The video equipment had been set up.  The sound guy was on top of things.  The band was in their places, ready to go.  The lead singer stepped up to the mic, the music began, and heartfelt words from the song originally recorded by Big Daddy Weave began to flow forth.  ‘I’ve been redeemed……..”

It could have been any generic recording session.  It could have been in any church setting.  It could have been in any concert venue.  But there were some significant differences.

These men were dressed in matching jeans and blue denim shirts.

These men were videotaping specific messages for their children.

These men were inmates.

This was real life.

On Wednesday of this past week, I had the privilege and honor of joining The Messages Project in their endeavor to videotape several men at a prison near Chesapeake, VA.  Each inmate who gets to participate is offered a chance to choose from a plethora of children’s books (donated by many of you!) to read to their child/children.  We then create a videotape of each inmate reading or sharing about that book–coupled with heartfelt messages to their family–and mail  both the book and the video tape to the child as a gift from their father (or mother).

It’s a great program.  An important program.  A needed program.  And I thought I knew what I was getting in to.  I thought I knew what to expect.

I was wrong.

As the mother of four children with an incarcerated father, I know the odds that are stacked against them.  I know the statistics.  I know the sheer difficulty of loving your father or mother so much, but also trying to understand why things are the way they are.  Why wrong choices were made.  Why crimes were committed.  Why separation is now the norm.  And how difficult it is to be the child of someone who is incarcerated.  And how important forgiveness is.  How important contact and relationships are, even with the barrier of prison bars–if the nature of the crime permits such contact to remain in place.

So I arrogantly thought I knew what to expect.  I’m not a stranger to regional jails or prisons.  I’ve taken my children to visit their father in three different facilities–a regional jail, a maximum Level 5 facility, and the facility he is in now–a level 3.  I know what it is like to be patted down–and watch your children be patted down.  To sit in the waiting room with the families of other inmates.  To hear the resounding clang of each door being closed before the next one is open.  Of the razor wire and jumpsuits.

I thought I knew what to expect.

I was so wrong.

What I experienced that day, in that prison–I’m not sure that it can be put into words.  Not really.  But me, being who I am, I must try.  And the only way I know how is to tell you what I saw.

• I watched Moses, as he sang an original song that he had written for his 21-year-old daughter who has cerebral palsy.  He had a notebook of pictures of her, which he proudly shared with us.   This guy could sing.  I mean–really sing.  No joke.  He started his video with a hand puppet named “Prince”, who “introduced” him to his daughter, because his daughter hadn’t seen him in a very long time.  After the “introduction”, he broke into the most incredible song:  “Everything’s Going to be Alright”.  And in that song, he sang directly to his girl.  He sang scripture to her–he told her plainly what the Bible says.  And he sang to his wife, thanking her for the sacrifices she has had to make due to his actions.  And for each chorus, he invited his fellow inmates to join his video and sing the words “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright”.  And I found myself in tears, because I knew what he was singing was truth.  Not that everything is going to be wonderful or roses or unicorns.  But that everything is going to be alright, because of love, because of grace, because of mercy.
• I watched Kevin (not his real name, I don’t remember his real name), as he excitedly walked into the videotaping room, dragging a whiteboard in with him.  His son has just finished Kindergarten.  This dad remembered that his son had told him that he liked math.  So he created a math game called “Who does Daddy love more than anyone else in the world?”  And via The Messages Project videotape, he played that game with his son, asking his son to help him solve the math problems to get the clues, which eventually spelled out his son’s name.  And this inmate–this father–played the math game with his son with so much love and joy that the room was absolutely permeated with it.
• I watched Chris (also not his real name) enter the room a nervous wreck.  I mean, a nervous wreck.  He had chosen the book “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie“.  Love that book.  My heart broke for Kevin, as he gathered his courage to do this.  He wanted to tape this message so badly.  He wanted to give this book to his girl.  He wanted to tell her that he loved her.  And he did.  He read that book.  Sure, it was a bit faltering, a bit hesitant.  But he did it.  Not only that, but he looked directly into that camera and told her that he loved her.  And that he realized that this was the first time he’d ever read a book to her.  She’s 12.  This was not a nothing gift.  This was a soul-gift.
• I watched Michael as he confidently strode into the room.  This guy was PREPARED.  He told us that he had been looking forward to this day from the first day he had heard we were coming.  He walked in with pictures, notes, poems, a basketball and boxing gloves.  He showed his son the pictures of him that he kept on his “Wall of Fame” in his cell.  He read two poems that he had written for his boy.  And then he picked up that basketball and proceeded to demonstrate basketball crossover techniques, because his son loves basketball.  And lastly, he picked up his boxing gloves and gave his boy some tips on how to box as a left-hander–how to hold the right hand at the chin, how to jab, how to undercut, how to breathe–and how to only use boxing in sport or self-defense.  Never in violence.
• And I listened as Tony rapped with the band backing him up–an original composition that he titled “Revelation to Genesis”.  Tony and I got to talk some before his turn.  He agonized over which book to pick out for his children to receive.  I had the privilege and honor of helping him sift through his choices.   And when he settled on his final selection, he repeatedly asked me “Do you think they’ll like this one?”

And this is just a microcosm of what I witnessed during the course of this day.  I witnessed inmates–fathers–desperately working hard at making connections to their kids through these videos.  I witnessed them speak from the depths of their souls to their kids.  I heard them say things that might have been actually easier to say via videotape than in person.  And I listened to their very real words of gratitude and sincere thankfulness for The Messages Project for this opportunity to give this gift to their child.  This was not just a service project.  This was not just a volunteer opportunity.  No, it was sacred ground.

And as for me?  It humbled me.  It wrecked me.  It overwhelmed me.  And it blessed me.  Deeply.  I ached for the children affected by crime and incarceration, who will receive these books in the mail next week.  I ached for the fathers–these inmates who worked so hard to connect with their child through this taping.   I ached for the caregivers at home, going it alone–as each inmate thanked whoever it was that is currently caring for their child, my heart ached for that mother, that grandmother or grandfather, that foster parent, that auntie or uncle.

And I ached for my own kids.  For what they have lost.  For what we all have lost. This week would have been our 25th wedding anniversary.   I shed tears driving home–hot tears that I have not cried for many months.  Because it hurts.  It hurts so much.

But I also was, once again, overwhelmed by God’s grace and mercy.  I was, once again, overwhelmed by His love.  You see, I am a prisoner, too, in so many ways.  To my pride, to my sin.  To this hard life and situation we are living.  But you know what?  I am also redeemed.  I am redeemed, just like the words of the song the first inmate sang for his daughter.  And we all long for redemption.  True redemption.  And that redemption only comes at the foot of the cross.

“Redeemed”