Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Midnight in Aisle 7 by Jay Lowder

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

and the book:

Passio (September 4, 2012)

***Special thanks to Althea Thompson of Charisma House for sending me a review copy.***


Jay Lowder is the founder and head of Jay Lowder Harvest Ministries based in Wichita Falls, Texas. His engaging and contemporary style gives him an ability to connect with adults and students alike. Jay has been featured on at least fifteen major networks, including The Discovery Channel, ABC, Fox, ABC Family, Daystar, and TBN. Jay and his wife, Melissa, have three children.

Visit the author's website.


True stories of random, unscripted encounters with God

Every day, God reveals Himself in unexpected ways in the lives of ordinary people. While religion has tried to confine Him to church buildings and cotton candy sermons, He continues to expose Himself in unlikely places to unlikely people.

This book describes these encounters using short compelling stories that show how common people from all walks of life have encountered this relationship that brings significance to life. Stories range from an uplifting insight prompted by a question from Jay's daughter, to stories of tragedy, forgiveness, and healing from lives of addiction, abuse, and prostitution.

Product Details:
List Price: $14.99

Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: Passio (September 4, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1616386088
ISBN-13: 978-1616386085


Prison  Break

I Have never  been sentenced to prison or jail,  but I have been locked up  many  times. My cell  has  been lonely, dark, isolating, and  cold.  I have  met  a lot of prisoners
just  like  me.  It gives  me  some  comfort knowing I am not the  only  one.   It is  always easier to  justify  failure  when you  have  a companion.
Some  of my  former  cellmates could easily be  detected as  offenders,  but  many   others are  not  so  easy   to  iden- tify. Some  reveal their  chains through sarcastic and  bitter words; others do not have  to speak. The lines and  expres- sions  on their  faces tell  what  words dare  not say, their countenance revealing the  deepest and  most  private suffering.
People in  prison respond to  incarceration in  different ways.   Some   accept their   sentences,  while others spend every  waking moment trying to  find  a  way  of escape. I have   visited numerous  prisons  and   jails   where  I  have been amazed to meet  people who  say they  never want  to


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leave. Prison  has  become the  only  way  of life  they  know and  the  only  place they  have  respect and  friends.  They say  they  have  nothing on  the  outside to  go  back  to  and have  become comfortable locked up.
I guess if you  stay in any place long  enough, even  when it is the  wrong one,  it can  begin to feel  like  home. Maybe this  is why  the  number of people who  leave  prison only to return is sky high. Men have  tendencies: the  things we should not do come  naturally, while the things we should do  are  so  hard   to  get  done. Just  because you  take  the man  out  of the  big  house doesn’t mean you’ve taken the big  house out  of the  man.
On   the   other  hand,  the   prisoner  consumed  with escaping does  so because he is dying—not a literal death, but  the  death of  his  will  and  hope for  a  better life.  It is  the  death that  comes when your   heart gives  up  any chance for change or  to live  a life  of purpose. Everyone dies, but  only  a few  truly  live.  These  captives want  more than  the  air  they  breathe; they  want  a life  that  truly  has meaning.
There   are   many   types   of  prisons.  Some   have   literal bars  and  fences,  while others use  emotions, habits, and thoughts to hold  its captives. So which prison held me? It is the  prison of rejection. It can  be found in the  hearts of broken sons,  discarded wives, lost  teens, abused women, and  neglected children as  well   as  the  successful,  prom- inent,  educated,  and   religious.  People  find   themselves locked in the  prison of rejection because they  committed one  of two  crimes: either they  were unwilling to  accept others, or they  were not  accepted themselves. In my case
it was . . . wait,  let  me  first explain.


