Proof The Bible Is True

”Lift your bra up,” the female prison guard ordered. Finally satisfied I wasn’t carrying contraband, she let me get dressed. My husband and I had come to a state penitentiary in Tennessee to visit our son, Jeffery, sentenced to seven years on drug and gun charges. I’d never felt so violated, humiliated—and resentful. I wasn’t the criminal.

Jeffery had been in trouble ever since elementary school. Even a residential intensive therapy program didn’t help. By the time he was 18, he’d spiraled into a dangerous life of crime. Until he was arrested during a drug deal.

When I saw Jeffery leave the courtroom handcuffed and shackled, I didn’t know who to be most angry with. My son? The judge? The guard?

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