Tina Busch-Nema released June 15 !!

Thursday, June 14: Tina is being released today (maybe she already was, as I am unsure of the time it was to be) and there will be a large celebration there in Texas tonight and she will fly home tomorrow.

Yes, it is finally here. No more waiting for me to get on the internet, since you can call and email Tina yourself! I talked to her on Saturday and she is working on the big transition back home. It is certainly a blessing that she has the summer to just be with family. Being with her on this journey from crossing the line, to trial, and now through prison has been quite an experience and continued prayers and support will be most appreciated. Coming back to the "free world" is certainly no walk in the park. Thank you for you patience and support of me these past two months as I sometimes struggled to get messages out.

Peace,
Beth
June 11, 2007

Dear Friends,

This will be most likely my last letter from prison. I honestly never thought these days would come, EVER. My sisters here have asked me if my time has gone slowly or quickly. In all honesty days felt like months and months felt, especially in the beginning, like years. But now I am down to 3 days and an overnight as they say here.

It is a bittersweet leaving for me. I am SO ready to see my kids and family and my dog. I am missing all my friends on the outside as well. The bitter part is that I have come to love my sisters on the “inside.” Leaving them behind is not easy. I need to go. It is my time to go. I have come to question a lot and find very few answers. Often times I have this experience of seeing SOMEthing out on the horizon but I am not sure what it is I see. It’s like a distant vision. I have this now as I try to understand the impact of these two months. I don’t do too well with blatant injustice but it is such an everyday occurrence here…I just question again and again, I have no answers…I go over it with God all these questions in my heart. Why? Why? Why are such innocent folk here? Why the elderly? Why are people psychologically tortured here over and over? Why don’t we have simple things like toilet paper and hand soap? Why are we treated like dirt? Why do I make $5.25 a month for over 40 hours a week of work? Why are families torn apart? I could go on and on. Sometimes as I listen to story after story, esp. these last days, it takes everything inside me not to throw my apple or curse loudly. The only thing I know to do is to pray and write, pray and write, pray and write. Sometimes I talk with a couple of friends, a woman from Arkansas and one friend from Kansas. They listen and we talk. It helps. Not that I understand any better but the gauge inside me that is overflowing comes back within more normal ranges.

Please continue to shower people with prayers. I feel so…how to say, powerless in one sense to make any change or heal any pain and yet I know all I have really to offer anyone is my prayer. It is a powerful commitment to pray for someone, to lift them to God and hold their concerns and spirit up to the Light. When I am not hearing such horrific stories, believing in the power of prayer comes easier. But now I am leaving these women I have come to so love and respect to an atmosphere and system that is so brutal and terroristic. It is so much harder to believe in prayer now when I have to believe with all my heart. Now, I must understand that the power of prayer is more powerful than the power of presence. I am trying to believe and understand.

I went to a jailhouse farewell party tonight. It was for a woman who was falsely accused by her ex-husband in order to get custody of their son. She spent 2.5 years in prison on a 15 year sentence. Talk about great food out of NOTHING…tamales made with ground up corn chips filled with beans and chicken and pork rinds (softened in water!), a fruit salad that rivals anthing I have ever made and served in orange rind cups…Flour tortilla shells made in a reused cheese dip container filled with a great rice with broccoli…bean dip and chips and the best of all a cheesecake made with graham crackers and I am not sure what else, chilled by putting it in a dishpan filled with ice and wrapped in trash bags. The decorations were cut out magazine pages hung in curls from the ceiling, a table cloth made from taped magazine pages, a card made from cut outs from magazines. It was festive, colorful, and whimsical. You would not believe you were in prison. But the night officer had to be on or they would shut it down. Mr. C. is the regular officer and he knows us but in case we get too close or too comfortable or he gets to know us too well, they (BOP) will rotate him at the end of the month. I think they get 3 month shifts. So ALL will change…from the way mail call happens, to the way washer times happen, to what level of noise or what dress at night is allowed. Some officers are so picky that even the slightest form of creativity, like needle pointing their initials on their houseshoes or putting glitter on their shower shoes…All seized as Contraband. Head scarves are made fom ragged bedsheets…contraband. I had found a plastic spoon…I got rid of it right away b/c if there is a shakedown, I could get a shot for, you got it, contraband…if you have move than I think two pairs of tennis shoes, more than ten books, more than a shoebox of letters, it is considered contraband. One officer went so far as to accuse me of running a political card business b/c I get “too much stupid mail.” He is the same officer who tried to humiliate me during mail call by smelling an envelope and asking me if I get a lot of FATHER’s Day cards! (He was suggesting I was gay.) My sisters here were outraged b/c many feel as though I am still a nun. They wanted me to report him. I is not worth my time. But I guess my point is that they can pretty much say what they want and construe what you have as contraband. Right now I have nothing sice I had to pack everything out. I still laugh at the political card business.

I don’t know where this experience leads me. Sylvester Brown’s article suggested I have a “new cause.” I thought about this…I really don’t have any causes…what I see is all of this is born of loving people, consequences of loving. I could go to jail and just do my time and get out and continue my life. That is permissible. It is a possible scenario…but when you love someone, when your heart has been touched by people, then it is difficult to ignore their plight. It was suggested to me before I began my prison time, to keep my heart soft. I’ve thought of this often during these two months. It is easy to harden your heart here. There is so much pain, too much pain. It would be reasonable to protect your heart here by hardening up. But when people are involved, people whose sorrow is written on their faces, in their tears, when I read Pema Chodron’s book and she suggests to lean into the pain…well how can I harden up my heart? How can I not be touched? How can I not feel the pain and despair? If I did this here, I would not be receptive to my children and Sandeep or my friends I love in the “free world.” I can’t pick and choose, hardening for some, softening for others. And while I face the fact everyday that I am NOT God, that I am just a person I see that loving people bears consequences. I don’t know what exactly that is other than feeling their pain and listening but it is not a cause. It is about a way of living and seeing and, I am sure with a lot of questions and a lot of errors, trying to find where this all leads to, if it leads anywhere.

