Snippets of Life, Mine in Particular

By Gracie Luce

Snippets of life, Mine in Particular is a collection of personal stories as told by a woman with an insatiable appetite for adventure and a tireless drive to explore unchartered territory, literally and personally. The reader is taken on each journey with the author as she explores the bush land of Africa, the streets of Calcutta and third-world prisons.

Each "snippet" represents a vibrant tile in the mosaic of Ms. Luce's life thus far. Together they form the image of a woman with warmth, inquisitiveness, and a sense of humor you'll want to spend some time with.

Captivating, intriguing, inspiring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524534059

Gracie Luce

Gracie Luce is a writer, adventurer, and inquisitive mother of two grown boys and one fat cat. Her unquenchable curiosity and traveling obsession have taken her to a dozen countries. Her ministry passion has taken her into half as many foreign prisons and twice as many domestic. She's a professional organizer and lives in Kansas City. This is her first book.

Book preview

Snippets of life,

Mine in Particular

Gracie Luce

Copyright © 2016 by Gracie Luce.

Cover Design by TwoWeirdLlamas

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016913385

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-3407-3

                Softcover        978-1-5245-3406-6

                eBook             978-1-5245-3405-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved. Website

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/10/2016

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Contents

Introduction

Most Memorable Scar

3,000 Feet

David McKune

What Will You Miss When You Die?

Meeting My Hero

Saints and Sinners

J and J

My Darling Brother John

Mozambican Jail

Journey to the African Bush

Adventure on Steroids

Church Lady

Caribbean Christmas

Mr. Rodrick Nkhoma

To Sing For The Queen

Willie Aikens

U.S.P. Leavenworth

Elephants on Safari

Village Experience

I Can’t Remember If I Told You This

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This …

You’re A Professional Organizer? You Must Have Stories To Tell!

I Met a Prince …

That Prison Gong

Florida

Will and Jolene

Zim and Zam

Unlikely Friendship

This book is lovingly dedicated

to my cousin and friend,

Jane Hoak Behm

Introduction

Leaving the prison grounds I phone my son. He’s not expecting my call but is cheery nonetheless.

Hi Mom! What cha doin?

I just got out of prison!

Chuckling a little, he replies that he is really happy for me.

I admit that initially this was catchy, but after going into prison as a volunteer for years now, the joke has gotten a bit old. It’s a calling, prison ministry. Like teaching, nursing, working with lost teenagers, or a hundred other fields in which one can have a career or volunteer, a person is most effective when answering a call—that nudge, an urge, a gnawing deep within that pulls at the core. I am very comfortable walking into a prison, teaching a room full of inmates, male or female. But it goes beyond comfort, it fulfills.

Working in prisons over the years has led me down some interesting paths. It seems to have sparked my appetite for adventure. Prisoners, by and large, can be seen as risk takers. Maybe some of that rubbed off on to me.

Add traveling. Mission-oriented trips generally. Pack that with visits to local penitentiaries, mostly in third-world countries, and you end up with a suitcase full of stories, the telling of which is often prompted by Are you ever afraid? What are the conditions of prisons in other countries? and I bet you’ve seen some interesting things you could tell about.

Multiply by experiences in exotic places, such as India and Africa, triggering still more questions like Don’t they practice voodoo there? Are you afraid of AIDS? and I’m scared to fly anymore at all. If I can’t drive there, I just don’t go.

Then divide by the many relationships that have developed, spanning the continents and eliciting Can I call you Mama? I want to have more conversations with you. You’re like a white Oprah. Mix in life. Death. Sustaining old friendships and developing new ones.

I believe that each person has a story. When they choose to share, do we have time or take time to hear them?

In the back of my mind, I can hear Aunt Dorothy (yes, from Kansas), encouraging me to write about my travels and experiences, while sending how-to books for reinforcement. And my cousin Jane, responding to an email that I had written from a small, not-always-open (and sometimes not working when open) Internet Cafe located down a side street in Mozambique with one typed word, Book!

So here I’ve compiled my stories. Memories, experiences, and relationships. Laughter, tears, and awe. Shock, humility, and wonder. Each chapter stands alone but may have a sequel. I invite you to join me. Ride alongside. Use all your senses. Feel all your feelings; or just enjoy for the mere sake of reading.

Gracie Luce

Most Memorable Scar

Scars show us where we have been, they do not dictate where we are going.

~ David Rossi

I am sitting with about twenty-five other women in a small, cold, beige room made of concrete block with three skinny windows, two facing outdoors, allowing little light offering even less of a view. The third separates us from an inside guard post. We’re in a private prison in Leavenworth, Kansas that houses men and women on federal criminal charges. Volunteers are not allowed to wear orange inside—the inmates wear suits of this color. Elastic waistbands and V-neck pullover tops look like scrubs, barring the unmistakable, you will not escape, shade of the sun. These are paired with cheap, same-color orange, slip-on tennis shoes that complete the fashion statement. The women are Black, White, and Hispanic—teenagers to grandmothers. Many cases are drug related, others the result of a poor choice of boyfriend or playmate, and others, just poor choices. Sitting among women wearing no make-up, no jewelry, dyed hair growing out, stripped of dignity and confidence, I’m here trying to bring a sliver of hope into their dreary, and possibly frightful, daily routine. For most, their futures are uncertain.

Leading this group is a weekly commitment. It’s a religious call-out. We will be talking about how to apply the teachings of Jesus, to take them personally, even while facing bleak circumstances. I feel a daunting sense of responsibility to make our time together memorable and meaningful. One way I try to do both is to begin with an icebreaker question, something they excitedly look forward to and have grown to expect. Respectfully and orderly, each person answers. The activity evokes group participation, sometimes laughter, sometimes tears, and most importantly, a sense of safety and belonging.

