Hebrews 13:3

I am going to prison. This will be my first time to be inside Palmasola, the main prison in Santa Cruz. I am going with the pastor of the church, and, it turns out, with some others as well, to visit the husband of one of the young mothers in the church. I am not sure why he is in prison. I only know that he has been in for several months. It really doesn't matter. I am going half out of curiosity and half out of the desire to meet him.

We arrive at the prison somewhere around nine in the morning. There is already a line at the gate waiting to get in. I go to the line of men along with the other three brothers from the church. The ladies and children get in on of the two lines made up of women. The wind is blowing like crazy and I feel as though I am being sand-blasted in preparation for a new coat of paint. The line gets longer but no one is allowed inside. The word filters out (I don't know if it is true or not) that the delay in admitting visitors is because there is a prisoner unaccounted for. And so we wait. But Bolivians do not always wait patiently. There is the usual chorus of complaints and demands that the gate be opened. Every now and then a car arrives and the gate opens to admit it. Finally the first visitors are allowed inside. Only a small number are admitted at a time. I find out that it really does not matter. Once you are inside the gate you continue to wait in a line. Outside there is the shade of the wall. Inside there is sun so it is better to be outside than in. Finally I am getting close to the gate. But when it is opened and my group starts to go in a rush of other people cut into the line and I am left behind along with one of the brothers. I have a bit of a sinking feeling only because I do not know what I am supposed to do once I get through the gate. I am finally admitted. I hurry inside and find the next line that I am to get into. I think it has been about two hours of waiting so far.

The inside line is routed through a small office. Before entering the office I am frisked by a policeman and have to empty my pockets and show my wallet. "How much money are you bringing to the prison?" I am asked by the guard. "Not much," I respond. It is now my turn to enter the office. I show my ID card. Also I am asked if this is my first time to visit the prison. Yes. Who am I visiting? The brother with me responds. And, he adds, he is in area number 4. How do we know that since we are first time visitors, the guard demands. The brother again responds by explaining that we were given the information by another. I am told to stretch out my arm. I am stamped with the guard's stamp and then he writes two numbers on my arm with magic marker, one showing where I am authorized to go and the other showing what number my name is on his list. I am told I can go. I walk out through the back door of the office into the courtyard of the prison. It is big, a lot bigger than it seems from outside.

The first thing I see is a huge empty lot with horses running around in it.  I spot the others from the church and join them. We are the last ones through and they have been waiting for us. Now we begin to walk to the area where we can visit. Off to one side we see a chain link fence with barbed wire on top. It is the women's section. There are children and women, some who are calling to us through the fence to give them an orange. On the other side of the field we see another huge solid wall, much like the outside wall of the prison. It is the maximum security area. We are not going there. We continue to walk and we pass the kitchen and a patch that looks to be mostly weeds but has a sign in it declaring it to be an organic garden.

We finally arrive at the entrance to the part of the prison where we will be visiting. I am searched again, my ID card taken from me and another stamp and number written on my arm. Then I am admitted.

The first thing I see turns out to be the market area of the prison. Here there are restaurants, a pool hall and other establishments that I was unable to identify. It is mostly young men that I see out in the street. We continue walking past this to go to area 4. The ground is cemented and fairly clean. There are no obvious guards in sight. I past inmates who are displaying their wares for sale. There are drawings, cars made out of pop bottles, wooden trucks and cars, watches, and other items for sale. Sort of like a tourist market, I say to myself. At last we come to area 4. As we walk through the gate the first thing I see is the front of a large building with the name, Living Hope Church, painted on it. From inside I hear the sounds of a band practicing. We sit down on the porch of the church while an inmate goes to find "Mario" (not his real name), the husband of the young woman from church. In a few minutes he arrives, a very pleasant young man. (I later find out he is 27 years old.) He is very hapy to see us and greets us like old friends although we have never met before. He also greets his wife and two sons who are also in our group. He is obviously happy to see them. His wife smiles broadly and the older son stands close to his father.

Our new friend begins to explain to us that there are three or four churches in the prison. This particular one is preparing to celebrate its 20th anniversary the next day. I see young men painting window sills on the church. He takes us inside. We sit down and listen as the band finishes its practice. Our friend tells us how his life has changed. Upon entering the prison alcohol was about to destroy him. But through the ministry of the church he has come to know Jesus and his life has changed. Another believer joins us and shares his testimony. "Outside I was a prisoner," he says, "but in here I am free." He too was saved through the ministry of the church. Eventually we meet the pastor of the church as well. He, too, is a prisoner. I don't ask if he was a pastor before entering prison or was chosen to pastor the church by the brothers. Our friend tells us that there are around 200 believers now that attend this church.

We pass the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon visiting in the church. We then go to one of the restaurants to eat lunch with three of the inmates. The food is good and probably a step up from the normal fare.

It finally becomes time to leave. (There are set times for entering and leaving. Once you are in you stay until the set time for leaving.)   As we were leaving the church one of the brothers calls out "Hebrews 13:3."  Our friend walks us to the gate and we say good bye. I have to show my arm to get through the gate. I retrieve my ID card and we head back to the main gate. There I re-enter the office through the back door and have another mark put on my arm to show that I have been checked out. I leave, amazed at what I have seen. I remember what the one brother said. "Outside I was a prisoner. In here I am free." I feel that I will be back. Now that I know the reality of Palmasola I cannot simply put it out of my mind.

Pray for Mario and the Living Hope Church. Pray for its pastor and the believers who worship there. Pray for many other lives that need to be touched. And pray for me to know how to respond to what I have seen.