Jail part 1...

Jesus doesn't give us hope by changing the circumstances, HE restores our hope by giving us himself.  And HE has promised us to stay with us until the very end.

WARNING:  This story has very personal things in it.  If you are easily offended about such things, do not read.  This post has nothing to do with farming.  On March 31st, 2012 I was arrested for being a midwife. This is my story:

Sitting in my pajamas the early morning coffee brewing is putting the smell of fresh ground coffee in the air. My husband sits beside me, as I check emails…the sun is up, and we enjoying the green of spring outside the window with birds who greet us with their morning songs.

It is Sabbath.

We make breakfast, a bit late, but enjoy fresh farm eggs, with cheese, mushrooms, onions and peppers.  My husband always fixes me breakfast on the weekend, it is his way to show me appreciation and love.

We hear doors slam.

My husband stands up to look and says, there are cops here. I ask what?

I sit stunned. He goes to the door. I hear him arguing with them and my heart sinks. I will not panic. But I have to think.  But I cannot. I get up and go to the bedroom, and know they will see me as I run past. But my thoughts are- I need to be dressed.

My other thought- I want to disappear.

I am in my bedroom, I wander. I pace. The door is slightly open, and I hear my husband refusing to "turn me over". I hear the cop argue back.  I do not want them to come in my home by force. So I will have to go, I know that.

I grab my bra, and then think-- I cannot walk into the bathroom, they will see me thru the window. I can’t do that. But I need my personal stuff. I crawl on my hands and knees into the bathroom. I sit on the floor; I have to get 'dressed'-so I put on my bra and underwear. I need a feminine pad. I crawl to the cub-board under the sink and get one.  I do not want to stand up and have them ‘watch me dress’.   It is now I think I wish I would have closed the shades.

My husband comes into the room and asks what he should do. I say I have to go.   I sense he wants time with me, to just sit and hold me because he is afraid.   But we do not have that time.

I put my black pants on, and then choose a black shirt. I wear black a lot, I consider myself to be in mourning because there is too much in this world that is not right.  Too many people are going without and being treated poorly, too many people are hurting, too many people are lost.  So I wear black, to remember to be in prayer for the hurting, needy and lost people.  It reminds me to pray consistently-without ceasing.  I once heard that the singer Johnny Cash did this too, I find that interesting. I have done this for a long time; I am mostly in black every day.

I sit on the bench at the back door. I ask the police about my medications. I am told, yes I can bring them.

 I ask if I do not bring them, will they provide them for me. I am told: Probably yes, at a cost. Money, what is money at this time of my life I think....I ask to at least bring my insulin. Yes I can- I am told.

They say I need to put them into a plastic bag. I am told I can go get that, but the officer will have to step into the house to be able to ‘see’ me at all times. I look at him then look away –I am quiet for a moment, and I want to say a cuss word, and ask him if he thinks I am stupid, (once you allow them into your home it is like waiving your rights to your home being searched….-they are sneaky.   He does not say: well if you let me in to follow you so I can see you at all times, It also allows me to search your home….stupid officer)  but instead I just say:  no, I am not allowed to do that.

I wait for my husband to return from getting me a pair of black hose socks to wear. I place them on and slip on my shoes, also black.   He goes to get the plastic bag for my insulin.

I ask to take my morning insulin, and am told to go ahead. One officer (ok- they are  playing the good cop bad cop thing,)so the bad cop says, how do we know she will not take too much.  I look at him and shake my head and say, I am not out to kill myself.   I will not ever forget his face. Full of anger and hostility.    I see nothing but hostility and anger.  I think GOD has revealed his heart to me because I am to pray for him.  Right now, that is difficult for me to do. But I tell GOD, yes, I will do that. 

I ask the officer: “do you really have to look at my belly?” as I give myself my morning insulin.   And then I turn and give myself insulin. I tell them it takes a while; I have to wait once it is injected for a minute.

I hand over my meds.

I turn to say good bye to my husband.

I am numb.

I do not feel fear; I do not feel anything at all.

