He sets my feet in spacious places. He sets my feet in spacious places.
After the screenings and the x-ray machines and the locking of belongings in lockers with little keys, the heavy steel doors clang shut. I am closed inside a small room between two sets of bars in a maximum security prison. After we sign our names, show our IDs again and get our laminated badges, we will enter.
I don’t know what lives inside — I’ve never been in a jail of any kind — and so I keep repeating words to combat fear rising like clouds in me. The men who live in this facility represent the darkest places of my imagination, and soon I will stand face to face with them.
I cannot imagine what this will be like, but I have no doubt I must go because mingled with fear is a peace and propelling I cannot explain.
Several hours ago, before the drive south in the creaky 12-passenger van, I told my girls about where I was headed, said that Jesus asks us to visit the prisoner.
I tell them about a young man, the son of a family in our church. A man who met God in a desolate, barred place like this one.
I know I will see God there, I tell them, because he promises to bring hope to the hopeless. He promises to answer those who call, for this God is not afraid of the broken, the dark.
Four-year-old Lala prays, “Dear Jesus, thank you for the prisoners. Thank you that Mama gets to go there so she can tell us what God looks like.”
As I prepare to enter, I try to remember I am God’s child, that I am clinging to the hand of the One who lives even here.
A small group of us — myself, my writing group and several board members of the program we are visiting — walk through the center of the Oregon State Penitentiary. One small, roundish guard leads the way, while on two sides men stare at us through glass. Others seem to be crossing our path on their way to somewhere else. I try not to look at them or look afraid.
We walk up a long flight of stairs to the room where the Seventh Step program meets once a month to talk about recovery and hope, where they take responsibility for the pain they’ve inflicted on others and seek to become men so much more than what others believe they are.
The room is the size of a small gym. Around the perimeter are small offices of sorts, created by chain link. Each has a sign — AA, Lakota Indian Club, Sports Club, Roadie Club, Asian Pacific Club, Lifers Club.
Men wear navy blue sweatshirts or denim shirts with the words “Inmate” large across their backs, and they extend their hands and thank us for coming. We pour ourselves water from a big orange jug. A man with plastic gloves offers us cinnamon rolls.
“They look homemade,” someone in my group says.
“We like to call them ‘prison made,’ ” the man says with a wink.
I exchange hellos with several men, and then start talking with the only woman there who’s not come with us. She is a professor of writing at the local community college and teaches a course to the prisoners in this program.
No group of students I teach is more intentional, engaged, thoughtful or willing to tell their stories than these, she says.
“We are publishing our second book,” she tells me. “This one will be filled with Mom stories because no matter what we write about, moms are always woven throughout.”
Her eyes begin to fill with tears at these words, and mine, too, surrounded as we are by scared boys turned men in blue.
“That’s the part that gets me,” she says. We linger with our filled eyes, understanding, us two moms.
I take sips of water.
Then I make eye contact with a man named Doug. We introduce and shake hands. Doug is boyishly handsome, and perhaps a few years older than I, but looks like he’s scraped and scrapped through many liftetimes. Scrolled on his neck are several names, which I assume are his children’s, though I don’t ask.
Doug speaks with kind deliberateness, peppered with occasional shy sidelong jerks of his head.
I ask him about the chain link offices around the room, and he tells me these clubs serve the prisoners and their various interests and that these groups will often join together to raise money. With their $2 a day pay for their prison jobs, with getting Burger King brought in from the outside and doubling the price, they use their shared profits to help battered women, the homeless, kids.
Recently, someone stole a Little League team’s equipment — $1000 worth — and these clubs banded together to raise money to replace the team’s gear.
“Some guys do a lot of good in here, trying to make up for what they did before,” Doug says.
There are a lot of people on the outside who believe you will never change, but you can’t let that get you down, he says.
Doug wants to be a better man. He wants to be the dad and husband his family needs, the one he should have been before, and he’s trying to do that from the inside.
Doug’s 4-year-old grandson visits regularly. They toss a ball in the yard, eat food from the vending machines in the visitor’s area, play with the toys.
“I’m really glad he visits me,” he says, “and my daughter’s actually a pretty good mom. But I want my grandson to know that even though he gets to visit grandpa here, this is not a place he wants to be.”
So Doug wrote his grandson a book. A book about bad choices and punishment and about second chances.
“I’m trying to tell him a story in a way that’s appropriate, you know? ‘Cuz I want him to know, he doesn’t want to be in here,” he says.
Doug met God in this place. And even though lots of people use religion as a mask, and most people will think it’s fake, Doug says, this is real.
“I talk with God everyday, and now that I do, things are changing.”
I ask about the tattoo on his forearm: Psalm 56:4. He says, “I can’t tell you word for word what it says, but I know what it means. It means I have God with me, so man can’t do nothing to me.”
It’s kind of macho, he says, but it’s strong in God, you know, because God protects me.
I stretch my eyes wide as Doug and I talk so tears won’t spill. We talk for half an hour, maybe more.
