The Prison

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

THE PRISON COMPOUND squatted on a dismal, dusty street a distance from the main paved road. We pulled up outside a crumbling, gray cement wall. The prison guards let us in through a large metal door and led us across a grungy cement courtyard toward the entrance of what had originally been an old house. A small shack with what seemed to be the only window in the place stood at one end of the courtyard, and inside guards were lying about on thin mats on the floor, watching an old dusty TV and drinking hot mint tea out of a shared shot glass. A rusty steel-barred gate creaked in welcome as we stepped nervously into the main building.

Nothing in my past experience prepared me for this prison. I had seen heart-wrenching documentaries on life in US prisons, but nothing, save the documentaries on concentration camps during World War II that we were forced to watch in high school, could compare to what we would encounter in the prisons of this country in North Africa.

We were spending five weeks in this desert land, working with an NGO as part of the practical phase of the missions school we had been training with for six months. We believed this would be good preparation for a call to long-term missions somewhere. My husband, Stephen — accompanied by our four-year-old son, Joshua — worked every day in the ferocious sun, building a home for a mother of nine whose makeshift shack had collapsed. I and some other women on our team — as well as my three-year-old and six-year-old daughters — were working at a women's prison.

We wondered who and what we would encounter. What were these women in prison for? Were they dangerous, hardened criminals?

Evidently the inmates had heard we were coming. They were not confined to cells as we'd imagined, but were grouped in a communal living area. As soon as they saw us they started clapping, singing, and dancing in excitement. In true hospitable African fashion, they wanted to celebrate the arrival of their unusual visitors.

But the celebrations were quickly cut short. As we watched in horror, the guards got their whips out and began thrashing the women to shut them up.

I quickly tucked my girls behind me, trying to shield them from what was happening. I whispered under my breath, "Oh God! What have I gotten myself into? What have I gotten my babies into?"

* * *

We were probably not the people you'd expect to be doing this, Stephen and I. Sure, we'd started out starry-eyed and full of passion. I'd been that kid who was determined to tell all my friends about Jesus and who couldn't sleep the night after a missionary doctor had told our church stories about children in Africa. Stephen had gone on a mission trip to Mexico in high school and heard God whisper, This is what I have for you.

But when we met, I was a part-time college student working three part-time jobs, trying to support myself and wrap my head around being a single mom. During the four years my ex-boyfriend and I dated, I allowed my relationship with God to fade — at least until the wake-up call the day I took the pregnancy test. I was immediately broken and longed to make my life right again. Not only for my sake, but for the child's. My boyfriend wasn't interested in my renewed relationship with God — and he definitely wasn't interested in marriage and raising our child together. So there I was, alone and certain I had lost my right to dream of a relationship with a man who would love me and my child and have an all-consuming, red-hot zeal to glorify God.

At the same time, Stephen was facing the death of his first marriage — and of his dreams of serving God on the mission field. He and his wife had married right out of college, full of plans to serve God anywhere he would lead them. But as they started their missionary training, she pulled the plug on their dreams, deciding she wasn't comfortable with a life of what she called "begging" for the financial support to go. And Stephen accepted it. He wanted nothing more than to keep his marriage together. But despite his efforts, they began to drift apart, and she eventually filed for divorce.

Stephen had caught my eye at church camp a decade earlier, but I'd never even known his name. He was the manager at one of my part-time jobs, and in the midst of our individual dream-dashing moments, we became friends. I was sure it would be nothing more than that — I was pregnant, after all. But as the months passed, we both sensed it — we were falling in love. Stephen's acceptance of my situation, and his unconditional, fatherly love for this child I was carrying, was one of the most incredible expressions of God's provision and faithfulness I would ever experience. And not only were we being redeemed from our individual places of devastation — we were also being drawn into a united life of restoration.

Even so, we both felt that the call we'd heard from God was fraught with obstacles from the start. Would a divorced man be allowed to become a leader in the church or in service overseas? Would a young woman who'd become pregnant out of wedlock be permitted to go?

But God, of course, was not troubled by our pasts. He kept bringing to my mind the adulterous woman in the Bible, waiting for Jesus' response as the crowd hovered over her with stones. As Jesus stooped down, he didn't reach for a stone but began to write in the dirt. For Stephen and me, the ground was our hearts, and Jesus was beginning — or, rather, continuing — to write his story. Not a story of condemnation, but a story of redemption.