They tell me I will be arrested.  My rights are not read to me.  I ask if I will have bail, I am told yes and I ask what it will be, and I am told they have that information at the jail. (later I find out they lied)  We walk out; I stop, and undo a safety pin that is in my shirt in front, it is holding the shirt together so it is not too low in front.  I do not like cleavage showing, so often I will place a safety pin in the shirt to keep it closed.  They are confused about what I am doing; I mumble it would probably be seen as a concealed weapon.  When we get to the car I ask the cop to check the back of the shirt too, I sometimes put safety pins there too, for the same reason.  He is still confused, but he checks.  He then asks what he is looking for.  I tell him if he does not see a safety pin, there is none there.  Really, do they not listen?

It is like I am in a daze. I am numb.  The ‘good’ cop says he has to place hand cuffs on me. But he says he is double locking them, so they do not tighten up. I ask him if I can continue to hold my Kleenex in my hands, he says yes. I am hand cuffed from the front. He then says he will allow me to sit in the front seat. He says he does not usually do this, but will for me. I think it’s probably so that the little camera in the car can pick up a better shot of me and what I will or may say. 

 We leave.  Again, I feel numb.

I turn to look at my husband standing on the back deck talking on the phone.  I wonder who he has called first.  I also wonder when I will see him again. I pray.  GOD tells me to stay strong and rely on HIM-I know, HE has this in HIS hands. 

You know were not to text and drive, right?

 Yet this cop turns to the computer and puts in information steering the car with his knees. Hummm , if I was texting and driving in Indiana, I would get a ticket. A cop can use the computer and drive…no ticket. Double standard.

I pray for my safety as he types on the computer as his knees steer the auto.

I cry

 I hate that the tears are flowing. I do not want this cop, or anyone else to think 'they' have won. Tears make them think that-I am sure. I think of my mom, she would be hurt to know a daughter was arrested all for helping people.  I was raised to help people, taught to help people no matter what.  My parents always helped others, always reached out to others, that is what I was taught.  I think about my mom, and it makes me sad.  I think how lonely she was the last year of her life. I hate how the church, and the towns people all ignored her in the end; with only 3 families coming to visit her in the last year and a half…I hate that. I hate that she was lonely and cried to me each time I went to visit her, asking why no one would come to see her or if I was gonna take her to church now.  I am so sad about that and right now, that thought and sadness consumes me.  My church failed me, failed her.  This thought is something that later I will think on, when I find out the truth about many that I thought was my friends/church family. That causes more tears. I tell him I am in mourning, and that accounts for most of the tears. He does not ask me any questions.

I tell him that she died of alchemizer’s. He does not ask me questions.

I want him to know I am a person.  He still remains quiet.

I want to appear to be real and personal to him. He is cold.  And I am to pray for him.

I ask him how many children he has. Two.

I ask him if his parents are living. Yes.

I tell him to cherish them. He says thank you for that information.

I again, ask him about bail. He says when were there they will have that information.

He lied.

Why would I think a police officer would be able to be trustworthy and not lie?

We arrive at the jail. He pulls into a garage. And then they get you out of the car. I guess that is for their safety. Not mine.

I walk into the jail. Another officer removes the hand cuffs then he leaves the area. They tell me to sit down.

I wait.

The other young officer looks familiar to me who sits behind the desk.

I am given clothes by a female officer, who first pats me down-very personally.  The clothes are too small but I am expected to squeeze into them anyway. They hurt my legs and hips. I am not allowed to wear any underwear or a bra.  They actually hurt. I was told to remove the pad I was wearing, and they give me this tiny one, one that is so short it is probably for a 12 year old little girl’s body-and when I ask how I am to 'use it' since they are not allowing me to wear any underwear I am told just put it in the pants. Right.

I then come back out of the changing room where you might think you were changing privately, but they have a camera in there to watch you. So they watched me change my clothes and also use the toilet that was in there.  I wonder if they get a charge out of that, if they sit and just laugh.

I am told to sit again. I am asked a lot of health questions. I ask the young officer, do you know M****e? 'Yes he does, it is his mother. Why?  I tell him I am sorry about his father, (who died just this last year) He again asks me how I know him and I tell him ‘I watched you grow up’.  And we went to church together.’ He asks if I still attend there.  I tell him yes. (at the time of writing this, I still considered this to be my home church, but no longer)

I am taken to be fingerprinted. It is on a machine, like a copier. Only he cannot get it to accept my finger prints. I believe it is because GOD is telling me; ‘you're not guilty of anything.’  GOD reminds me: Men will be able to hurt you, but you stay strong, you follow ME, you listen to ME.”   And about the fingerprints HE tells me this:  “You will not be able to be fingerprinted. Because you are innocent.”  

