Being sent to prison in an African country is not an experience I ever anticipated. Writing about it was never a project on my 'to do' list of things I thought I might want to undertake. When I started to write about what I was going though, sitting on a thin mattress in a room full of 85 other prisoners, I wrote not with an eye towards publishing, but simply to help me survive. And process. And cope. I had all of the usual questions that people have when their life falls apart? Why? Where are you, God? Why are you allowing this to happen to me? Why are you so absent? What follows is pretty much as I wrote it from my prison floor-level perspective. I have changed names and locations, as I have no desire to bring trouble on anyone. Mainly, this is prison as I experienced it. There were times when I honestly felt I would never leave with my life, or my faith, or my sanity intact. It was a six-month ordeal that I would not wish on my worst enemies. But for some reason, there I was; and now here I am, still processing, still pressing to understand. And hoping that my experience of that long dark night may somehow help another who finds himself or herself similarly undone.
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