The Kitchen Sink: Prisoner for a Day, 1972

This post is second in The Kitchen Sink series. If you’ve read my memoir, Undertow, you may think I put everything in it but the kitchen sink. You’re pretty much right. (First post: The Catholic Girl Who Got Left Out.)

As every author knows, it’s hard to eliminate bits and pieces and sinks that don’t really belong in a story that you slaved over, but cutting must be done. Some parts don’t move the story forward. Others may be interesting backstory, but not needed for that particular book. The following is one of those bits from Undertow.

Prisoner for a Day

In 1972 at Way Headquarters in Ohio, I was in The Way Corps leadership program when one day I decided to go to prison. I was sitting at a dining table with other Corps and staff members, passing bowls of steaming mashed potatoes, platters of baked chicken, and bowls of peas. Daily lunchtime announcements began. Gilda (not her real name), a young woman working on staff, announced that the following week she planned to visit a women’s prison in Marysville, Ohio. Her mission: to tell inmates they could sign up for the Power for Abundant Living class, known as “PFAL.” (PFAL, taught by Dr. Victor Paul Wierwille, founder of The Way International, was a Bible class recorded on tape and 16 mm film.) Gilda said that if any Corps or staff women wanted to join her, she would love for us to share this unique experience. Her trip, she explained, was part of her job as coordinator of Prison Outreach, a new program Wierwille hired her to implement. She said we’d get a chance to share God’s Word with women who really needed it. A guy at my lunch table muttered, “Yeah … a captive audience.”

Why Go There?

Around that time, I’d been telling myself I should be bolder when “witnessing,” our jargon for “talking to strangers about God’s Word.” I should be more like Gilda, I thought, not timid, not waiting for people to ask me questions about the Word. I needed to tell them what they were missing and to take PFAL. Dr. Wierwille personally directed us to be bold whenever we witnessed, and, as my Way Corps brother from Oklahoma often said, “Let her rip, tater chip!”

The Mission

The following week, about six of us climbed into a van with Gilda who drove us to Marysville, intent on organizing a PFAL class in the prison. During the ride, we practiced what we’d say to the prisoners, took turns sharing our personal stories, and discussed the incarcerated women who needed to change their evil ways. Jesus had preached to the poor and disenfranchised, so should we. Gilda was a great example. An enthusiastic believer from New York, she was a petite woman, but carried herself with enormous confidence. I was also a small person and often felt people underestimated my serious abilities. I was nervous about this witnessing escapade, but Gilda inspired me. During the few months I’d known her, she seemed to face down any qualms she had about her appearance, tossing her dark hair aside and speaking her mind, forthrightly quoting scripture when needed, her blue eyes flashing.

We arrived at the prison, Gilda parked the van, and we huddled together on the asphalt for her instructions, the wind blowing against our winter coats. She reminded us to share our stories about how we got into the ministry, and tell the prisoners God wanted them to know His Word, the Bible. What we could not do was disclose our real names to the inmates or speak personally to any of them. A prison staff person would lead our group to an assembly room, Gilda said, where we’d take turns on a little stage in front of the prisoners. The thought of a stage struck me with fear. Confidence I’d rustled up during the drive over seeped away as ice-cold wind blew past our group in the parking lot. Despite my desire to do something for God, I yearned to jump back in the van and hide.

From Outside to Inside

We filed inside the concrete building where female guards patted us down one by one—a brand new humiliating experience—and heaped our coats on a chair outside the assembly room. The hallway smelled of sweat and dusty corners, like the locker room at my old high school. I sat down and tried to concentrate on what I was going to say. Hello, how are you all today?  No, no, no. I already knew how they must be doing. They’re in jail! Gilda warned us that we couldn’t say anything that might sound as if God could help them get out early, or suggest He had anything to do with their situation. We had to offer a spiritual benefit from God, like He could give them more peace of mind and strength to see them through. I planned to say He’d given me a reason for living—to spread His Word over the world—and that He would not abandon them. No matter what happened, He would always love them.

When I’d dressed that morning, I put on a black turtle neck sweater and a dull red-and-black-plaid skirt, clothes that made me not look too cheerful. I didn’t want to show off stylish clothes that might appear to flaunt the fact I lived on the outside. Despite that warm sweater, the entire time I walked down the hallway to wait my turn to speak, I shook as if I were out in the parking lot without a coat. When I climbed the stage stairs, I was oblivious to comforting words from nearby go-get-um Gilda. On the platform, I froze. In front of me, seated on bench after bench after bench, were about fifty haggard women wearing faded orange jumpsuits.

Who Is the Prisoner?

The lights on me were so bright I couldn’t see to the back of the room. A metal railing divided me from the first row of inmates. They looked me up and down. They wore no makeup and slumped on the benches like old women waiting for a bus. I mustered a smile, but began coughing as I got started, unnerved by the jumble of baggy uniforms, unkempt hair, and bored looks.

I remember telling them about Wierwille’s class and how great it was. I assured them that God loved them no matter what they’d done. I preached that God’s Word, the Bible, was the only source of truth in the whole wide world. Women up front yawned in my face. I heard a few muttering and shuffling their feet. In the end, I thanked them for listening and practically ran off the stage. Dazed, I moved past the next Way woman brushing my arm on her way to the platform, aware of comments from the benches being flung in my direction, “Yeah right,” “Go home, little preacher.”

What I was not aware of was something a few of those women in orange probably didn’t miss: that although they were locked up physically, that little preacher in her black sweater on stage was also locked up—in her one-track, narrow mind. Hadn’t she said the only source of truth was the Bible?

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