My daughter doesn’t want me to go. It feels like my body wants to pull in different directions, toward her in a hug and away from her in order to make it on time. I always feel guilty leaving. Slightly nervous, too. My oldest tells me he’ll pray for me to be safe, and my middle son follows with a “Yep.” As I leave, my two-year-old waves to me from the deck, then shouts “Squeal your tires, Mom!” I laugh at his enunciation and accelerate enough to make the dust on the ground kick up.
Feels good to be alone in my thoughts on the 45-minute drive drive. Usually I work with the women, but we were down three people this week. We had to choose between women’s or men’s. Ruben and I decided to continue with the men’s since more were signed up. I wondered if one of the three women who had signed up was Eileen. It hurts her to hear that name spoken aloud, so we call her Brenda instead. I hoped she was out now, so she wouldn’t feel let down by the cancellation.
It’s a hot 95 degrees. The street is empty as usual. I wait outside the locked door in the hot sun. I press the buzzer, and wait, humidity pressing down on me. After a pause, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m here for jail ministry.”
“Alright.” I hear the door unlock, and I let myself past the tinted windows and out of the hot air.
My Aldi quarter is also my jail locker quarter. I put my belongings in, drop in the quarter, and then shove the key into the bottom of my pocket where it’s not clearly visible. Control opens the doors for us, gives us our IDs, and sends us on our way. We sit in the elevator for a time. Usually the control rooms send us automatically, but sometimes they’re busy, so we wait. We chat about who wants to lead. I could talk about Genesis or Ruben could lead lectio divina on the Gospel reading for the day. We decide on the Gospel reading, then sit in awkward silence. Finally, “Ministry to control, can you send us up?” My body jerks as the elevator moves into gear and the door closes.
Once the elevator door opens on the second floor, we’re greeted by a faint sour smell. Urine possibly. Hard to say. Maybe just the stale scent of confinement. I don’t remember it always being like this. The door for Program 3 down the hall buzzes. “We’re in Program 4,” Ruben speaks into the radio. The Program 4 door buzzes open, and we’re in the door. Only seven Catholic Bibles, but we have seven men coming. We grab the Bibles with the Protestant canon for ourselves and sit down.
“Program 4 is ready. You can send them over.”
A group of men in blue are let in through the door. Only five, but we were expecting seven. As they tower over me, I remain cognizant of my (almost) 5’4” stature. I scan the room. Doors to my right are locked, but there is a bathroom that’s open. I feel myself holding my breath until one-by-one the men sign in and sit down, slowly clearing my way to the exit. I remind myself of cameras, of jail staff, of radios.
There’s Bobo. He’s a white forty-something somewhere in the middle of the group, but I notice him first because he’s talking the loudest. He’s got a charge for possession of a machine gun as a felon, he says. My orientation training flashes before my eyes. Please don’t tell me anything. He’s got $50,000 bail, so he’s selling his Porsche and his truck. Because he doesn’t want to be in anymore, not until he’s sentenced. He’s gonna make a plea deal for five years in prison. Anyone need a truck? Or a Porsche? It’s an SUV. His lawyer wants it, but he’s lowballing him. He’s already paying him $500 an hour, the least he could do is give a decent price.
Then there is Anthony. He was first, actually, but not as loud, though still happy to talk. He is a white, large man, in his fifties with long hair and an unkept beard to match. Apart from the tattoos covering everything from his neck to his hands. He was raised Catholic, then got into Wicca, then Satanism, and now a “Christian.” He has seen some things, he says. He’s got a big Bible with shackles, from 1812. It’s worth $20,000 now. It’s been passed in the family. It’s got all the books, the big Catholic ones. Some are real short, though. But it’s a lot different than the “Christian” Bibles.
Then there’s is Tah, pronounced “Tay.” He looks half bored, until he starts talking. Then it seems like maybe he was really interested. His dad was Muslim, and his mom a Catholic. Him? He’s trying to figure it out.
Christian was raised a Lutheran. He got into Islam. He doesn’t say much, but he’s been there a couple times before. When he reads, he goes slowly, being careful to get every word.
The door opens again, and in walks Curtis, from a different block. He strikes me immediately as intelligent. He’s got smooth brown skin and round wire-rimmed spectacles and a calm confidence. He wouldn’t have seemed out of place behind a desk at the bank, explaining loan terms to me. He’s pending extradition to Texas. I like his demeanor, though I do not know his crime. He asks good questions. “Protestants ask me why we pray to Mary,” he says. “How should I answer?” When I ask him if our response made sense, he shakes his head in earnest and says, “So you guys have heard that one before, huh?”
Then there’s Troy. Troy seems lost, but he seems aware of the fact that he’s lost. He was a Catholic. His parents made him go to Mass every week. He was an altar boy. Hated all of it. Dropped it, now coming back to it in his forties. He doesn’t say much, but he is attentive. He asks a question about forgiveness. We talk about what salvation means: unity with God. At the end he tries to give me a handshake, and I say I can’t. Ruben gives him a handshake. “I wish we had this every week,” he says.
Ruben and I head out. I rarely want to go to jail ministry, but once there, I always want to stay longer. Without knowing everyone’s story, you can see their struggles written into their faces. I’m always touched by their openness to community, their longing for love, for direction.