letters to angie

It's been a while since I've blogged. Not because I don't have any material, but because every time I log on to Blogger my last post appears. I read it, it overwhelms me, and I give up. The crazy-cute thing Emily just did or the ironic moment I experienced that day retreats out of my memory and I close the laptop. Today I think I'm just sick of it getting the better of me.

My entire life I've heard the phrase, "be Jesus with skin on." Over time it becomes less meaningful and begins more to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher: "wau-wau-waaaau". But recently I've had the chance to step out of my comfort zone and give it a shot. And boy, did I pick a doozie.


I'm a planner. I know, I know...you're surprised. I'm also annoyingly cautious when it comes to decision-making. My patient husband sits patiently for months sometimes while we pray (and I mull) over an issue before I'm certain we have a green light. But when I heard about Angie and what she'd done, I knew instantly what I needed to do.

Letters are a lost art. I actually like writing letters. My friend Jane will tell you I mail her cards occassionally just because I find one so appropriately inappropriate I can't wait to stick a stamp on it. I write thank you notes because I think if a person takes the time to give a gift, they deserve a hand-written note. I would rather receive a thoughtful card than a gift, because I think they are quite often more sincere. So when I found myself thinking of her the day after the newscast, I traded in the living room at my in-laws for their guest room and opened my laptop. It took a little searching, but I found the resource I needed: Lane County Corrections Inmate Mail Rules and Regulations. What a laundry list.

So I found a regular, non-roller-ball ball point pen, some regular unblemished paper and began. It wasn't hard to find the words, they just came. I told her she was loved, she was forgiven, and that she had someone to talk to if she needed it. I wrote down Psalms 119:105 and told her I had deposited $20 in her inmate account.

Selfishly, I was hoping for a response. When it didn't come, I told myself maybe mail took extra time for screening. After all, she's being charged with aggrevated murder. I could forgive Big Brother for reading the mail of those charged with that level of crime. Then I reminded myself it wasn't about me. Idiot.

I wrote the second letter two weeks later, and the third two weeks after that. The third letter was the shortest of them, as I was beginning to second guess this little endeavor. Did she even want to hear from me? Was I bible-beating someone who didn't want to hear it? Lucky for me, I have a husband who not only encourages me but also tells me when I'm being rediculous.

Then one day, I checked the mail.

It might not look like a thick envelope to you, but to me it weighed ten pounds. I sat it on my desk and waited for naptime.

She had replied to each letter. Each and every letter, the day she received it. [The jail apparently won't give an inmate a letter's envelope, just the contents. I went on to learn people have been known to lace the envelope sealant with drugs. And I had written the return address on the envelope. So she begged the mailperson to write down my address for her so she could write me back.]

I don't want to betray her trust, so I will say only this: the thing that continues to strike me is that she sounds exactly like the girl I remember. For a plethora of reasons, it makes perfect sense and is also nothing short of a tragedy. I wonder if God brought me into her life because I still know her as the sweet 16 year-old high school sophomore.

The only thing more sad than her crime is that I am the only person talking to her about Jesus. Her family has abandoned her, no one has come to visit, and she is dumbfounded and lost. So I will continue to write and pray for the right words. Wish me luck.