Shortly after we started dating, Stephen handed me Foxes Book of Martyrs, a daunting volume that chronicles the persecution and suffering of Christians throughout the centuries, starting with the biblical account of the apostle Stephen. "I feel it is only fair that you understand my level of commitment to God and his call on my life to take the gospel to the ends of the earth," he told me, an unusually serious look on his face. "No matter the cost."

As I read the stories of martyr after martyr, I felt overwhelmed as I attempted to calculate that cost. Was I really that serious about following Jesus? What would I have to give up to do this? How far would I be willing to go with God? What would I do if I were in a situation of choosing whether to deny Christ and live, or refuse to deny him and die? Was I willing to give my life for Christ? Was I willing to support Stephen's willingness to give his life for Christ?

Stephen's yes was already on the table. Was mine?

Five years into our marriage, with three very young kids and Stephen now heading up a branch of a large supply company in our town with great job prospects ahead, I could no longer avoid the question. In our marriage we were dedicated to loving God and loving others, not just in word but in deed. But as this passion had grown, so had the agitation in our spirits — a sense of holy discontent. The comfortable was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. The two great commands had to be linked to the great commission in a more concrete way. It was not, after all, the "great suggestion." God's hand beckoned to the unknown — an adventure of faith. Stephen and I had a tough choice, and yet, in the mystery of God's sovereignty, we didn't. We began to burn with an intense desire to do the impossible. We needed to "go." We didn't know where. We only knew it had to be somewhere difficult because all of the easy places were taken. There were far too many people in the world who had never heard that God had provided a way to him through his Son, Jesus Christ. Stephen often quoted a phrase in church and youth group, which his own youth leader had used to inspire him and his peers: "If not you, who? If not now, when?"

As we shared our burden for overseas ministry with our church leadership and close friends, many of them, with good intentions, tried to help us be more logical. "But there is so much need right here at home!" they would argue. "And anyway, it's too dangerous to go trekking across the world with such small children!"

Despite their most sincere efforts to convince us to be reasonable, we couldn't shake God's call on our hearts. We kept thinking about Oswald J. Smith's words: "No one has the right to hear the gospel twice, while there remains someone who has not heard it once."

* * *

And yet now, standing in this prison, all I wanted to do was flee back to the airport. God's mission for us here was to tell captives about his true freedom — but how was this going to impact my children? My heart was in conflict. A "good mother" wouldn't subject her children to this.

But a "good daughter" to the heavenly Father would.

About forty women were housed haphazardly in the communal prison quarters, all sharing the three small rooms that led off the commons. Everything was extremely dirty, and the walls were in serious need of a coat of paint. We saw a few rats, and roaches were everywhere — on the floor, in the walls, and in the mats where the women slept. But the women seemed completely oblivious to the rodents and pests.

There were only two women working with us who could occasionally help interpret, so for the most part we were left to our own devices. We did our best with made-up sign language. The women seemed so excited that we were there and anxious for outside attention that they didn't mind the lack of verbal communication.

We learned many of their stories through the translator. Many of the women were imprisoned for the crime of Zina — sexual misconduct. Shockingly, a few of them had been imprisoned because they'd been raped. In this society, where women had very few rights, a woman took the blame for sexual relations outside of marriage, whether she'd been involved willingly or not. An illegitimate pregnancy sealed her guilt. According to sharia law, pregnancy could only be achieved through a consensual act, so the woman could make no defense.

A few of the women in the prison had been impregnated by the guards. While some were angry and sensed the injustice, most seemed resigned to their fate, believing it was "Allah's will." Other women seemed to care little about their own dignity and would even sell their bodies to the guards in exchange for cigarettes or sweets.

A couple of the women were in prison for drug dealing. One rich, upper-class woman had murdered her husband. By law, it was up to the closest male relative to decide how long she would stay in prison. Her closest male relative was her son, who wouldn't get to make the decision until he turned eighteen. If he forgave her, she would be set free. But if he chose not to, she would remain in prison for life.

The whole judicial system seemed so screwed up. If a woman had connections, she could simply pay her way out even if she was actually guilty of a crime, but many others in the prison seemed to be held unjustly. They might be locked up for several years before their cases would be heard. Because of the culture of shame and honor, their families would often disown them, leaving them with no resources for a lawyer.

The guards, all of them men, treated the women very harshly. Their whips came out at the slightest provocation. If two women argued, they'd be shackled at the ankles in the courtyard and weren't allowed to participate in our activities.

