Around this time last year I did something I’ve never done before. I tracked down a prisoner and wrote her a letter. I had followed her story in the local paper for months. She was a veteran and a very young single mom who, in a moment of stupid, selfish neglect, accidentally killed one of her babies. Normally, I would read a story like this, feel sick, and be glad she was getting what she deserved, which was a whole lot of jail time. Instead, all I felt was sympathy and compassion.
It reminded me of all the stupid, selfish things I’ve done
as a mother. I can’t remember ever jeopardizing my kids’ lives, but I’ve
certainly allowed some things that could have turned out badly while I sat with
my back turned at the computer or hid out in a locked bathroom for five minutes
of alone time. All I could think was, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
Yet reading the online comments about this woman was like attending a
modern-day stoning. And here critical, judgmental me had no stone to throw. Weird.
I thought about writing to her dozens of times, but I never
got around to it. It seemed like too much work to track her down, and besides,
what would I say? But as the months went on, I felt the prompting to write her
getting stronger and stronger, until I knew I needed to at least try. So early last
February, I used my remedial internet skills to see what I could find. I landed
on the Department of Corrections site, only to learn that I didn’t have enough
information to get beyond the first step. I tried a few times, but no luck.
Days passed. I tried again. Nothing. I decided to forget about it, but the
nagging thought continued. In mid-February, I tried again, and this time, all
sorts of information popped up, things like her middle name, her prisoner number,
her location, and the history of her transfers to different facilities. I sort
of felt like I was invading her privacy. Then I saw her birthdate. It was
February 29, 1988. She was a leap-year baby, and it just so happened she would
be celebrating her “sixth” birthday in a few weeks. (As my friend Nate says,
“Oh, God, you have fun with your kids.”) Now I knew what I would write.
Side note: You don’t realize how singularly minded birthday
cards are (“Whoop it up!” “Party all night!” “Eat more cake!”) until you’re
trying to find one for someone in prison. I finally landed on a “thinking of
you” card.
My mom, who knows about such things, told me I couldn’t send
anything in the letter. If I sent pictures or stamps or even a bookmark, it
would probably be confiscated by the prison guards. She also warned me that the
letter may not reach her at all. Using an address I was only about 50 percent
sure of, the kids and I prayed over the birthday card and dropped it in the
mail about 10 days before the birthday.
Weeks passed, and I didn’t give the letter another thought.
I’d given it a shot, and I was done. But actually, I wasn’t done at all. In
fact, I’d just begun, because she wrote back. I’m not a terribly emotional
person, but when I read her response—when I read that my card had arrived on
her real leap-day birthday, and that it was the only one she had received—I
crumbled into the fetal position on my dirty Shome carpet. Sobbing, I read how much
my words had encouraged her, how they’d given her hope, how they showed her
God’s love in a real and powerful way. She said she was thankful to have me as
a friend. A friend!
Never have I seen so clearly how such a small, seemingly
insignificant act of obedience could reap such monumental blessings.
We have written back and forth for the past year. My letters
are short. I never say anything profound. Sometimes I share a verse I’ve
recently read, or I just ask her how she’s doing. No matter how lame the words
seem to me, every time she writes back she tells me how thankful she is, how
blessed she is to have me as her friend. To me, a friend is someone you eat
dinner with or have over to your house. To her, a friend is someone who writes
a letter every once in a while and tells her that she can get through this. Amazing.
Amazing that we have a God who can turn our paltry little
offerings into more than we could ever imagine.