Prison Break


I was  born  and  raised in north Texas  and  live  there now. Although there are  many  places in the  state  that  are  beau- tiful,  they  are not here in the far northern part  (no matter what  the  locals say). I have  spent the  lion’s share of my life  on  the  road. I have  visited every  state  in  the  United States except four,  and  I have  seen quite a bit of the  Lone Star  State. Yet I have  never witnessed as  many  unusual sights as I have  here.
One  particular sight   that  has  intrigued me  for  some time  is  a  tiny  jail  in  a  town  of  less  than  one  thousand people. It is  said  to  be  one  of  the  oldest jails  in  Texas and   is  located  on  the   highway between  Wichita   Falls and   Lubbock,  Texas.   If  you   have   ever   seen the  movie Lonesome Dove (considered a masterpiece here in Texas), then  you  can imagine this being the  jail  where Blue  Duck was  held before he  jumped out  the  second-story window to his  death. The  jail  is over  one  hundred years  old  and easily looks  twice  that.
Out  front  stands an  old  tree. After its  leaves fall,  the crusty, crooked branches resemble the  hands of an  evil witch   reaching  toward the  walls. The  jail  has  sleeping quarters that  will  house four  men  upstairs and  the  same number of women downstairs. It was  even  built  with  a trap  door  for “hanging” offenders. There  is a famous story of three inmates who  murdered the  on-duty sheriff  in an attempt to escape. The three were quickly reapprehended then  swiftly  tried and  convicted.
I passed by this  old  jail  every  few months in my travels, and  something about it always jerked at my curious mind. Although I felt a pull  to stop and  check it out,  I was always too  busy   to  break down and   do  so  until one   moonlit


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morning at  about twelve thirty. Two  friends  were riding with  me  on  our  way  back  home from  an  event  when we drove  past  the  jail.  We still  had  a couple hours more  to drive, but  when I looked out  the  window and  saw  the outline of the  jail,  I could not  resist.
I made an illegal U-turn,  parked out  front,  and  walked through a  door   that  was  faintly   ajar.   A slightly startled woman sitting at an  old  wooden desk  looked up  quickly and  asked if she  could help. I began to explain my  long- standing fascination with  the old jail.  I told  her my friends and  I were passing through, and  I could no  longer resist the urge to stop.  This jailer was a welcoming woman who surprised me  when she  recognized my name.
“I thought you  looked familiar.  I know   who  you  are. This weekend I heard a radio advertisement about the Outdoor Extravaganza you  were speaking at and  thought it would be  something my  youngest would enjoy doing. He  loves  hunting and  fishing, and  we  spent yesterday at your  event  in Lubbock.”
I thought it  was  highly unlikely that  this  was  a  coin- cidence, and  I felt  a chill  sprint up  my  spine. It seemed too  perfect  after  passing by  all  these times  that  I would just  happen to  stop  the  day  after  this  woman heard my name on  the  radio. She  cordially invited my  friends  and me  to glance around the  jail  as she  explained its history. Because there were no  women locked up,  she  let  us  see the  female quarters located on the  bottom floor.
After  about ten  minutes of small talk  and  gander we were about to leave. When  I asked how  many  men  were upstairs, a  strange  expression  washed  over   the   jailer’s face.  Then  she  asked, “Would  you  like  to go up and  speak to  the  inmates? They  have   very  few  visitors, and   even


Prison Break

though it is late,  I think  they  would be glad  to see  a new face  and  hear  what  you  have  to say.”
I told  her  I would be glad  to talk  with  them  so long  as I did  not interrupt their  sleep. As soon  as I got the  words out  of my  mouth, she  grabbed her  antique-looking  keys and  motioned for all  three of us to follow  her.
Upon   climbing  the   old   staircase,  we   were  immedi- ately  met  by a curious group of four  wide-awake  men. I introduced myself  and  my  comrades, shook their  hands, and  began to  explain how  we  ended up  visiting the  jail. All four  of the  men  crowded near  the  bars  and  listened intently to every  word  I spoke.
First impressions last forever. Two of the men  stood  out to me  instantly. One  was  a gregarious Hispanic guy  with a  big  personality, and  the  other was  a young, quiet guy who  looked like  he  still  belonged in  high  school. I tried to offer  encouragement by telling them  we  all  make mis- takes  we  can  learn from.  I discussed how  the  crime that landed them  in  trouble could be  the  catalyst that  trans- forms  their  lives  for the  better if they  are  willing to own it and  learn from it. Reactions to events can sometimes be more  important than  actions in events.
I talked about letting go of the  past  because it can’t  be changed and  seizing whatever opportunities were before them. I did not offer some  hokey religious platitude about letting go  and  letting God.  I just  tried to be  transparent and  show  the  concern I genuinely felt.  I also  listened to them. If you  tune in  to  someone’s words for  very  long, those words will  reveal what  is  hidden in  that  person’s heart.
The  youngest inmate vented about how  he  was  twenty-one  and  in  two  days  was  being transferred  to  a  prison


