Coming Under Authority

I’ve always had a little problem with authority. Maybe because my dad was very strict, or maybe because it took me until about 40 to figure out I didn’t know everything. At that point God provided a series of lessons to point out to me that basically, I knew nothing.

Anyway, I got the message.

I got the message again on the 14th of August, 2018. That day is Jim’s and my anniversary and it is Jesse’s birthday…Jesse is an inmate at Putnamville Correctional Facility who started writing me about a year ago which began a friendship resulting in this visit to said prison.

Nothing is easy when it comes to visiting an inmate. Still, we were up for it. We tried to bring Jesse’s grandmother, but she’s 89 and couldn’t come. So, by 10:30 a.m. Jim and I were signing in and showing our identification, and basically giving our first born son to the State to get in to see Jesse on his birthday. I had followed every rule—of which there are many. No tight pants, no sweatshirt with a hood or front pocket. No sandals, no jewelry, except a wedding ring, No underwire bra (?). No purse, no, phone (class 3 felony) etc. etc. So, we get there—the middle of nowhere—and the guard asks me what I have on under my exercise jacket. Answer: A sleeveless cotton top. WRONG ANSWER. Now there is a rule against zippers in the jacket and sleeveless tops. Why? I ask. Because a person (me) could pull that zipper down and show cleavage. (Not likely).

I said, “I’m a grandmother.” He said, “Sorry, them’s the rules.” I said, “ But these are not in the rules that are published.” He said, “Yep, but I can’t let you in with a zipper in your jacket.” OK. So (coming under authority) I said, “So what do I do?” He said, “There’s a Dollar Store that sells tie-dyed T-shirts about five miles from here, or a Walmart 13 miles in the other direction.” I chose Walmart as I have an aversion to tie-dyed clothing, and 45 minutes later we rolled back into the visitor’s parking lot at Putnamville Correctional Facility.

This is becoming difficult, but we are pretty gun-ho about finally meeting Jesse in person. So we begin again. Our license plate is recorded, we are patted down, our keys, and wallets and anything with metal are locked in a locker. I’m in my new blouse from Walmart, my shoes are ex-rayed and I make it through the metal detector. Next, Jim’s shoes go through, then his belt…problem is he did not make it through. Jim has a hip replacement and it set off their very sensitive metal detector.So there we were: An hour from home and for Jim it boiled down to a trip to the parking lot. He could not enter the facility.

I, on the other hand, had a bunch more “coming under authority” to go through. My hand was stamped and I was buzzed into another room, I showed the stamp and my driver’s license to a guard, who buzzed open another door and told me to “follow the blue line.” I exited this small space and walked a block or so along a blue painted line on the ground, surrounded by razor wire to the visitor’s center where the sign says to take a seat and wait. (No button to push to let them know I was there—they don’t really care if you are there.)

Eventually, someone came, led me to another room, and looked at my drivers license and patted me down again. Then she led me into the visiting room where I went to a desk, told them who I was there to see and was assigned a tiny table with two chairs and told to wait. A few minutes later Jesse appeared. All smiles. Worth all the effort. I don’t think he’s had a visitor in years and he was so happy.

First we hugged. One hug: Allowed. Then we talked…for two hours straight we talked. We talked about his childhood, about UNITE INDY, about how he has taken correspondence courses for years and has actually earned a Master’s degree in Christian Counseling. He was direct, he looks you right in the eye. He talked about seeing his step dad beat his mother with a hammer and being put in group homes beginning at the age of seven. But only because I ask. He has no self-pity. Only forgiveness for his parents and love for everyone around him.

Honestly, his heart overwhelms me. What a good man. Finally our time was up. He had procured three photo coupons and we had our pictures taken by a guard. We hugged again. This time harder and longer and he left. I asked the guard which door was the exit and she said to sit down in a row of chairs by the door. Ten minutes passed and a woman sat down next to me. I asked her why I was being made to wait. She said, “You’re a first timer,” and explained that the inmate has to get back to his dorm where he is searched for contraband. If they find any, you are immediately arrested. Apparently, Jesse was clean and they let me leave. It was 1:30 p.m. and I was ok to go.

So here’s the take away: There are reasons for everything they do in these places. Coming under authority was a small price to pay to have the opportunity to spend time with a man whose life began under the most difficult circumstances, and now exemplifies what it looks like to walk with Christ. Jesse is up for a sentence modification—after 20 years he might be a free man very soon. Will there be room for him in our city? Will someone give him a chance to use his great experience and education to help kids who are at risk like he was? Only time will tell.

All I can say is that my visit with Jesse was a great gift for me. Happy birthday sweet friend. You will be out soon and you will have a great life and be a blessing to all you come in contact with, I just know you will.

Blessings,
Nancy