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