The convicts and I, a volunteer, sit in a circle in the prison. We do this every Thanksgiving. Eyes closed, we imagine sitting around a table in a clearing surrounded by a woods in which the parts of ourselves we have exiled live a furtive life.

We sense inside for any exile who might feel safe enough with us now to step out of the woods and join us at the feast. ...more

I walked into the small, overheated, stuffy office for our weekly staff meeting. Andrea, the rector, was there, her gangly body looking uncomfortable on the wooden office chair, her pinched sour face more unpleasant than usual, and her short mousy hair typically unkempt. The light from the window behind her dazzled my eyes, making it hard to look her in the face. On her left sat Frank, the assistant rector, with his cherubic, round, smiling face. On his right, behind a computer screen, sat the awkwardly pregnant parish administrator Nicole. ...more

Seventeen years ago, I was thrown into a cell in the Segregation Unit at Holman prison for conspiring to escape. I felt as if I had been pitched head first into the open jaws of a monster. The monster's roar—the sound of steel banging against steel. Its moan—the whispering of schemers late into the night. Its cry—the whimper of tortured souls shadowboxing demons. And its smell—a rank mixture of rat shit, body odor, urine and disinfectant. ...more

Take a peek into my life—the life of a woman who fell apart, got back up, fell down, got back up again, got knocked down, and remains getting up, never losing her hope, faith, and determination.

I am a 46-year-old African American woman. I was raised in a single-parent household and never met my father. I can’t recall the exact age, but I do know that I was under ten when my adult male cousin molested me. ...more