NEWSLETTER: FEBRUARY, 2007

Our ministry to the 300 kids in the CMI, or children's jail, is both rewarding and at times depressing as we briefly enter their lives. We have to go through six locked doors to enter their concrete, steel and barbed wire world.

The rewarding times are when we teach 25 or 30 boys in the dining hall. Filing in, in their grey jumpsuits with hands behind their backs seating themselves on long metal benches. That's when they really do listen, and they do. Each week, only twenty-five boys out of three hundred are allowed to come hear us. It's a shame but these are the rules at CMI. Maybe prayer will prevail.

The depressing times are when we visit them in their cells. There are always hands reaching out between the bars to shake our hands. Beyond this wall of bars we hear their stories and talk with them. This is always the heavy part, the hurting part, the part that stays with you as you leave. These are just kids! Indeed many of them are dangerous little fools pumped on crystal. But they're still kids; Kids who take us seriously.

I remember Carlos. He was the only one in the holding tank. It's a small dark cement block room about 10 feet by 15 feet with wire mesh front. There was one bunk bed in the room and he was laying on the lower bed. Carlos, about thirteen years old, was thin, scared and poorly dressed. The kids in the main area said he was full of sores, so I asked to see him. This was his first time in jail and he'd been there just two days.

The guard unlocked the metal door and I entered the cell. Slowly, Carlos got up, looked at me, and then showed me the sores covering his thin and dirty body. He had scabies as well as other bacterial infections. His world had been a dirty one.

He was taking oral antibiotics and the last remaining tablet was scotch taped to a small piece of paper. He would have to ask the guard for water. Carefully, I applied what little topical ointment I had over his sores.

"What are you in for, Carlos?", I asked him. "I was stealing a pair of shoes", he replied. He lived in "The Line", an area near the Tijuana border entrance. When I asked about his mother and father, he replied that he had no mother or father, he lived with some relatives. His biggest concern was how long he'd be kept at the CMI for stealing a pair of shoes.

I haven't seen him since.

As I was walking down the corridor of cells I stopped at the last cell. Luis, about 16, stood between the two bunk beds in his cell. He's a good looking boy with a half dozen tattoos. Tattoos tell a story. This young Mexican boy had been around. He stood looking at me. In broken English, he asked me a surprising question. "Von, would you adopt me?" I have worked with thousands of kids and I have never been asked that question. The rest of my time with Luis as spent explaining why this would be impossible. Afterward, as I turned to go, he called me back. "Von, I would like to have a Bible, could you get me one?"

A strict CMI rule is: no Bibles or reading material for the kids or guards. Be praying with us for a change in rules.

Many of us have stories like these. Thanks to each of you who make our prison ministry possible. Indeed it's a team effort. Because of you we are able to enter this world and teach. Because of the Lord each of the six locks open and let us in to share our faith and give counsel to the kids who eagerly open up to us. We can't forget the guards, either. We often share with them, too. Thanks for your important part in our CMI ministry. For all of us at Spectrum, von