I spent yesterday morning at a juvenile detention center...one of the many odd activities for my job. It was great to be out of the office, and I genuinely love site visits. They help keep me centered and remind me why I do what I do. Over the past few months, I've been to every corner of the city searching out new ministry opportunities and getting lost trying to find the old ones. Those are my favorite moments of my work week.
Yesterday was no different, except that I had to go back to my car twice, once to leave my bag and cell phones, one to change my shoes ("it's for your own safety"). Then I had to sign my life away in paperwork. Social security number, birthday, height, weight, eye color, employer. I signed contracts stating that I understood my role as a mandatory reporter. I signed contracts stating that I understood the confidentiality clauses. Then I had my picture taken.
When I walked into that meeting yesterday with the center's chaplain, I never expected what all I'd be getting myself into. All of this just so I can send volunteer groups to work with the juvenile offenders in this facility! Except now I have a name badge and a file. Now I'm attached.
After the hours-long meeting, I met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite restaurants. We talked and joked around, and I was my usual charming and amazing self (kidding...but I do crack the jokes and entertain). I went back to work to attack the mountain of paper on my desk. I fixed dinner with friends. And it wasn't until I sat still in my friend's apartment and let myself get lost in my own thoughts that it hit me: I spent my day touring a prison. A PRISON. A PRISON OF CHILDREN. I saw them in shackles. I saw the shamed look on their faces when the chaplain would introduce me. I saw the defiance in their eyes.
These boys live in a home where they can't leave unless they are in chains that rattle and clank, a reminder of their indiscretions. There is one dormitory in the facility for the sex offenders,
juvenile sex offenders.
I was overwhelmed. My eyes glazed over. My friends asked if I was tired, I mumbled some excuse about needing to leave, and I spend the next hour walking around the rainy streets of the neighborhood wrapping my head around it all.
The weight of my job seems heavier every day, and yet I am not part of the doing. I plan. I call. I make charts. What am I doing? I am not called to make charts. I am called, as Isaiah was called. I serve a Father who has called me to do.
"I am the LORD; I have called you in righteousness; I will take you by the hand and keep you; I will give you as a covenant for the people, a light for the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness."