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in Huntsville, Texas,  where he  would begin a twenty-five- year  sentence without the  possibility of parole. He  said his  father  would not  visit  him,  and  all  his  mother could do  was  cry  the  two  times  she  came  to  see  him.  I didn’t know  what  crime he  committed, but  my  heart went  out to him.  When  it was time  to go, I asked the men  if I could pray  for them. It was  the  best  thing  I had  to offer.  They were all  in  favor.  Nothing makes people  more   open to prayer than  getting in  a bind  they  cannot get  out  of on their  own.
Afterward  I  began  shaking  their   hands  through  the steel bars  and  wishing the  guys  my  best.  I also  offered my address in case  they  wanted to write. The  last  one  in line  was  the  young, baby-faced  guy  who  on  his  way  to the  pen. I obviously did  not  know  him,  but  I felt  a deep sense of compassion toward him.  The  whole time  I was with  the  inmates, I was  troubled that  someone so young was  losing so much of his life.
Before  I  left,  I  expressed  exactly what   I  felt  boiling inside me.  “Hey, man.  I do not know  what  you  have  done to get  twenty-five years, and  I do not  care. It is never too late  to  change and  to  start  anew. Your  life  is  not  over. Prison  can  be  a time  of getting your  education, working through  your   issues,  and   learning  how   you   can   help others. Do not give up,  bro.  I do not judge you,  but I love you  man.”  I meant ever y word . . . or so I thought.
Walking downstairs, I felt sickened to see  such  a young life  being crushed. My mind  kept  tripping over  what  this boy  could have  done wrong. After  explaining my  grati- tude to  the  jailer, I told  my  companions to  wait  for  me in the  car.  I then  broke a cardinal rule that  I established
when visiting correctional facilities. I never, ever  ask what


Prison Break

crime someone has  committed because I do not  want  my opinion to be skewed by the revelation of someone’s past. But  with  this  guy  I just  could not  resist.
“Ma’am,   I  have   never  asked  this   question  about any inmate before,  but  I have  to  know, what  crime has  the boy  committed?” I explained that  I felt some  kind  of con- nection to him  and  wanted to help.
She  replied, “Are you  sure  you  want  to know?”
When  I said,  “Yes, I am  sure,”  I knew the  answer was destined to haunt me.  I had  no idea  how  much.


The jailer’s words left me  feeling nauseated. I acted like  I was unfazed, but I could feel my heart racing. After telling the jailer good-bye, I walked out  to my car,  wanting to hit something to  unleash the  anger I felt.  Drunk  with  fury, I turned into  a  Jekyll and  Hyde.   If you  have  ever  seen one  of those “when  animals go bad” videos, then  you  can imagine my  transformation.  For  the  next  two  hours of driving I tried to overcome the  rage  I felt.  I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t seem to shake it. After getting home, I lay  in bed  until 5:30 a.m.  completely unable to sleep.
Two  days  later  I was  not  only  struggling with  the  fact that  this  man  had  committed such  a  horrible crime but also  with  how  I could so easily turn  on  someone I genu- inely thought I cared for. As far as I knew, I did  not  hate anyone and  could not remember anyone in my past  I had not  forgiven  or  was  holding a grudge against. Why did  I feel  such  hatred toward this  man?
The  old  saying is  true: hating and  refusing  to  forgive someone is like  drinking poison and  expecting the  other person to  die.  I knew I had  to  do  something. I decided


