By Rebecca Gray

This is an actual letter written by the author to an incarcerated mother of a young girl. The author and her husband, Chris, also a community chaplain, often act as mentors to many children. The situations mentioned in this letter are real; however, there names have been changed to protect them.

Dear Ms. Smith,

I spent this past weekend with your daughter, Bridgette. I got to watch her sleep. I heard her thank the Lord as she said the mealtime blessing. We played on the swings at the park together. I know you probably hope you will never have to face her again. She knew you were released from prison but didn’t want her back –her or her six brothers. I know you are already back in prison.

She was so peaceful as she slept, I am sure all little girls are. I covered her in layers upon layers of throw blankets. A little scared, she said, "Put the God blanket of top!" I have a blanket with the entire 23^rd Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want etc." embroidered on it. Her hair is now in long braids with big brown beads. She slept with her mouth open, her teeth are already separating and bucking. I wonder who will pay for the braces? I left the hall light on and a nightlight in the bathroom. She asked if I was going to leaver her tonight. Twice she bolted out of bed when she heard my bedroom and bathroom door shut. I walked her back to her room and turned on the radio to drown out the Saturday night noise from the street.

Bridgette stayed with us for the weekend because your mother is worn out. Your mother broke down into trembling and tears just this past week. I told her I would take Bridgette for the weekend to help ease the load. You probably didn’t know but your mother went in for open-heart surgery last month. The morning of the surgery, she took the bus at 6 a.m. to the hospital. Plans for your seven children were made ahead of time in case Grandma died. After surgery, your mother came home to a house full of your children.

When I stopped by last week she was crying because your older boys told her, "I wish you would have died in the hospital!" I hate you!" It was more than she could take. She just sobbed. She pulled down the collar of her tee shirt and showed me the fresh scar. Your 15-year-old son sat slouched on the couch watching TV, and your other son laughed at her tears. I didn’t say anything to them because I was afraid they might turn on me. I wished I could have taken your mother far away tell her life doesn’t have to be like this. Your mother feels very responsible for your children. I guess you know that. I couldn’t take your mother away; I could only take Bridgette.

As I watched your daughter sleeping tonight, I wondered if she would turn out like you. Bridgette said she was born while you were in prison and has been living with your mother ever since. How’s Bridgette’s father? I don’t imagine you even stay in contact with him. I hope your few minutes with him were worth it. Because of your choices, I had Bridgette in my apartment this weekend.

This weekend with your daughter has been trying, to say the least. She has made me question myself, in ways only a child can do. While in the grocery store, she pushed the cart while running down a crowded aisle away from me. When I opened the door to our apartment, she ran into the kitchen, and before I noticed, she had ignited all four burners on the stove. She then raced into the bathroom and found matches in the drawer. She lit all the candles and locked the bathroom door. Finally, when she did open the door, she raced out Old Testament open our closets, drawers, pantry and refrigerator. She jumped on our bed, as though it were a trampoline, and attempted to swing from our canopy as if the posts were a jungle gym. At one time I found our curtains on the floor. She said she didn’t know how they fell off – rod and all. She yelled at me when she didn’t like what we were having for dinner. She pouted when I told her not TV for the entire weekend.

Then there were other moments! I’m sad you’ll never see these other moments, but selfishly I’m happy I got to see Bridgette explore, play and laugh. One time, when she jumped out of the shower, she instantly screamed, "How good do I smell?" She washed with fancy soaps and lathered on the lotion. I think she even sprayed the air freshener on her clothes. You missed the moment when we bundled up together on the couch, and I read a book to her about a boy who reported all he saw as he lived in a sandcastle on the beach. As soon as I had finished, she cheered, "Read it again! Read it again!" I didn’t make all the way through the second time – she fell asleep on my shoulder.

We even made Valentine’s Day cookies. She decorated one for your mother and one for a brother. We carefully slid the pink icing covered cookies into a zip lock baggie to take home on Sunday. At breakfast she set the table complete with napkins, silverware and little bowls full of grapes. She about fell off her chair when I squealed at such a beautiful sight! But my favorite moment this weekend was one she’ll never know I even saw. I caught her dancing to the radio with the windows open and blinds pulled. She was facing outside so she couldn’t see me standing in the doorway. For a 9-year-old girl, she sure could wiggle those hips and shoulders! You should’ve seen it!

Our days were full of crayons and coloring books, Checkers and "King Me’s/1" We reviewed flash cards and reading books and made tacos and homemade pizza. We talked about all kinds of things. I really don’t know what goes on in the mind of a 9-year-old, but she let me know. She asked about the drunken men on the street corners. She asked if I would really do what I say, concerning rules and consequences.

Bridgette called me "Mama" all weekend – even after two years, she still can’t remember my name. When I answered her, heads turned. One man at the grocery store even asked if she was really my daughter. Should have I knot answered? At least for a weekend we could play a game of family, where I was the mother and she was the daughter. The game ended abruptly when she refused to unlock her bedroom door. She turned up the radio so loud I couldn’t yell over it. I drove her home to a half-empty house. Your sons didn’t come home last night. When I arrived, your poor mother didn’t feel well enough to get out of bed and come to the door. She yelled, "Thank you!" with all her might from the back room.

As I drove home this chilly Sunday afternoon, I searched for an explanation for it all. Mother Theresa once wrote, "Let us not be afraid to be humble, small, and helpless. This is how your daughter made me feel. I grieved in my heart that my best efforts might not affect the course of her life. Yet I know that even if that is true, I still somehow feel a sense of responsibility. Because I know that if no one looks after Bridgette, it is likely she will become like you.

Sincerely,

Rebecca