Approx. ten minutes later, the cop finishes. Each finger print and each palm print that was rejected. He had to type things in manually.

 Thank you GOD for your ability to allow me to smile during all of this.

I am escorted to a cell. 10 blocks by 5 blocks. It has a thick steel bed, and a 1 foot by about 8 inch table which is also steel that is bolted to the wall. The steel seat for the table is also bolted to the wall. All three are dirty.  Not just dirt, but sticky yuk-gross.

 Hepatitis lives for 7 days on dried yuk. At least the aids virus dies when the 'yuk' is dry, but hepatitis….I am at risk if the person that was in here before me had that or some other disease.  I have been in situations during mission work, and GOD protected me, I pray now to HIM and ask HIM to protect me now.

I look up into the corner, there is the camera, they can watch me dress, undress, use the toilet, eat, sleep, what ever.  I wonder if the men cops get a charge out of that. Gross.

I am brought a bed roll.  A thin mat, with a towel and a blanket in side.  The mat is dirty, with dried food on it.  The towel has holes in it and appears so old and gray (it appears that it used to be white) I bravely smell it, thinking if it smells bad-it is dirty.  It has no smell that is bad, so hopefully it is clean, and just old.  The blanket, well it is full of holes and is raggy and thin, fraying badly.  It is not big enough to cover one of my grandchildren.  It is so thin you can see thru it.

The not knowing, the not knowing if it is day or night time, not talking to anyone, not being able to read anything, or write down my thoughts.  That is what is difficult.
I sit quietly.
Alone in the cell.
In silence.

I am thirsty.

I want a drink and look at the sink, there is a drinking fountain on it.

 I notice in the sink, there is phlegm. A huge chunk of thick phlegm, very sickening gross. I run the water for a long time, as I try to wash it down, but it will not go. I have no glass for a drink.  I am expected to drink out of this sink, it has a fountain, but with the phlegm that was on it first-I am just not sure.  I have nothing else to do, so I work to get the thick phlegm to wash off from the fountain and down the drain…., it will not wash down the sink because it is too thick.  But eventually I get it off the fountain part, and after running water over the fountain for a long time, hoping that the germs from the phlegm is washed off-I take a drink.

Each time they come in, I ask for a bible, I ask for clothes that are larger, and I ask about my insulin.  They have not fed me lunch, and I have not had my noon insulin.

My leg is swelling where the pants are too tight.  I try to sit to get pressure off from the leg, it does not help.  Standing does not help either.  It hurts.

 They will not bring me a bible.  They will not bring me lunch, nor my insulin nor other clothing.  I have asked 4 times at least through out the day- so far.

The pants continue to cut off my circulation in the bad leg and knee I had surgery in. My lower leg is beginning to swell and I have +1 pitting edema now.

I have asked each time they come in for whatever reason I again ask for different size pants. I have asked each time for a bible or some paper and a pencil. I have also asked for a cup to get a drink of water.  I wonder again about lunch –even though I am not hungry, I need to maintain my blood sugar at an ok safe level, which means protein and healthy foods every 2-3 hours.  Snack like.  Plus my insulin-I need that.

I wait.

I do not know how long I have been here.

I am told when I ask, no there is no bail set not until you see the judge.

I was lied to.

That means I am in here for about 48 hours or more. My heart sinks. I wonder if I can make it. I know I can, but my leg? I will be in big trouble if it goes that long.   I cry. The rough toilet paper is hurting my nose. I am not sure if I can handle that. No lotion either.  I can do ok sleeping on this hard bed with a dirty mat and thin blanket, and NO pillow-but rough toilet paper to blow an already sore nose? It would be ok to use for everything but for blowing a nose that is so sore for allergies and now crying too much.

I have a migraine, the kind that makes you ill….I pray, I cry and I pray. I listen for that still small voice...but I hear nothing-so I pray again, and then I focus.  I Need to just be still-be silent-and listen-then I hear YHWH say to me----rest daughter  

I have a headache. It is my blood sugar which is too high from the stress,  I know that.  This is how I feel when it is so off.  

I press my neck against the very cold cement blocks and I close my eyes. 

Rest.....

To be continued...