Soda Pop Mary

Once again, I would learn that it isn’t how many come, but who comes—and there are no mistakes in who attends. My time was not any better spent when many chose to attend than when only a few would come out. Indeed, sometimes the most powerful times were when there are only a few of us. Such was the day when only two women came out when they opened the sliders of C-block.

Mary had already been to the study a number of times, so I wasn’t surprised to see her. I was surprised, however, at what happened within minutes of getting started. Mary began to talk . . . and talk, and talk. It was like someone shook a bottle of soda pop and popped the top! Years of grief, frustration, and hopelessness that had been bottled up erupted like a volcano. Amidst tears and sobs, I learned the sad story of a little girl who had never known a family, grew up in institutions, was diagnosed with every disorder and labeled with every acronym known to the psychiatric field, was on more medications than a person battling cancer, and as an adult had spent the vast majority of her life in residential treatment or incarceration. I had been getting small doses of these women’s realities over the prior weeks—this was a crash course and a wide-open window into a world I had never seen or known.

Before I could even move to console Mary, the other gal began to talk . . . and talk, and talk. Emboldened by Mary’s vulnerability, she too began to share deeply. She had moved off the reservation in hopes of finding a better life. Those hopes seemed dashed as she found herself back in jail, again. “You don’t think I want what you white ladies have? A house of my own, a man who comes home every night, a family that sits around the table and eats together? I moved to Sioux Falls, hoping to get away from the influence of people that aren’t good for me. I got a job, got a place. My family . . . they started calling me an apple.” In response to my confused look, she clarified, “Red on the outside, white on the inside.” The pull had been too much, and she sunk back into the mire she had tried so hard to escape. Like a zebra in quicksand, it seemed that the harder she tried, the deeper she sank.

My mind was reeling, and my heart hurt. So much raw exposure, emotion, and hardship. I didn’t have the words to say; I didn’t know how to fix them or make it all better. To be honest, I don’t know what I said in return to their raw vulnerability. But I know it changed me. I got a crash course in depravity, fallenness, and despair. I remember feeling gratitude for things I had always taken for granted: a family, a home, and an amazing husband. I remember wishing she knew we didn’t come in different “colors”—red and yellow, black and white. That the shade of our skin on the outside doesn’t define who we are on the inside. That there was just one race . . . the human race! I remember thinking, too late to share with them, that what she wanted wasn’t “white”—it was right. It was godly. And I remember being so sad that her family had robbed her of that. It was one of the first times I experienced (or at least recognized) how people tend to want to drag people down to their level. Misery does indeed love company.

I hope I offered some encouraging words. I hope I offered some hope. I hope I prayed with them. I hope they felt heard—and loved. I don’t honestly remember. But I remember that Mary was in for nearly a year—probably one of the longest runs of any of the gals I have seen in the jail, as they are usually released, bailed out, or moved on to prison. She didn’t have anyone on the outside that cared about her. She never got any money put on her commissary account. She never got any visits or mail. But . . . she did get Jesus, and she did get hope! I couldn’t believe the transformation. This woman, who had been on a dozen medications when she came in—for everything from depression and anxiety to schizophrenia and bipolar—no longer needed any medications. And she was more balanced and joyful than she had ever been. Even the guards marveled at what she had become. She was bringing some of them to Christ! I am not saying that coming to Christ will fix every medical or psychiatric problem. But I know he can work miracles! I saw him work a miracle in Soda Pop Mary.

“Continue to remember those in prison as if you were

together with them in prison, and those who are

mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.”

Hebrews 13:3 NIV

“But I will restore you to health and heal your wounds,”

declares the LORD, “because you are called

an outcast, Zion for whom no one cares.”

Jeremiah 30:17 NIV

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

Psalm 147:3 NIV