Paths of Mercy: Prison Ministry

There were a lot of cool things I could have been doing the afternoon of Halloween -- My friends had invited me out to lunch;I had a French paper due later that afternoon . But, instead I was in a car heading toward the South Bend Juvenile Justice Center.

The Celebration Choir had decided to perform at the center that afternoon. Our choir had packed up all our instruments into vans. We got there early to rehearse. We worried about who was going to pass the microphone to whom. We got excited to sing our favorite songs. Apart from the metal detector we had to walk through on our way in, it was a concert just like any other. Afterward, we broke up into small groups and spent time talking to the kids. We talked about our favorite things to study in school, our favorite foods, our favorite styles of dance. It was the same kind of thing I talk about with the students I teach.

Because yeah, they might be in the juvenile justice system, but they are kids. They are humans. They deserve to listen to beautiful music. They deserve to spend a rainy afternoon discussing everyone’s favorite Chipotle order. They deserve love and dignity, just like everyone else.

At my mom’s work there is a beautiful mosaic of the Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy. I would look at them as a kid, checking them off in my head. “I volunteer at soup kitchens. I teach Sunday school. I’m doing all of these.” And then I’d get to “Visit the Imprisoned” and think “Well I can’t do that one.” I completely wrote it off, thinking there was no way I could do that act of mercy. I didn’t know anyone in prison. I didn’t know how to visit a prison. I had watched a documentary about prison in my high school sociology class and it looked pretty scary. I just couldn’t do that one.

I got to college and began to see things a little differently. In my classes I learned more about the problems in our prison system. About the way a system that should be based on justice, was being driven by quotas and laws that were laced with racism. I began to see narratives appearing on TV that paired stories and voices to the prison experience. I began to realize that while prison was a system, it was made up of very real people. These were people who needed love, affirmation of dignity, in the same way senior citizens or preschoolers do.

We are called to serve everyone, not just those who are easy to love, not just those who are comfortable to love. Today marks the beginning of the Year of Mercy for the church. It is a year about “opening the door” and inviting people back in. But in many ways, the doors that need to be opened are the doors in  our hearts. God shows us endless, radiant mercy, but we need to share that mercy with others. We need to reach out and serve everyone. Of course, we can serve those who are easy to love, but it is also an opportunity to reach out to those in society who are unloved and nearly forgotten, too.

Notre Dame has made it easy to explore prison ministry if that is something you are interested in doing. The Reading for Life Program lets ND students serve as leaders for book discussions at the Juvenile Justice Center. Dismas House serves those returning from incarceration. There are even more organizations on the CSC website. There are also “inside-out” classes where you get to take classes at the Westville Correctional Center alongside prisoners. We are surrounded by opportunities to go out and show mercy to others. Let this Year of Mercy be the push you need to go do it.

As I left the juvenile correction facility that day, I felt humbled. I felt honored to have served these kids whose lives were harder than mine, who would deal with struggles I would never know. I was grateful t they opened their hearts to us. Because if we can touch someone’s heart through music, through books, through conversation, whatever it may be,we can help them open up to love for themselves, for others, and in the end, for God.

All About Pep

“Love’s a journey of a lifetime and where you finish isn’t where you start,” – Sing for the Wind, Roo Panes

When I was nine, I got my first bra. And so did my Grandpa (well to be honest, it probably wasn’t his first). In the next year or two, my Grandpa would become my Grandma. It might sound weird or uncomfortable, but it’s not. It’s real. In fact, this experience is the greatest lesson in love me and my family have ever known. Let me tell you all about Pep.

As a two year old, I gave weird names to everyone in my family. My grandma was called Dee. My aunt was Juju. My grandpa was Pep. My grandparents were the most wonderful people. They were (and still are) two of my greatest role models in faith. They were both professors at a local university. Dee taught religion and ran a retreat house with my mom on the side. Pep taught broadcasting and was published author, an expert on trains. They did normal grandparent things- take family vacations, bake in the kitchen, go to my dance recitals, and have Wednesday morning waffle brunch with me and my mom.