How could we show these women God's love — especially in a land where our faith was forbidden? We couldn't do much spiritual work in the prison for fear of harming the long-term ministry in the country. So instead of obvious evangelism or church planting, we ministered in the quiet, patient work of building relationships. A few of us volunteered to help with sewing classes that were being run in the prison. I'd taken home-economics classes at school and had quilted with my grandmother — that was as far as my skills went. But I knew that whatever I had, God could use.

* * *

In one of our last weeks of short-term ministry in the country, we experienced our first sandstorm. While it was reportedly a mild storm (lasting "only" a few days), we felt like we were under house arrest. The sun was a ten-watt light bulb in the sky, hidden behind a haze of dust.

When the water reservoir at our team house began to dry up, we began to feel the muted panic of providing for our family in this desert land. I started compulsively counting down the days till we could leave. Four more weeks, God. I can't make it!

Two more days ... I can't make it!

After five weeks in the desert, I was ready to get back to some air-conditioning and cookie-dough Blizzards.

One more day, God. I can't make it ...

Before we had come here, I had laid my yes on the table. Wherever you want us to go, God. Wasn't that all I had to do? But now, here, with my babies in this hot and sandy great unknown, I was extremely uncomfortable. Was this what Paul meant by "dying daily"?

As I prayed, the Lord gave me a glimpse into my own heart. What I saw made me even more uncomfortable. What I had considered "courage" in leaving everything to serve him was really just pride. I had even fooled myself. I had loved the identity of being radical and being willing to do something that few even dared. In his loving sovereignty God also showed me what was behind me, that the door I had stepped through to set out on this incredible adventure was still standing open. I had an out. If I chose to turn back, he would still love me and even use me.

I had a choice to make. The door behind opened to a short path leading to a shiny new minivan and a comfortable three-bedroom house and white picket fence. It was a lovely path with perfectly shaped stepping-stones of self-preservation. And the door ahead? That door opened to a narrow, scary, and uncertain yet far more fulfilling and purpose-filled path that didn't end — it led all the way into eternity. I didn't have the courage it would take, nor the strength. But God assured me that my own courage and strength is not what he wants. He wants only my willingness.

* * *

If I called you back here, would you come?

The five weeks were finally over. We were on our way out. I was on cloud nine.

But then, on that last day, our team leader, Lucia, decided to give us one last tour of the entire city. My joy sank underneath the reality we encountered. The weight of the need in this land was as clear as day.

As we passed through downtown, everything looked old and dirty — the cars, the buildings, the people. We were still in disbelief at the madness of third-world traffic: trucks with only the suggestion of previous paint; minibuses without bumpers; battered cars with duct tape for windows; donkey carts and bicycles; buses with people hanging out the windows, tightly clutching their sacks and baskets; pedestrians making the life-risking dash across six-way traffic in a four-lane intersection. Traffic signals were optional. Stop signs were mere suggestions. Everybody made up his or her own rules of where and when to drive, and right of way came down to who was the bravest.

More difficult than dodging other vehicles and pedestrians was dodging the swarm of beggars. Some were in wheelchairs. Others crawled or pulled their shriveled bodies — little more than skin and bone — along the dirty ground, trying to shield their hands or knees with worn out, mismatched flip flops. I had been exposed to some poverty on church trips to Mexico, but this was on another level entirely.

Boys ranging from the ages of three to sixteen or seventeen would spend all day standing on the burning pavement, holding out their large empty tomato-paste cans and begging at car windows. Most of them, Lucia explained, were sent by their poor families in distant villages to the imam — the holy man — to learn the Qur'an. Usually the families had no idea the desperate situation they'd sent their children into. The boys spent only an hour or so each day memorizing the Qur'an with the teacher before being sent out to beg for the rest of the day. If they didn't meet their quotas by the end of the day, they were beaten or left outside for the night. Sometimes a car would hit one of the boys and no one would come to identify him. Other times, boys would just disappear — possibly into the dark realm of human trafficking. My throat tightened as I looked at their malnourished bodies, callused feet, and hopeless faces smeared with dirt and sweat.

Those faces lingered in my mind as we arrived at the airport two hours before our flight, or so we thought. By 2:00 a.m. we were still waiting for our rustic North African airline to grace us with its presence. I was about ready to curl up on the dirty, sand- colored tile floor. But because all three kids had decided to sprawl themselves over me, I couldn't move. I didn't know why they weren't lying on Stephen — he had a lot more cushioning, though he had lost a bit of weight during the strenuous outreach.

Had it really been only five weeks? It felt like five months. All of us were well and truly spent. How could anyone get used to life in the desert?