We walked into the prison and I instantly felt my body tense.
‘Let’s go minister to the men in the prison.’ This sounded like a good idea.
But sitting in this open room with men I barely knew flooded my body with doubts and worries.
There’s nothing between us. This is actually kind of dangerous.
I was uncomfortable.
As my friend and I shared our stories and our relationships with the Lord, they listened so intently. I could see the desperation in their eyes for hope, for answers, for understanding.
They asked us questions, about our lives and how we came to know who Jesus is.
We laughed and connected.
We prayed together.
We became friends.
As I left through the doorway, I thought, I could do this for the rest of my life.
There was something so fulfilling about sharing love and a listening ear to people who probably never get that.
I was humbled.
And I realized that following Jesus isn’t safe. It isn’t easy.
Helping feed the homeless at 11PM in the bus station isn’t safe.
Walking into the jail to talk with the prisoners isn’t safe.
Snuggling street children with open wounds and lice isn’t safe.
But I didn’t leave America to be safe. I didn’t choose to follow Jesus to be safe.
I left to take risks.
I choose to love the unloved and the forgotten.
Because what is life if you’re not taking risks.
What is following Jesus if you’re not going against the grain, seeing and loving people as He sees them.