What’s your most memorable scar? I ask this time, beginning the discussion. Chairs are set up in a circle making it easier to hear each other and connect.

First up, Doreen,* called Doe, looks to be in her early thirties, and like the girl next door. Mine is my stretch marks. They represent my children. I wouldn’t trade my kids for my scars, they mean the world to me. I miss them. You can see how her words match her emotions, as she lovingly recalls the latest photos her mother sent of her three children.

Markisa, a tad pudgy, appears to have had a rough life. With dark circles under her eyes, she speaks deliberately and slowly, but showing tenderness. Mine is here, the thirty-something says lifting her pant leg revealing a long deep mark. We were in a car accident. I was holding my baby in my lap. I lifted my knee to my face to protect her. She got out fine but my leg got busted up. Markisa says the scar is a daily reminder that her child was saved. No judgment is voiced about not having her child buckled in.

Holding her hand close to her face, revealing a feminine tattoo on her pinky, Trish looks for a mark on her middle finger. See right here? she asks us, pointing to something we can not see. My little sister and me was arguing and she grabbed me with those long fingernails she always had. Cut right into me bad. I was mad as hell at the time—it hurt like the dickens—but now when I think of it, it makes me wish I could see her. I’d tell her that I love her. We’d laugh about that day now. Long, straight, light-brown hair hangs around her face as she continues to stare at her hand.

Cute, young and tomboyish looking, Jill is next in line. She looks as if she could have bounced right in from cheerleading practice. Jill tells us that her family was very involved in sports: watching, coaching, playing. She started playing soccer and softball before kindergarten. Pushing up her sleeve, revealing a well-done scar, she says, I was sort of just a natural-born athlete, but when I fractured this elbow at fourteen, I was half wanting to be done with sports. After that healed, I decided to try BMX bikes. Had to give that up when I got caught on this case … a huge surprise and disappointment to my mom and dad.

The next lady is nearly in tears before she begins. Her dyed black hair is partially grown out revealing early graying. Mid-forties would be my guess at her age bracket. Her uniform hangs from her boney shoulders. In a soft voice she admits that this question is painful as she already has one too many reminders of the abuse she’s survived. She pulls back some hair unveiling a not-quite-healed gash. I don’t even care if I have to serve a long sentence. I don’t care that I killed him. He slugged me one time too many. I shot him dead. The room is silenced. This could easily be new news to the others. The ones sitting next to her reach over to offer a comforting touch. I allow a full minute to pass before we continue.

We make our way around the room, taking at least 20 minutes into the 120 allotted. The last participant is a young guy—still a teen. Wait, I think, doing a double take, we’re all women here. The muscular, although petite girl, looks like a young man with a, not-so-uncommon neck tat, a name in feathery font. She too is dressed in the fretful orange, but her hair, her walk, her demeanor suggests another gender—or maybe she’s just flat tough. Jen goes by J. She stood up before talking. I got one here and here. Oh, and here, she says as she points to her shoulder, her side and her buttocks, showing only her shoulder. Nonchalantly she adds, Gunshot wounds. These were all gunshot wounds. Then she sits not offering any explanation. Hardly seems appropriate to ask for more details, as curious as I am. She made her point in a few words, leaving the how to our imaginations.

Each has taken her turn. There has been group participation, sometimes laughter, sometimes tears, and a sense of safety and belonging. With that established, we continue to the deeper and meatier section of the evening with everyone taking part.

We go to the gospel of Luke—just eight short sentences. Some of the women are surprised that it was Jesus who coined, The Golden Rule. But this night brings more challenges than even those words.

"But to you who are willing to listen, I say, love your enemies!

Do good to those who hate you.

Bless those who curse you.

Pray for those who hurt you.

If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other cheek also.

If someone demands your coat, offer your shirt also.

Give to anyone who asks; and when things are taken away from you, don’t try to get them back.

Do to others as you would like them to do to you."

(Luke 6:27-31 NLT)

The discussion is thought provoking, lively and will be continued.

*All names have been changed

3,000 Feet

When the people look like ants—pull.

When the ants look like people—pray.

~ Unknown

I attribute at least a portion of my fear of heights to my older brother, Charles. Just eighteen months my senior, teasing his only sister seemed his rite of passage.

My daddy took pleasure in showing his six children anything to do with nature. Taking a family trip to the Rocky Mountains one summer was therefore no surprise. High on a snow-capped scenic stop—more than once, Charles would come up behind my little eight-year-old self and pretend to push me off the cliff! Grasping my arms would assure him, I suppose, that I wouldn’t really fall. It scared the beegeebees out of me and made me wary of getting close to the edge of anything with height.

Despite my fear, I had this in my head, something I had always wanted to do … skydive! I found just the spot. Outside the city of Seattle was an open field, a small airport, and a bunch of jumping enthusiasts. The instructor, knowing this would not be a weekly event, but more of a one-time shot, spared us the details on how to fold a chute and other specifics only regular jumpers would need to know. Instead, half of this sun-kissed day was dedicated to teaching us what to do if the chute did not open, and what to do when we saw the ground approaching.

On the property was a partial airplane mounted in such a way to allow students to practice jumping from the door of the plane only ten feet below, then tuck and roll with legs bent. Over and over we practiced. We were going to be taken up to 3,000 feet, much lower than the pros who average 12,000, but still ample distance for