The room is small. The chairs uncomfortable. I see her through the glass, waiting for the thick door to unlock, controlled by someone we don’t see. Someone in another room looking through cameras into hallways and rooms, cells and blocks.
She enters the tiny room. Donelle is her name – not her real name but the name I will call her in my writing. She looks at me, pleasantly. I welcome her, pleasantly. She has chosen to meet, to learn more of Jesus, to be counseled, mentored.Carpets line the wall. The cement floor looks dirty, unkempt, stained. We sit together, our chairs close – by my choosing. Words echo, bouncing from a rock-like floor and from iron doors. I want to hear her every word. Donelle speaks rather softly. I sense shame. I sense sadness. I am correct, as Donelle shares her feelings of depression and of fears.
Donelle and I have nothing in common. Well, other than the feelings of depression and the fears. We do connect in that moment of sharing and looking into each other’s eyes, and I suddenly feel small and now I sense my own shame and my own sadness. I don’t ask Donelle questions about her life, but she shares. It’s a story of brokenness. There are so many reasons for her sadness. As she speaks, my heart saddens more. When I was her age,
I had just completed my Bachelor Degree and was teaching.
Donelle is back in jail, at least a second time (I don’t ask how many).
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I was married.
Donelle is alone, having broken her probation by associating with an “ex.”
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I had three healthy children.
Donelle also has three living children. And Donelle has two deceased children. One daughter, now raising Donelle’s two younger children – the daughter, unmarried with two children of her own and expecting another.
We talk. And we cry. She knows about Jesus. But I tell her more.
I tell her about the cross. About the resurrection and the true hope it brings. I tell her how much Jesus loves her – about the comfort the Holy Spirit gives – that He is with her in her brokenness, in the darkness – that He will never leave her. She breaks down again. I reach in my bag and give her a tissue. She hasn’t had a tissue in days, weeks. I tell her that if she was the only person on earth, God would have sent Jesus just for her – Donelle. We both cry.
The story of the cross is deep. Touching. Comforting. Our time is up. The guard stands on the other side of the heavy iron door. We hug before she leaves. I think of our lives, Donelle’s and mine.
God loves me and sent Jesus for me.
God loves Donelle and sent Jesus for her.
This we have in common. This and grace. Lots of grace.
I leave, knowing if it were not for God’s grace, I would be in that cell. Alone. Without a tissue.