I was once known by a series of numbers.  Prisoner #51200-019.  I was the property of the federal government.  Guilty.  Living behind bars.

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On the day of my birth, my parents named me Nicole. I grew up spoiled sweetly- just on the cusp of rotten.  With bouncing curls, I was the apple in my parents' and grandparents' eyes.  An only child with a pet pony, I was taken care of well.  My home was meticulously clean, safe and warm.  I was given plenty of attention, encouragement and deeply loved.  I was never abused or neglected or mistreated in any way.  I did fine in school and never got caught sneaking out, sleeping with boys or smoking a little pot. 

 

As an adult I became successful. I did well financially. My son and I lived in a nice home.  My boyfriend and I rode motorcycles.  I enjoyed putting my bleached blonde hair in a helmet and feeling the wind in my face. Riding felt free and a little bit wild.

 

Although I never even touched alcohol during the week, I partied hard on the weekends. Drinking gave way to harder stuff. I was a recreational drug user. I was guilty of using the drugs but did not buy them directly from the dealer. I never had direct contact with him. The feds had an open investigation on the dealer who was selling drugs over state lines. This became a federal level crime. To lessen his sentence, he divulged the names of everyone to whom he sold. My name came up. 

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I was sentenced to time in federal prison with the sentence of "Misprison of a Felony."  (Look it up.)  My charge indicated I knew of felony activity but did not report it.

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Goodbye home. Hello incarceration.

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Prison is hell. A place of constant torment. A community of evil. Behind bars nothing feels safe. Evil presence there was heavy.

 

I grew up going to Catholic school but didn’t have a relationship with God. I had no sense of holy power or ability to overpower the devil’s schemes.  I believed his lies.  I felt suffocating grief, anger, confusion and despair in prison.

 

Some time after my release, a friend invited me to church.  There the radiant power of Jesus Christ was celebrated.  It was so real I could feel it in the depths of my soul.  Exposed to His promises and love for me, the mental prison, so much worse than the physical one I once resided in, began to fade.  I rushed out of the first six sermons to go cry in the church bathroom. A proud non-crier, I was now unglued.  The Spirit of God was breaking through and bubbling everything in my heart, everything in my spirit to the surface.  He was breaking down all the pride, trauma, humiliation, anger, resentment, and awful memories. I began to realize my true identity and freedom. His love rushed over me. My spirit was awakened!  

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I am Nicole. I am His. Not a number. I am a daughter of the King of Kings.  He is my Prince of Peace.

 

His incarcerated daughters still are hurting.  It is the love of Christ that compels us to go to them.

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 "Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?"  And I said, "Here I am. Send me!"  Isaiah 6:8