I meet a man with a shaved head and gentle eyes who transferred from LA County so he could be closer to his dying grandmother who visited him often. She’s gone now, and he tells me how he fills long days. I talk with a man who used to be a pianist and now spends days reading as many books as he can, playing the guitar.
“You should hear him play,” his friend says. “He’s really good.”
The next day, a man will be released with a 4.0 GPA and will go to college on the outside. He stands in front of the group of 70 or so men, and they clap and cheer for him. I wonder how many of these will never leave.
While I am talking to these inmates and to Doug, I think, I have no idea why he is here. And I will not know.
He is a man who has hurt others. A boy who has hurt himself. Who has been broken. Who has fallen. Who is picking up pieces. Who has been afraid. Who is asking for help. Who wants to be whole for his family.
He is like me.
In this moment, in this room with no windows, with Doug, surrounded by men of my fears, there is no barrier between good woman and bad man. Between punisher and punished. Between prisoner and free.
Without dividing walls, all I know, all I really know, is that he and I — we are children of God.
The gorgeous and soulful writer, Amber at The Runamuck, is leading an exploration of voice in writing, in which we use concrete words to show the abstract. This week’s began with the prompt “THE BOY.”
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
I’ve been waiting for you to write about this. Wow. Thank you for being obedient and going. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Fiona, for your words and your prayers. You helped bolster my faith that day, that’s for sure.
I am speechless. Your Uncle Doc was part of a prison ministry and would come home with stories like this. We do forget that we are all God’s children. Thank you for sharing, my precious Ashley!
Thank you so much, Auntie. Uncle Doc — what a man. Continually reaching out to the cast aside and, like you, acknowledging in powerful ways the worth of each individual. Bless you, and thank you for that example.
You’ve given all of us a perspective few would ever have the chance to encounter in a lifetime. It will change how I think about prison and these men. Thank you so much.
Thank you, Barb. My opportunity to go humbles me, and I am so touched that you and others might think differently as a result of my experiences there. I’ve been forever changed by it.
dearest daughter…you’ve opened wide your heart, all your life. you open wide your own eyes, and ours too. and as eyes of the heart open, barriers and perceived differences dissolve. we are unique and we are the same. fallible fallen lifted. thank you dear girl for going there, being there and taking us with you. i’m bold enough to speak for all who read your words…we’re so very grateful for you!
Mama, I am so grateful for the ways you taught me to see with eyes and heart. Thank you for leading me in compassion, care for the hurting — and a love for words. As you say, we are all uniquely different and yet the same…I’m learning this over and over again.
“In this moment, in this room with no windows, with Doug, surrounded by men of my fears, there is no barrier between good woman and bad man. Between punisher and punished. Between prisoner and free.”
It is exactly this–this kind of non-separating, compassionate, open heart that heals, Ashley. This is so deeply beautiful. The whole piece had me then I read your mom’s comment and I burst into tears. Oh, the sweetness and beauty here, in your words–in you.
Thank you, dear person, for listening–for being such a brave, precious-hearted one.
I am touched by your words and am thinking, as I read what you say, Julia, about the ways I, too, have been healed by non-separating, compassionate, open hearts. Hearts that have been willing to go there with me in honesty and grace…Yes, there is such power in this!
I am enjoying this side of you, a little more journalistic – but with you giving us your heart as well as the story.
I like that you are brave in this way. People are people. The the longer I live, the more I get that.
You’ve certainly pressed pressed my heart out just a little more.
Thank you, Kim. This piece really did touch that journalistic background of mine. One of my first experiences of uniting heart and the power of story was when, as a college student, I interviewed men under the Ross Island Bridge in Portland and heard their experiences of wounding, abuse, addiction…the ways they’d known rejection and sought belonging. As you say, all of us alike. All wanting to know we are loved, have value, fit into this world and what lies beyond.
i could see your big beautiful eyes stretching so that you didn’t let the tears fall when talking to doug! you have a heart that feels deeply and i know that those you talked to felt LOVED and HEARD by you. i am proud of you for being obedient to doing what is uncomfortable. love you!
Thank you so much, my dear friend, and for standing with me in prayer and love as I readied myself to go. I love you.
Such a touching, humbling piece. I too am so proud of you for facing this uncertain place with such vulnerability and compassion. Love seeing all the different ways God is using you!!
It is so humbling to think, isn’t it, how much alike we all are, how little really separates any of us from a far different life. There but for the grace of God go we…
Thank you so much for going there & sharing your experience with us! The inmates need Jesus, love, & support just as we do; but it takes individuals on the outside getting out of our comfort zone in order for that to happen. My uncle met Jesus during his time in the county jail before heading to Federal Prison, & now God is using him outside of prison. We are ALL sinners & ALL in need of a savior!
Becca, thank you so much for sharing your uncle’s experience. What a powerful story of redemption. I felt so privileged to go.
