Back in prison

I went to visit the women in Monrovia Central Prison again yesterday. Thelma and Mary were not there this time, so I am guessing that they were released - praise God. The conditions in this Liberian prison are so bad. The food is scarce, and the place is crowded. It's by the grace of God that the imprisoned have remained relatively healthy with the exception of a chicken pox outbreak a couple of months ago. The women live in tight quarters - about 30 of them share a cell block about the size of a modest 2bd American home. This however is a paradise compared to the men's cells. I learned this week that in some cases 19 men are sharing a 10'x10' cell. They cannot all lay down at the same time, so they sleep in shifts. What is particularly heartbreaking about this prison is that an overwhelming majority of these people haven't even had any formal accusations made against them; they are merely detainees, awaiting an elusive court date that does not promise justice.

In the morning before heading to the prison I was reflecting on how little I could do to help these women. I mean, there are very few levels that I can relate to them on. In light of their suffering it's so easy for me to feel unworthy to tell them to have hope. To tell them that God is good and God cares for them and will meet their needs. But in his grace God uses unworthy vessels to convey his love, and he gives us the words to say. He allows us to be his hands, to be his voice.

I spoke with and prayed with many women in need, but there was a woman who I was particularly touched by this week - Sarah Mowry. I've seen Sarah on other weeks that I've gone to the prison, but I had never tried to strike up conversation. To be honest, she's a rather intimidating woman. She's got a tiny frame but piercing eyes and a stony expression. Well this week she came right over to where I was sitting in the corner of the cell and said "I want you to pray for me." She spoke heavily accented Liberian english, and it was really difficult for me to understand her as she told me her story. We probably tried for 10 or 15 minutes. She'd start talking, I'd strain to listen comprehend, then I'd admit that I wasn't pickin' up what she was puttin' down. She'd get a little agitated and say "You don't understand me?!" which came out more like "You doh' unahsan' meah?!" Then I'd ask her to try again. We unsuccessfully tried several times to get someone to translate, but by God's grace and patience on both ends, I finally got her story: her husband took out a loan several years ago but was then killed in the war. The collector came to her for payment, and when she didn't have the money she was put in jail. After learning her story I prayed with her, and by the time we were finished this stone-faced woman was in tears and I was awed by the love of God. When I am weak - inhibited by language barriers, feeling unworthy and unsure how to pray - He is strong, and his Spirit intercedes for me with groans that my words cannot express. Praise to God.