in the middle of His love
A few weeks ago Blonde FunkNation and I went to visit my brother in prison. It's been a year since I've seen him, and although we talk occasionally on the phone and write letters, it doesn't compare to seeing him in person. For two hours we can meet in a visiting room.
He comes in, clad in all white, and we share a big hug and kiss on the cheek. In my head I acknowledge how little physical contact he has. As we sit down, I look around and see roses growing outside the windows of the visiting room. This prison is nicer than others I've experienced, as far as visitors can experience them. I never thought I would experience a prison, period.
I look around the room, at the focused conversations going on at tables all around us. At the people holding hands as they talk. It's really more than I can take.
I'm still taking medicine and this morning of the visit, I take more to relieve my anxiety about going. It makes me quieter but no less observant. After a few minutes of talking to my brother, I take the quarters we are allowed to bring in and buy him a snack from the vending machine in the room. He is not allowed to get up and do this himself. I buy some peanut m&m's, then pour them into a white paper bag as required by the state. Then I show them to the guards. I do this with each snack I purchase in two hours. It's this kind of simple act that reminds you that freedom is not in this place.
We have a good visit, talking about the show I love, "The Middle". He has seen a few episodes, which I was surprised to hear. I would think few inmates would want to tune into this sitcom on the television in the common room they share for watching tv, writing, bible studies, etc. We talk about the Rev. Tim Tom on "The Middle"; the roving youth pastor who gets teens and sings of how Jesus was a teenager, too. It's good to laugh with him.
I don't cry while we are there. I don't cry leaving, walking out of the room, although I do turn back to see him through the door's window as he cleans off the table we were sitting at, his head down. The last image of him I'll see for awhile, maybe a year. I love my brother. I hate what he did but I love my brother.
I don't cry driving home, or at home; but like clockwork in church every week, I grieve for him. I become overwhelmed by the love God has for me, for all of us. The love that never fails, never gives up, never runs out on me.
He comes in, clad in all white, and we share a big hug and kiss on the cheek. In my head I acknowledge how little physical contact he has. As we sit down, I look around and see roses growing outside the windows of the visiting room. This prison is nicer than others I've experienced, as far as visitors can experience them. I never thought I would experience a prison, period.
I look around the room, at the focused conversations going on at tables all around us. At the people holding hands as they talk. It's really more than I can take.
I'm still taking medicine and this morning of the visit, I take more to relieve my anxiety about going. It makes me quieter but no less observant. After a few minutes of talking to my brother, I take the quarters we are allowed to bring in and buy him a snack from the vending machine in the room. He is not allowed to get up and do this himself. I buy some peanut m&m's, then pour them into a white paper bag as required by the state. Then I show them to the guards. I do this with each snack I purchase in two hours. It's this kind of simple act that reminds you that freedom is not in this place.
We have a good visit, talking about the show I love, "The Middle". He has seen a few episodes, which I was surprised to hear. I would think few inmates would want to tune into this sitcom on the television in the common room they share for watching tv, writing, bible studies, etc. We talk about the Rev. Tim Tom on "The Middle"; the roving youth pastor who gets teens and sings of how Jesus was a teenager, too. It's good to laugh with him.
I don't cry while we are there. I don't cry leaving, walking out of the room, although I do turn back to see him through the door's window as he cleans off the table we were sitting at, his head down. The last image of him I'll see for awhile, maybe a year. I love my brother. I hate what he did but I love my brother.
I don't cry driving home, or at home; but like clockwork in church every week, I grieve for him. I become overwhelmed by the love God has for me, for all of us. The love that never fails, never gives up, never runs out on me.