It changed when I was eight, in the way it always seems to, not with a single change but with a whole spiraling spew of them that threaten to undo everything you know as your life. For Christmas that year, all the women in the family went to Chicago for a girls weekend to get my Christmas present- my first American Girl doll. It was only after being there for a day when Dee felt as if something was wrong and we rushed back home. She was soon diagnosed with brain cancer. And so began several hard months of visiting the hospital every day. My Aunt Juju got married that summer and my grandma was in attendance, dying a few days later.

The next year, Pep began making the transition from male to female.

I would love to say that my family reacted entirely positively right away- that we were some sort of paragon of love and acceptance. But that wouldn’t be honest. I remember being nine and coming home from school to see my mom crying. I never saw my mom cry. I remember her asking me, “Megan, what do you do when someone you love is doing something you don’t want them to do?” It was then she explained to me Pep’s transition. I felt instantly older (and it wasn’t just because of my new bra) as she told me about her hurt in losing her mother, in her fear of now losing her father. Later, now, as I talk to my mom about this moment and we look back, she tells me, “Love is messy.” Especially in the beginning, especially when surrounded by change that scared us, especially when we mistook our lack of understanding for hurt.

But in the end, this was not our hurt to bear. Pep had spent a lifetime in a body she didn’t belong. Pep had carried burdens we could only begin to understand. No one chooses to go through painful surgeries, through ridicule, through difficult transitions if they don’t have to. No one chooses to be transgendered. Who are we to be hurt when Pep lived in pain for so long? 

So instead of turning to judgment, our family worked to understand. My parents read memoirs and watched Oprah specials from people who went through the transition themselves. While I was more of an observer than a participant in this process, my mom always worked to help me understand what Pep was going through and how the transition would help Pep finally feel like her authentic, true self. We used to joke that there was no children’s’ book for “So Your Grandparent is Transgendered.” Love is never about judgment or scorn. Love is always about finding compassion for those who are dear to us, those who carry burdens we can only begin to imagine.

Love is also about being brave. Perhaps this was the hardest part for me. Because I was nine and words like “transgendered” and “sex change” were the sort of terms my friends found in their health class textbooks and gawked at. I had no clue how to communicate this experience to my friends. I had no clue how to stand up for Pep. My mom’s strength and bravery was my example. I remember one day my best friend was in the car with me on our way to ballet class (we must have been ten at the time) and she made a remark that she had just found out about transgendered people and was shocked that they existed. I was mortified; terrified my friends would find out and gawk at me and my family too. But instead, my mom gracefully explained to my friend the struggle that transgendered people face. The way she stood up for her family and educated over shying away from the topic. It would be years until I worked up the courage to educate my friends about Pep and her struggle, but it was never met with hostility, but rather understanding from each of my friends. In a similar way, Pep worked to advocate for young people who were struggling with their transgendered identity. She spoke to support groups and even spoke with people’s families if they struggled with accepting their transgendered kids.

Pep died my junior year of high school. She was remembered as a distinguished professor, a world traveler, a renowned train historian who had started a museum, an extraordinary writer, and a loving parent and grandparent. All my friends attended, no one afraid to comfort and mourn.  There was no one there who was gawking, or giggling, or judging. It was a celebration of an accomplished life well lived.

We are all on journeys of love and understanding for those around us. God constantly asks us to be our most loving selves. It breaks my heart when I read news articles about families who, under a pretense of being Christian, kick their kids out of the house because they are gay or transgendered- because there is nothing less God-like, less loving. Christ-like love comes from accepting every part of a person, from loving all that they are in the most genuine way. Love is never exclusive, it is something that is always expanding, embracing, and connecting us together. God is love and is always calling us to this.

I feel privileged that I was so lucky to have my beautiful, brave family to teach me love and acceptance at a young age. I feel honored to have had such strong role models of Christ-like love. I am grateful for my journeys in love and I pray for the ones you may take, too.