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to  call  my  best  friend  for  advice on  how  to  shake the problem because nothing seemed to  help. In the  days  I spent wrestling with  my  anger toward the  man,  I began to  revisit   the  circumstances surrounding the  only  other person I could remember hating: my oldest sister.
My sister is quite beautiful and  intelligent. She was also quite rebellious and  stubborn in her  high  school days.  It was not uncommon for her  and  our  parents to be at odds. Sometimes the  conflict erupted in a volcano of anger and hurt  that  spewed everywhere. My sister and  I were fairly close  when we were young, but in time  the distance grew beyond measure. The  wall  between us  seemed to sprout up  suddenly, like  a new  building that  just  appears before you  even  knew it was  being built.
In  my  own  self-centered  world of girls, cars,  and  par- ties,  I was  oblivious to the  struggles she  was  facing. One weekend during my senior year  of high  school, her  friend called when our  parents were out  of  town   to  give  me some  unexpected news. “Jay,  I think  you  need to  know your  sister, Kay, is gay.”  I immediately jumped in  the  car and  drove  to  Kay’s  apartment to  confront  her.  I had  to make sure  it was  a lie.
When  no  one  came   to  the  door, I left  a  message on her  voice  mail  and  waited in  her  parking lot  until 3:00 a.m., but she  never came  home. The next  day  I continued my  stakeout and  knew something was  wrong when she kept  avoiding me.  Late one  afternoon I saw her  car on the road  and  raced up  beside her,  rolled down the  window, and  yelled, “Pull over; we’ve got  to talk.”
She  knew why  I was  chasing her,  because the  girl  who called me  also  phoned her  to give  her  fair  warning. Kay
yelled back  from her  car,  “We have  nothing to talk  about,”


Prison Break

and  tried to  speed away. She  pulled over  only  when I threatened to run  her  off the  road.
I confronted  her  with  what  I had  been told,  and  she admitted that it all was true. I incorrectly reacted in anger and  disbelief,  unleashing on  her  every  disgusting ounce of my  judgment and  rejection. After many  jagged words were spoken, the  conversation ended with  her  telling me it  was  her  life  and  I should want  her  to  be  happy and me  responding, “I hate  you.”  I was  convinced I had  every right  to reject her.  That  misplaced confidence only  grew after  an  incident a few  months later  really sent  me  over the  edge.
It happened at  lunch late  in  my  senior year. Because my school was  close  to the  house, I often  drove  home for my thirty-minute lunch break just  to see  the family. At the time  everything was  going along great, and  my sister and I had  turned a new  corner. A few  weeks earlier, Kay had moved back  home and  told  my parents she  wanted out  of her  lifestyle.  We had  a tearful  reunion and  were putting the  pieces back  together.
But upon arriving home for lunch, I found my mom  and dad  sitting at the  kitchen table, and  Dad was  doing some- thing  I couldn’t remember seeing him  do before. Dad was crying. He  had  tears  running down his  face,  and  Mom’s eyes  were also  swollen, as if she had  been punched. As far as  I remembered, Dad  did  not  even  cry  when his  father died. Seeing him  upset was  a stab  in the  heart I could not take.
“What  is  going on?”  I  thundered. My  parents replied that  my  sister was  moving back  in  with  her  girlfriend.  I rushed into  my  sister’s room  and  started cursing, telling
her  that  she  was  tearing the  family  apart by leaving. Kay


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just  continued packing, as if unfazed by how  much Mom and  Dad  were hurting. That  took  my  anger to  a boiling point. Kay yelled that  her  life  was  none of my  business and  I needed to  stay  out  of it.  I begged her  to  stay,  for Mom and  Dad’s  sake, but  she  said  nothing could stop  her from  leaving. That’s  when I exploded.
I’d   never  pushed  around  a  girl   before   and   haven’t since, but  that  day  I pinned my  sister against the  wall and  spewed my  venom. The  confrontation  ended with me  telling her  I never wanted to  see  her  again. I knew as I walked past  Mom and  Dad and  out  the  door  that  my actions had  hurt  them  as well, but I didn’t care. I thought I had  every  right  to shove  my  sister—out of my  way  and out  of my mind.
As  the   months rolled  by,  I  did   not   ask  my  parents about Kay and  tried to  ignore the  situation all  together. I believed the  ridiculous notion that  if  I avoided some- thing  long  enough, the  issue would either work  itself  out or  disappear. I was  still  too  young to  understand accep- tance, forgiveness,  and  love  are  not  meant to  be  earned but  to  be  given   freely.  I also  could not  wrap   my  mind around the  fact  that  forgiveness  is  denied to  those who are  unwilling to  dispense it.  Therefore  I just  moved on, or so I thought.
For the  next  three years  I viewed Kay as an  embarrass- ment  to our  family  and  me.  There  were times  when she would come   home for  a  few  weeks, which my  parents and  I always took  to  mean she  was  abandoning her  life- style. But then  she’d move  out  again, and  each  time  it felt like  she  was  turning her  back  on the family  all over  again. The  emotional roller coaster we  were all  on kept  the  ten-
sion  in the family  thick. Mom and  Dad became reluctantly


