God is good all the time

I did not expect to see thriving life as I passed the green suited guards standing in front of the prison’s outer walls-- barred cells, maybe, misery and suffering, definitely. But the first thing I heard in the bright sunlight was music, the first sight was families lined up to visit loved ones, the first smell, cooking food and smoke. As we filed past the entrance and gave our names to security on a slip of paper, us seven girls guided by our translator, Ruth, we stepped into a city, a community. We first entered the men’s section, where voices were loud and the number of people crowded in the large courtyard, all looking in our direction, was simply overwhelming. I kept my eyes forward, staying close to my friend in front of me and following Ruth as she easily navigated between rows of shacks and squatting people towards our destination.

We were here with a burden on our hearts, to visit the imprisoned women and to share with them the goodness of Jesus and the freedom in His forgiveness, a mission that is still quite bold for me. The challenge of accomplishing this without any conversational ability in French did not escape me, but prison ministry is something I have wanted to do since I learned that the first groups had gone during my first few weeks aboard the ship. I know what is most appealing, what drew me to the prison last week. It is the chance this trip offered to help these women, people who likely have had all their dignity and self worth stripped away by their circumstances, feel valued and loved again. I wanted them to know that they are worth my time, and however small, that is something.

Once we entered the women’s section, the mood completely changed. From the loud, raucous atmosphere of the men’s community, the women’s was infinitely more inviting, relaxed, and comfortable. The stares of the men were replaced with warm greetings and hands reaching up to us as we passed, all wanting to hold ours as faces smiled and said their “bonjour’s.” Large curtains of cloth hung down from the shaded area, each a claimed territory, marking out a sleeping space and a place for privacy that all respected and left undisturbed. Further in, there was a small dormitory filled with sagging old bunk beds, in each a nest of fabric with clear body imprints and a few possessions. Some ladies had fans, while others had extra blankets or old bags or a few extra pieces of clothing.

After spending a few minutes greeting the women inside, Ruth announced it was time for worship to start. Already, a group of about fifteen ladies were gathered, sitting on empty dented jugs lining the walls. The women were beautiful, each wearing her distinct tribal markings on her face, her hair braided in intricate patterns and her toe nails painted in bright. Two traded a pudgy infant between their laps, bouncing him so his little head rocked. I remember thinking that these women did not look like prisoners. They were clean and healthy, some actually quite large. There was nothing distinguishingly rough about them, nothing to mark them out as different than the women lining the market streets and tending their stalls.

Ruth began the service with singing, her loud and slightly harsh voice common to most African worship leaders raised, and the ladies quickly joined in, keeping beat with a complex clapping pattern that I couldn’t hope to stay with, let alone while I was singing. Several songs later, as we danced mostly moving our shoulders in the African style, I was still missing beats, but smiling to see so many women praising God. I am always blown away by the apparent joy of the people here despite their circumstances.

We next moved on to prayer requests, and each woman had a chance to share with us her pain and desires. Almost every one asked for prayer for release, whether in the form of acquiring enough money for bail, getting a trial date, or just serving a sentence to the end. Justice in Benin, although better than most of West Africa, is still close to corruption, and only one in ten prisoners will ever have a trial. We prayed for each woman individually, each of us in our own language passionately talking to God and dripping sweat from the hot sun. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good. This is a popular call and response in African churches and I thought about it then as I prayed for my sisters in captivity.

In our last half an hour, one of the women in our group shared a short, but captivating story centered on keeping counsel with good instead of the wicked. No sooner had she finished than one of the ladies who had left us during the message came running into the middle of the circle, jumping up and down in exhilaration. The plastic slap of her flip flops on the concrete matched her tone of voice as she shared the good news: she was due to be released next week. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good. It was time for us to leave and we filed past the lines of reaching arms, once more shaking each hand to a chorus of smiling “ourevoir,s.” West African prison, I thought to myself, and God is still here.