Lessons from Prison: On Humility, Mercy, and the Power of Open Arms

In January, I join a group of dedicated women who drive an hour each way to lead a Bible Study at a prison. I admit that when they first mention it, I am hesitant to even entertain the idea of visiting a prison. But their joy is contagious. I find myself saying yes just before Christmas, realizing I have no idea what I am saying yes to. I later think, “God, did you just make those words come out of my mouth? Because this isn’t my thing.” I remind God that some of the women speak Spanish, whereas I can barely pronounce the items on a Tex-Mex menu correctly.

The bright lights surrounding the prison can be seen from miles away. The fence around the perimeter is very high, topped with several more feet of barbed wire. Every gate and every door have to be unlocked, of course. The sound of the doors shutting and locking behind me pierces the air and reverberates in my soul.

We are led to the chapel, where my eyes scan the room. My companions have brought folders with song sheets and clipboards so each prisoner can write a prayer request. A warden unlocks the door and asks if we want the maximum security girls first. Pictures of imprisoned women represented in movies—movies—pop into my head.

These images contrast sharply with reality. Isn’t this often the way it is? We have preconceived ideas about a group of people, but if we are willing, if we allow God the chance, He will open our eyes to a different reality. We have become so desensitized and defensive that we don’t hear each other, let alone seek understanding. We are prone to miss opportunities to do what we are called to do: love one another. When we react this way, we are failing to represent the loving, compassionate, and merciful God.

The door opens. Human beings stand there in front of me. This moment, this place is about whether I will choose to embrace others.

[Tweet ” I am confronted with whether my prejudices are shouting louder than my love.”]

These are women who have made mistakes, like me. Daughters. Mothers. Sisters. I look into their eyes. I know deep down that God has called me to something far greater than trying to figure out where I stand on any crime.

I meet a mother who aches to see her children, who wanted freedom so badly she fled with them to find a better place. Wouldn’t I do the same thing?

I hug each one as she comes in. As I extend my arms, some women fall into them and cry. My embrace is sacred, not because of who I am or what I am doing, but because I feel God hugging these women through me. It is humbling.

I realize the locked doors of the prison may be external but should never be internal. The prison walls that divide “us” and “them” have melted into the ground like a drink offering in this space.

Their prayer requests haunt me: for my family, for my children, for my court case, to find favor with the judge.

To find favor with the Judge.

I do not pretend to know what it is like to be in the physical prison, but I have known what it is like to be in such a stronghold of sin that I am not free. My bars were not physical, but they were real.

Who really came through the door? Who comes through any door?

Human beings who have made mistakes.

 Lord, have mercy. That’s all of us.

 

Terri Fullerton is a wife, mother, empty nester, and perpetual dog owner. She enjoys writing, reading, photography, hiking, traveling and collecting fossils. She values reflective questions and a dry sense of humor. She blogs at terrifullerton.com.

 

Photograph used with permission from, and copyright of, Michelle Lenger.