Prison Break

accustomed to her chair  being empty at Thanksgiving and
Christmas, but  it was  fine  with  me.
When  Kay hurt  Mom  and  Dad,  I took  it as  a personal assault. No doubt many  of my own  actions had  hurt  them as  deeply as  my  sister’s, but  that  was  easy  for me  to  dis- miss.  Although my anger wasn’t justified, I thought it was. I  had   a  legalistic, self-righteous  view   that  I  learned in part  from some  of the  religious folks at church. Tragically, false  religion taught me  how  to  push away  people who were different rather than  to love  and  seek  to understand them.
My anger was  also  due  to pride. Rather  than  being con- cerned about my relationship with  Kay, I became focused on  what  my  narrow circle of friends  might think  of our family  and  me.  Their  opinions should never have  been my priority, but  I thought rejecting my sister would build walls protecting me  from  their   condemnation. In  actu- ality  I was  closing myself  off from one  of the  people who should have  meant the  most  to me,  and  I was  becoming hard, skeptical, and  angry. The  criticism and  isolation I was dishing out was doing nothing to alter  Kay, but it was definitely changing me.
I had  no  idea  at the  time  that  I was  bound in a prison of my own  making. I had  no idea  that  I was  not living  the fulfilling  life  I longed for because I refused  to deal  with the  anger and  unforgiveness that  was  destroying me.
When   I  hit   twenty-one,  I  experienced  a  watershed event  that  began to  change my  perspective. I began to see  how  far I was  from  becoming the  man  I’d  hoped to be.  It did  not  happen all  at  once, but  the  scales began to fall,  and  I found myself  wanting to repair the  dam  in
my  relationship with  Kay. So  I called her  in  Dallas  and


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asked if we  could meet. I knew she  was  a hundred and twenty miles away, but  I had  no  idea  how  far  that  two- hour  drive  would actually take  me.
Upon  arriving at Kay’s house, I admitted my faults  and asked for forgiveness.  I didn’t expect anything in  return. I was  just  worried that  she  would not  believe my  words because I  hadn’t  done  anything to  prove   my  sincerity. I  had   hurt   her   tremendously  both   in  word   and   deed, wrongly thinking I had  a  right  to  reject her  because of the  life she  was  living. It was  an amazing moment for me when, after  two  hours of talking about all  the  mistakes we  both  had  made, Kay and  I hugged. I told  her  I loved her  and  that  I was  glad  she  was  my sister. She  replied, “I love  you  too,  brother, and  I forgive  you.  I really do.”  The road  to a real  relationship was  not  completely paved that night, but  it was  under good  construction.
It has  been years  now,  and  I can  honestly say my sister and  I are  closer than  ever.  She  does  not  have  to do  any- thing  to earn  my love.  I drove  home from Dallas  realizing that  while I thought I was  letting her  out  of a cage, I was actually the  one  who  needed to be set  free.


That  night   at  the  old  jail  when I asked the  jailer what crime the  young man  had  committed, she  had  motioned for me  to sit in a chair  before she  answered.
“Jay, he is going to Huntsville because he raped two pre- teen  girls.”
I swallowed hard, partly because the  girls  he assaulted were the age  of my only  daughter. She offered a few more details before I walked out  the  door.
As I walked to  the  car,  I thought about a  male  nurse


