About ten years ago, I wrote “Things I Learned in Jail”, a book stitched together from stories of women I met in rehab and recovery while serving as a Sunday morning Bible teacher. Their stories were raw, full of jagged edges and grace, and I wove them through my own journey—my struggles, victories, and the mercy of God that seemed to keep showing up when I least deserved it.
One of those stories belonged to a friend I hadn’t seen in years. I never told her she was in the book. After all, I had changed names, locations, and a few details to protect identities. It wasn’t like she’d ever know. Or so I thought. Fast forward from the time the book came out… the book is inside the library at this rehab center in Texarkana. And this friend was back in rehab for a second time, and on a hard day—the kind where every emotion boils over—she tossed her glasses across the room, frustration spilling out like a storm she couldn’t contain. The counselor gave her a “quiet break.” She was told to sit at a desk, think, reflect, maybe read something from the little shelf of donated books.
She reached for a book at random. My book.
