Just Like Me

They were all out there--as usual--a sea of white in their prison issue---some huddled in conversation, others alone with their thoughts, not apart from the group--but alone, and seemingly content to be so.  Some, as usual, locked eyes with us as we approached, others ignored us--or didn't see us, or didn't care.

Some gazed at us, glad to see us---to see anyone, I suppose--not wearing white--as if we brought some of the world in with us--a tiny piece of light, a little bit of something good, or at least, something not here--anything, anywhere, but here...

Others only stared, wondering what we were there for, and did we really think we could offer them anything to hang on to--could we dare to think that we could ever truly understand them enough--empathize enough--to give them any real hope or insight?  We did not live in their world.  We didn't know where they came from--what life had handed them.  We would never understand it.  If they had the chance they would tell us to save our "Jesus loves you" speeches.  They had heard them before.  They would not be attending the service, thank you, just let us have our cigarette breaks in peace.  Save someone else worth saving.  Jesus does not love women in prison.  And as usual, we prayed that God would tug at their hearts--just one more time--to listen just once more, to not give up on God. To not give up on themselves.

But today something happened as we made or way to the area set aside for our "service" that I had never seen or heard before, although I am sure that it has happened hundreds of times, and in the same way that it happened today. I had just never seen it.  And I could not shake it--didn't even talk about it to my friend who was there with me; partly because I could so relate to it, and oddly, partly because I could not possibly imagine myself in this woman's--this mother's--position.  It seems so insignificant.

It wasn't.  I will never forget it.

There were several women grouped together, encircling one holding some items in her hand, smiling, proudly showing them to the other women, handling them as if they were priceless antiques or precious gems.  There was nothing, no one, more important than these items she was sharing.  The other women were all waiting for a turn to touch them.  "Was she crying?" one of the women said, as she handed the poloroid snapshot of the little girl back to her mother.  "Yes, a little"..I heard the mother say.  And for just the tiniest second I could see the pain on her face.  The pain only a mother can feel when your child is hurting.  The gut wrenching ache that nothing can touch or get to.  Just please, God, help my baby.  Love my child for me when I can't be there.

I understood the pain a mother feels.  I have put my children on the bus where there were bullies.  I have seen disappointments and hurts and trials and errors, and I have had to let them go--loosen my grip, and give them to a world that is not always good.  I have been afraid for my children.  I have watched J.P. grow into a young man and leave our home, and prayed, please God, that he is all right, that God will watch over him as he makes his way in the world.

But I could always get to my children if I needed to.  I could always hold them, and talk to them.  There were never any bars separating us.  My children knew that I was home when they got off the bus. That I was there--as I am now--to bandage that scraped knee, or to mend that broken heart, or to encourage them to try when they had tried and failed.  And they knew that I was there when they made the team, or the grade, and that there was someone to run to, to hug, to dance, and laugh, and share, like only a mother can, the little things in life, that are really not so little--those things you remember and carry with you always...Those things and more--I am there--every minute, every memory, always, always, there.

Visiting day at the prison was over.   This child, by now, was long gone, somewhere far from where she wanted to be, far from where any little child ever should be--far from her mother.  Nothing more sacred than that.  This mother's arms ached to hold this child again, but had only snapshots to hold.  Don't grow anymore, my baby.  Wait till I see you again.

I don't know what sent this mother to prison.  I don't know what choices, mistakes, or roads she took that got her where she is. I only know that it is my prayer that she will fight with all that is in her to get out, and to stay out. That she will be the kind of Mom that can take the right kind of pictures.  Pictures with Santa, and birthday parties, and Easter Egg Hunts.

Pictures that don't end with crying.

But for that brief moment in time I couldn't see her white prison clothes.  I forgot where we were, or why we were there, or why these ladies were inside a chain length fence surrounded by barbed wire.

I saw a scene that happens every day, in every neighborhood in the world--a mother, surrounded by other mothers, showing off pictures of her child---so much love for that child her heart could burst--so proud that she was hers--so grateful for this precious gift--this child.  Just an ordinary woman, surrounded by other ordinary women, sharing the joys, understanding the pain, and marveling at this most miraculous of gifts--motherhood.

I saw a Mom.

Just like me.