their “forever families.” Our newest initiative is to provide homes for children who have been abandoned or surrendered. We have built a crisis care home for babies under the age of one and an apartment to serve as a Children’s Group Home for up to six children, including a special needs child.” 
There is one national couple on campus being trained as foster parents, cottages being built for more foster parents, and a cottage for babies.  The house for babies is called House of Butterflies, or Casa de Mariposas.  That’s where she lived for 3 days!

On our first day of work, I got smacked in the head with a ball and suffered a concussion.  I’m fine.  That’s a different post.  But I was literally like a chicken with my head cut off.  I had to keep remembering not to forget to remember to put my eyes on her.  See why that was hard?  She was in the butterfly house.  Or she had a baby on her hip walking through the meadows in the pretty valley of the mission campus.  She was perfectly at ease.  She helped us teach VBS, helped us play soccer games, helped us distribute clothes and shoes, and helped us play with neighborhood children.  And when it seemed like we weren’t asking her to do one more thing, she would make a beeline (or was it a butterfly line) to the babies. 

She spoke to the team the last night of thankfulness for being included, for being treated as an equal.  She spoke of the awareness that what she possesses is abundance compared to the children she played soccer with.  She spoke with gratitude and maturity that didn’t match her youth…only her spirit.  I asked her on the way home how she was feeling.  She said she missed the babies. 

I knew we had forgotten to pack her heart.

The work it takes for a mission family to host a team is really tremendous.  Imagine having overnight guests who are mostly strangers come hang out in your life for a week!  They are awkward, a little helpless, and sometimes a bit whiney.  They act like tourists with an agenda to make a difference…at best.  Many people argue that sending money is really a better effort than sending teams.  But as our hosts put it that week, you can’t hug a check.  
And you can’t help her see.

See the world, God’s world, God’s whole world, God’s whole world loved so much that God sent…Jesus…us…her.

Try a short term mission trip.  I know all the reasons why you don’t, but try one anyway.  Opportunities abound.  Regardless of what day, month, or year you read this blog, if you message me, I will be able to hook you up with a team leaving from somewhere and heading somewhere.

And check out Mission on the Move.  And if you decide to support the Casa Mariposas financially, tell ‘em Zoe sent ya.          

http://www.missiononthemove.org/honduras.html