It's cold in here. That's what I notice first. I knew it would be. Places like this are always cold. It was surprisingly easy to get in this room. I never even had to show my ID. But it's just a small county jail. A couple of heavy doors with a small square of bullet-proof glass at eye level (if you're a 6' tall man) to push through and here we are in the common area.
Monochromatic. That's the second thing I notice. The walls, doors, floor, ceiling, even the heavy iron picnic tables that are bolted to the floor are the same shade of pale gray.
Every thing is hard. There are no soft surfaces. I glimpse two women who are new to the facility being given their bedding before being sent to their room. They can carry it--mattress and all--under one arm. That's the softest thing thing I've seen and it's pretty pathetic.
I stand awkwardly just inside the door as it clangs shut behind me and meet the stares of the women who are such a stark contrast to everything else about this place. They are soft and feminine and clothed in that obnoxious bright orange that people only wear when they want to be easily found. Though they wear no make-up and don't have blow dryers or flat irons, there is a beauty in them and I can easily imagine what they would look like if they were dressed for company.
There are about 17 women in this common area waiting for us; all of them inmates of the Cleburn County Correctional Facility. We have no idea what they've done to get here but it's probably better this way. The less we know the less we judge. This way, all I can see are women who are already paying the price for what they've done. I don't need to condemn; I am just here to sit with them for an hour.
They stand up and form a line that stretches to the back of the room. One by one they embrace me, my sister, and my aunt in greeting. They've never seen me or my sister before and have no idea if we are even worthy of their hugs but the fact that we came here with their beloved teachers, Ray and Esther Clevenger, is enough for them to know we are.
I am not generally a hugger but I would die before I would refuse a hug from any of these women. As I wrap my arms around them, I feel the flesh at their back, the unique form and shape and feel of each individual, and though I don't speak I hope to communicate with my touch that I am glad to be here. No. I am honored to be here, included in this bible study, wholly accepted by these women--no questions asked. There are not many groups of women who would do that. How can I help but do the same?
I find a place among them as we sit at the tables. Uncle Ray tells them to open their bibles to where they left off last time: Proverbs 29. Several women slide pictures of their kids out from between the pages of their bibles and lay them down carefully, touching each one tenderly. "My kids," the woman next to me whispers as she positions the pictures around her bible. "They're beautiful," I whisper back and I mean it. They are adorable--all four of them, and I ache a little, wondering who is caring for them in her absense and when she will get to see them again.
I did not bring my bible. Uncle Ray said they'd share theirs with us, so I sit and watch them find their places. I am astonished at how much they have written in the pages of their bibles. I love the sight of scripture that has been lovingly, painstakingly underscored, starred, highlighted, and wrinkled from use and misuse. Those are words that have been poured over and meditated on. Words that have convicted and comforted, wrecked and solaced.
The woman who sits across from me, a grandmother I would later discover, slides her bible across the table so that I can look from it and follow along. Uncle Ray begins with verse 1. He goes down the page, telling a story from his life to impart the meaning of each verse and how it applies to the lives of these women. He makes his way to verse 10: "The bloodthirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul." I struggle to understand the meaning of this King James text but the women nod, rapt, transfixed by his teaching. I have been doing bible studies for a long time--I'm not sure if I've ever seen an entire group so 100% committed to every word spoken. There are no yawns to stifle, no cell phones to check, no watches to look at, no fidgeting children to quiet, no appointments that cause them to leave early. Every word he says and reads is soaked in by every listener. I wonder how they have looked forward to this hour all week long.
For some of them, this might be the first time they have heard these words and I marvel at the life-transforming power of them. There is no stumbling block of good deeds that gets in the way of their salvation. They know their wrongs and they know what a precious gift grace is. They are taught that they are blameless now, that they are the ones Jesus died for, and they do not take it for granted like so many of us "good Christans" who have never found ourselves in this confining world of orange and gray.
While they listen to Uncle Ray's preaching and concentrate on the scriptures laid out in front of them, they are probably more spiritually sure of who they are as daughters of the Most High than at any other time in their lives. This is their safe place. They are safe from the bad friends and temptations and stupid decisions that landed them here. They are safe from the psychological devastation of being judged--or worse--the self-loathing that probably haunts them day and night. They probably walk back to their cells after this hour of bible study with new promises in their hearts and new confidence that they will do things right next time because they serve a God of second and third chances.
I know how it feels to hear the powerful message of redemption and be so full of love and gratitude to God you're nearly bursting. And I know how it feels a few days later when the memory of the message has faded, the glow has waned, and the confidence wavers.
They leave the safety of the gray walls so abruptly. When the court date arrives they are walked from their cell to the judge, not knowing what the outcome will be. If they are freed, they are turned out without even enough warning to call for a ride. They go right back to the environment that got them here. No more Ray and Esther. No more godly women flanking them at those cold gray tables, encouraging them, keeping them in the Word, keeping the flame lit.
It's a miracle more of them don't find their way back.
I think about these women all the time. I remember their faces and I wonder about them. I lift them up in prayer and hope they find themselves surrounded by godly women on the outside who will continue to pour into them.
A few days later, my mind still on the verses Uncle Ray explained to the women, I look them up in my own NLT bible. I want to understand them better. I zero in on Proverbs 29:10 which says, "The bloodthirsty hate blameless people; [as for the upright, they seek their life.]" Suddenly I realize who the blameless are. They wear orange, condemned by the county, but considered blameless by a loving God. I get to choose who I will be. Will I be the bloodthirsty who hate them? Or the upright who seek the same new life they now possess?
It's an easy answer.