Ashley- thank you for coming with our group to our annual Writers Connection outreach to the State Pen. I so appreciate what you shared with the prisoners. I know that going was an act of faith and I am so glad you were there- And, thanks for writing about your experience. So powerful, the words you share here, the story, the way your daughter says, you can show her what God looks like and how you share that the prisoners are like us, with longings and dreams and families and moms. Beautiful- publish this somewhere (besides this wonderful spot!)-so glad you made your way to my Writers Connection group- I am blessed-
I am blessed to have made my way there, to have met you and to call you friend. Thank you for your encouragement in all its forms, Cornelia. Thank you for telling me that going was more important than a Back to School Night (you know I was struggling with that one). Thank you for leading the way in courage and faith. So grateful.
OH. This is so moving and human, honest and compassionate. I agree with what everyone else said – I love, especially, what your daughter said, and how you saw the men as you saw yourself. I think this needs to be published somewhere else, too.
Thank you, Amber. I love what my daughter said, too. I have thought of her words often…Anytime I go, I can believe that God is there. That in the faces of the broken, in the faces of my everyday, I can and will see what he looks like…if I’ve got heart and eyes open to see.
I LOVE prison ministry and miss it; my husband (a former guard) is uncomfortable with my participation. But it was right up my alley. I’m so glad you made yourself available in this way and just as glad that you’ve written about it.
Thank you, Brandee. I can certainly see why you’d miss it and can imagine why your husband would feel as he does, too. I’ve often thought of prison ministry as a thing I was glad some people did. Certainly, I never questioned the need, but I never saw this on my own radar. Anyway, thank you for your encouragement in sharing. So much that I wanted to express…so much more that could be said.
Ashley,
Your words made me tear up this morning. My brother has been in prison and has a troubled life. Our family has yet to understand God’s ways regarding my brother, but we hope to someday. I pray for him often and hope that he’ll turn his life around. Thank you for the reminder to reach out again to him today.. :)
I can only imagine how painful this journey must be for all of you, Alison. My prayers are with you and your family. And my prayers are with your brother — that he may know his life has purpose, meaning and value. Bless you as you love him.
Hi Ashley,
I started reading this yesterday at work, but I was crying so I stopped to save it for later. So I started again and made it further, but crying again…
Here are some links you might enjoy looking at, both to organziations run by friends of mine in the yoga world who serve our incarcerated brothers and sisters in different ways. You are awesome! Check these out…
http://www.yogabehindbars.org/about/
http://www.pongoteenwriting.org/
-Chris
Chris, thank you so much for your comment. It was such a moving experience. Honestly, I could break into tears myself right now at the thought of it. Thank you so much for passing on these resources. I am looking forward to checking them out. There is such power in coming alongside the incarcerated — and cast-aside of all kinds — to affirm the value and worth of their lives. How much we all need that, but how much more those who feel disregarded or forgotten. Thankful for the work of your friends.
Ashley. Man. I felt like I just walked in there with you, among the broken boy-men who, yes, really aren’t too different from me. Thank you for this, and for going. I doubt they will quickly forget.
I know I will not forget, Alli. Thank you for joining me on this journey.
I come from a past that some days makes me feel I’m too messy for church. I love this and how you show us that we are all the same with Jesus as our unifier. Thank you thank you! And I love what your daughter said. That’s fantastic! Visiting from Amber’s.
Thank you so much for visiting and commenting, Amber. I understand what you are saying. I feel like that’s been one of the biggest areas of struggle in my life. Feeling I’m excluded somehow — too too…something. Too much, too other, too lacking, too whatever. I am so thankful for the one who breaks down every wall and grateful that in our weakness, in each of our uniquely, beautiful blessed mess, we make connections, come with hands open to receive…and give. It’s a miracle, really. Thank God that the church is for the messy, or there wouldn’t be a soul inside.
Your heart open wide, so evident here, your eyes wide too, to keep from dripping tears, your words, an incredible testimony to brave love, a love that at the foot of the cross we are all us, just us. How well you loved behind those prison walls. I can see it. This is beautifully tenderly told.
Thank you so much, Elizabeth. And I was loved, too. An amazing thing.
Your brave and selfless decision to visit these troubled souls speaks to what you try to instill in all of us. Grace is the overarching theme in all you do. Your peaceful and loving presence brought a ray of hope and faith to these individuals badly in need of both. You continue to teach us. What a blessing you are my dear and loving daughter!
Grace, grace, more grace. How we need it. How amazed I am that we are able to receive it, then give it. And in the giving, receive it. Incredible mystery to me. Thank you for your loving words, Papa.
I am touched and moved Ashley. The journey of your story and the way you are stretching yourself, to carry the love and grace of God, as you embody compassion is a remarkable tribute of purpose and courage. Placing yourself on these “front lines” to deeply witness the soul to soul contact is such a loving service. Thank you for your discipline, to distill into words, how you are “moved” and create the beautiful story that lets me come with you….Much Love and Many Thanks for your True Heart for God and His Love…Many Blessings…I love it :)
Kelly, thank you for your beautiful words and encouragement to me on this journey. So much stretching required of all of us in this life! I’m grateful to be able to share just a bit of the good-in-the-hard journey, give away just a piece that is being touched, transformed and used by God to bless. Humbling honor, really.