Unless you’re one of my enthusiastically loyal blog readers (thanks mom and grandma;)), you most likely only clicked on this because you legitimately assume I got arrested in Africa. Although I had some serious urges to swim across the small ocean channel separating Togo from Benin, and there was great temptation to confiscate one of the cutest chunky babies I ever did see, I refrained from illegal acts. I really did go to prison for two days though, so keep reading.
The majority of our month was spent in numerous schools and churches, teaching kids of all ages and preaching at assemblies, youth groups, kids clubs, and Sunday schools. Shoutout to all my teacher friends; I really love kids…but woof, teaching an entire class of rambunctious kids every day, all day is really something. Since there is a huge and difficult to reach Muslim population here in Togo, the ministry we partnered with focuses on teaching children about Jesus so that they can go home and teach their families what they have learned. Feel free to take a gander at my Insta/Facebook highlight video for some of the school action!
Now back to the whole African prison part.
We had the incredible opportunity to bring a little life into two Togolaise prisons- one day with women, the next with men! Let me paint a picture of what that was like:
WOMEN’S PRISON IN TOGO:
We rolled up to a tall, worn brick wall, a few rusty nails plastered to cement at the top for makeshift barbed wire. Men in blue military uniforms were lounging about, some taking naps or on their phones and sitting on their motos. As with everything in Africa, we waited in our van for a long time. For what, we never really know, but finally someone came out to get us. The only thing we were allowed to take with us was a Bible. We got to the front desk/security, aka a wooden table under a small open pavilion, where we wrote our names on a scratch piece of paper. The guard called our names out one by one, and we went behind a piece of tin with a female guard, got a quick pat down that was basically like a tap on the shoulder and a slap on the butt, and boom we were cleared. They opened a sliding gate that was being held shut by a single rope, then led us to the female prison area. We walked through one barred door and into a long, narrow room, maybe 50 yards long and 10 yards wide. There were no cells, just one big, crammed room that felt more like a hallway. Tattered clothes hung from clothes lines across the open air ceiling, huge metal pots that looked like cauldrons boiled on smoking charcoal piles, hundreds of plastic and burlap sacks spilling over with onions and potatoes filled an entire corner. We followed a narrow “path” to the back where a group of maybe 15 women gathered in a circle under a little tin awning for our arrival. Somewhere between 20 and 30 other women lingered around, stopping to listen or stir whatever was in the cauldron before returning to whatever potato pile they were sitting on before. There were no uniforms, no armed guards, no handcuffs or chains, and I genuinely forgot we were in a prison from this point on. First we danced, which in Africa always seems to involve a whole lot of twerking, arm flailing, and shuffling in a circle (definitely not complaining haha!). We taught them the most ridiculous song with hilarious actions that we usually only do with kids, but it was a hit. Definitely a crowd pleaser! Then I felt that “Holy Spirit heartbeat” where you know its you who is supposed to speak up. We hadn’t originally planned out exactly who would preach or about what we would share, mostly because we never really know what our ministry will end up looking like. When the translator gave us “the nod,” aka you better figure out real quick who is going to take the floor, I stood up in the middle of the circle. I spoke about shame, forgiveness, and the love of a Father that always has open arms, no matter where we may have wandered. It was all incredibly powerful, and I am so thankful and humbled to have had this opportunity. On our way out, one woman stood in the “path” with her arms spread wide as to jokingly block my way. I picked her right up off the ground in the biggest hug, and everyone lost it— the women jumped to hug me and it was just such a sweet time filled with so much joy.
MEN’S PRISON IN TOGO:
The men’s prison was at the end of a dirt road that led to a smaller than expected enclosure. It had tall, worn brick walls, and security measures that were similar to that at the women’s prison, except we couldn’t bring anything in this time. We were led through one locked, barred door, and down a dark, concrete corridor that opened into room that was about 75 yards long and 20 yards wide. If I had to guess, there were between 150-200 men in this one area. As with the women’s prison, there were no cells, no bars, no guards, and no handcuffs. It was very loud, very crowded, and very hot. The only shade from the beating sun was from lines hanging overhead that were sagging with clothes that were full of dirt and holes, which was probably why most of the men weren’t actually wearing much for clothing. Many men had tattoos that were pretty clearly homemade, and most had scars on their faces or bodies from their tribes of origin. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and melted plastic from the crocheted bags some men were making from the thread of potato sacks. We walked into the direct center where maybe 10 men were gathered to worship with drums and singing. We clapped along as we looked around at all the men staring back as us. Some were playing cards, others stirring rice in a pot over an open fire, some screaming at the Togo soccer game (football) on the tv in the corner, and the rest kind of just staring at us. After worship was over, they handed my team a microphone. As the speaker echoed, we shared about the forgiveness and love that Jesus has for each of them, that they are not too far gone, that they are not forgotten, and that they are seen, known, and wanted. It was honestly pretty surreal to look around and see these men (who are believed to be “the worst of the worst”) listening and nodding along with the translated message of their forgiveness. What a genuine honor to be a part of prisoners being set free, even if they were still behind physical bars.
I have always had a heart for prisoners, so I was really excited when I learned we had gotten approved for the opportunity to love on them. They are PEOPLE just like you and me; sure, they made different decisions than most, big decisions that ended up in incarceration, but which probably started as a series of small decision that were instigated by being tossed and tumbled around by life in ways others might never understand. Somewhere along the line, people got the idea that men and women in jail are “less than” others. And that irks me. Especially because we’re all a little reckless sometimes.
There’s a story in the Bible that Jesus teaches called “the prodigal son.” It’s about a boy who takes his inheritance and runs off to waste his money on wild living and women and whatever else he wanted. But soon his money ran out and he found himself eating with pigs just to survive. He was so ashamed he didn’t want to return home to his father who he had just run away from. But when he finally went home, his father didn’t yell at him or express disappointment or frustration. His father embraced him.
Prodigal means reckless. We all run away from Jesus at one point or another. We might not end up in prison, but reckless is reckless. We experience pain and shame that causes us to turn to various ways of escape and numbing. Intentionally turning back to Jesus can seem painful. Recklessness causes pain in more ways than we sometimes admit. But as seen in Luke 15, although the son was reckless and prodigal, my God is a prodigal God. His love is reckless.
You can’t change the past— there are things even I wish weren’t a part of my past, big or small. You can’t change what you’ve done or what has been done to you, but you can let God use it— he can take anything and make GOOD come from it. No matter what lies behind, you can be sure that God can and will “restore to you the years that the locust have eaten” as it says in Joel 2:25. Use every part of your story to show others the faithfulness and love of God. And give grace to others that may seem a little lost, you probably were in similar shoes at one point or another even if circumstances were different.
“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion for him, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.. this son was dead and has come back to life; he was lost and has been found!” Luke 15:20, 24
•
Well, sliding into month 4, Thailand here we come! Anyone who knows me well knows that my heart is always in Africa, but I am legitimately PUMPED for Asia. Please pray for smooth travels, strong ministry partnerships, and alllll the opportunities to love on people and share Jesus. Thank you so much for all the love and support— it means SO much!!
(PS. Errybody’s gotta be fully funded by the end of April, so please consider sowing into what the Lord is doing around the world through our teams this year!)