Prison Break

who  once  sat  next  to me  at an  event  where I was  sched- uled to  speak. He  asked if I had  heard the  news about the  two-year-old girl  who  was  expected to die  after  being raped by her  drug-crazed  stepdad. He was  the  nurse on duty  when she  was  brought in,  and  he  was  still  pretty shaken up.  I was  supposed to  be  talking to  a  crowd of church people in a matter of moments and  found myself silently calling the  offender  the  worst  names possible. I felt  like  such  a hypocrite, but  the  emotions were hard  to lasso.
I have  seen the  effects  of sexual abuse in my most  cov- eted  relationship, which is with  my wife.  A family  member sexually assaulted  her  for  years, and   it  wreaked havoc not  only  on  her  personally but  also  on  our  marriage. If there was  anything that  got  under my skin,  it was  sexual crimes. The  inmate had  struck a tender nerve. I believed he  had  not  only  tried to  crucify  and  steal  the  innocent girls’ present but  their  future as well. I was  livid,  because
I know  the  cuts  of sexual abuse are  the  hardest to  heal. The  scabs  keep tearing off, leaving victims  with  a sense of guilt and  unworthiness due  to something that  was  no fault  of their  own.
Three  sleepless nights after  leaving the  jail,  I got  a rev- elation about accepting others. I had  vengeful  thoughts about the  boy  I’d met.  I am  not  proud to own  them, but
I secretly hoped he  would burn  in  hell. I told  my  best friend  that  justice would seek  and  find  him  behind the walls of the  Huntsville prison. I concluded that  if anyone was  beyond forgiveness  and  restoration, he  was.   I sur- mised that  I might be  responsible to  forgive  and  accept
some   people but  not  everyone. I was  convinced I was


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judge and  jury  when it came  to who  deserved my pardon and  who  did  not.  I was  so wrong.
What about my own  guilt?  I have  never been unfaithful to my wife,  but I have  entertained lustful thoughts. I have not been involved in a murder, but what  about that hatred I have  harbored?  I have  not  been involved in  a same-sex relationship, but  what  about my promiscuity before I was
married? My failures are  no less  sinful  than  anyone else’s.
Judging others only produces self-judgment. I was taught early on to love the sinner and  hate  the sin,  but often  that is  just  religious jargon, a  masquerade to  hide   our  judg- mental attitudes. Who am I to despise anyone else’s faults when I should be busy  enough hating my own?  Instead of shifting blame away  from my own  shortcomings, I should be  reaching out  to those who  may  not  know  that  God is not  the  one  condemning them. Tragically, many  people are  isolating the  very  people who  need them  the  most.
Jesus   never  favored  the   religious;  His  darlings were always the  hurting and  the  sinful,  not  the  self-righteous. He  never tired of  showing His  love  for  renegades. It is ironic that we tend  to be drawn the least  to the people He was  drawn to  the  most.  Jesus  was  regularly seen eating and  spending time  with  outcasts and  those we  wickedly condemn. Unlike us  He had  an  uncanny ability to make the  losers of the  world feel  like  the  winners. He not  only made them  feel  like  somebody, but  He also  helped them to become somebody. We see  people for who  they  were and   are,   but  God  sees   people for  who   they   have   the potential to become.
Sadly, many  morally superior people fall  into  the  trap of  loving only  those who  think, dress, act,  and  believe as  they  do.  It is easy  to beat  your  chest  and  say  you  are


Prison Break

standing for  truth  without considering whose truth  you are  standing for.  It’s  time  for us  to stop  hating and  start liberating. It’s  time  to bury  our  legalistic and  narcissistic actions. I do not claim  to know  everything about God, but I do  know  He  loves  and  unconditionally accepts anyone
who  is willing to turn  to Him.  This  includes thieves, rob- bers,   murderers,  drunks, adulterers,  Muslims, homosex- uals, gossipers, cheaters, fornicators, liars, hypocrites like me,  and  even  those whom I have  the  hardest time  loving: child  abusers.
I asked God why  He allowed me  to stop  at the  old  jail that  night. Many  people believe in coincidences, but  I do not.  I am  sure  every  step  I take  has  a purpose, a lesson, even  beneficial pain   if I am  willing to  embrace it.  As I prayed for understanding, a question popped in my mind. Does  God  love  the  rapist in  the  Huntsville prison, and could even  someone like  him  be forgiven?
As much as I wanted to deny  it, I knew there was  only one  answer: yes.  I believe God  allowed me  to meet  that man  so  I could understand that  He  does  not  see  others as  I  do.  My  love  has  boundaries, but  His  has  no  end. Although  God  does  not  accept all  the  things I do,  He  is willing to accept all  of me.  This  is the  love  I still  do  not completely understand. Yet it is exactly the  kind  of love  I want  to give.

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