Alec, my son, wrote a paper for me on a woman, Elizabeth Fry. Elizabeth was a Quaker who had a bunch of children and worked for prison reform. She believed in the Gospel and felt serious about living it. She saw her role as a mother and as a Christian not mutually exclusive. I found it significant that my son, my first born, gentle boy chose to write to me about this woman who worked for prison reform b/c she saw it as part of the Gospel. Sometimes the wisdom of a child is the hand of God.

I wanted to close with a quote I got on a letter…the card is by Gen Cassani, SSND, the quote by Kay Weaver…”…and my road is a little easier cause she (you) were here, I see a little clearer through the darkness called fear…” I could add each of your names as Gen included the names of women who have made such a difference…But I think Beth might quit before I got home…just too many names. But each letter, card, note, phone call, prayer, song, book…each meal cooked, lesson taught, child loved and toted…All this and more eased my road and dispelled a fear. I am more convinced than ever before that any act of peacemaking is a communal act. It is not an individual action. So all I have to offer is my thanks…from deep down and heartfelt…I love each of you and again, loving has consequences. So I hold each of you in prayer. I am grateful and humbled by your love…I am more convinced than ever that God works in our lives in ways we can never know or understand. It is, for me, just keeping my heart soft through love and prayer and my eyes open to the daily ways God works…

Next time I write, I will write a homecoming letter!

I want to ESPECIALLY thank Beth w/o whom these letters would not get transcribed. I don’t think she knew what she was getting into when she offered to do this (hahaahahah, very true!). I am so grateful, Beth.

With hope and sorrow and love,
Tina

Two women who do not get any mail and would appreciate a pen pal: Denise Burruss 79086-180 Daria McAdams 13267-078


The end of the last letter from May 31, 2007
I want to share a poem/ and maybe a song…at least there is a melody in my head…

Dusky light of orange and purple
Shimmer through ancient cottonwood with such
beauty that I almost had forgotten the prison fence
surrounding me.

As I stand here my soul sings
Glory, Glory, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah
Yeah, I almost had forgotten
That prison wall surrounded me.

As the sky continues turning
hues of pinks and orange and purple
And the birds roost, bedding down
in the ancient cottonwood tree
It’s as close I’ve been to heaven
all these days, yearning to be free

And my soul sings, “Glory, Glory, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah” Yeah it’s as close as I’ve been to heaven while my soul longs to be free.

Now that lethal razor wire takes the
color of the sky, shining pinks and orange
and purples
Turning what’s meant to imprison, a thing reflecting all the beauty God can bring…

And my soul sings, “Glory, Glory, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah…Now my soul sings Hallelujah and my spirit is set free. Those prison walls cannot contain me.

I know it’s a work in progress but Oh! Gosh how good it felt to write it down, to find it because I just was struggling so these past few days as these last two weeks seem like 2 years.

Thank you so much for your prayers---please, please, please continue to pray for us here, especially the dying and the despairing. A young woman approached me wanting to know why I get so much mail. She said she rarely gets mail and, with a palatable sadness and loneliness in her voice said she’d give anything for some mail. I include her name and number if anyone has some time. Jessica Ortega #60416-053

Last thought, it occurs to me…yes, your letters to these women are a gift but also as they write you will continue to learn about Carswell and prison life long after I have returned home…

With huge love,
Tina

June 2, 2007

Dear Friends,
An annoying thing happened this afternoon. I went outside after work. It was funny that I had the energy b/c usually after work I am dog-tired and go to bed, laying there amid the noise to try to rest. But today I had energy to spare. I saw Stella and Betty under the roof-like shelter by the raven tree I’ve described in an earlier letter. Stella was very sad, I asked her if she would like to learn how to make a peace crane. Kind of reluctantly at first, she agreed. I had two Smithsonian magazines someone gave me. I found my scissors and went outside. I cut squares of paper and we talked about how depressing Carswell is, the unfairness of the justice system and how much we miss our children. Then somehow I thought “But despite all this, God is faithful.” Really God’s faithfulness is all we have to trust in. We talked of how we got to prison. Stella’s story is especially poignant. But despite all the injustice, all the tremendous loss and sorrow and separation…amid all the DARKNESS God’s faithfulness is like manna from heaven, sustaining life and in the harshness, the nastiness of prison. And all the while we talked we folded cranes. It was healing for both of us…As if those scraps of paper were empowered to perform miracles. People would come up and ask about the cranes and I would tell them the story of Sadako and the thousand cranes. Some would make a crane, some would watch. Then a woman named Alice came by. Alice has some psychological issues. She listened with an unusual intensity. She asked for four cranes, one for each woman in her room. She carefully picked four as if she was considering with great deliberation which bird was meant for each person she lived with in this tiny, tiny cell room. It was close to 3:00 PM when she came out again saying…”Everyone loved them, can I take more?” I invited her to learn how to make her own and told her about the Carswell peace crane project. Honestly, she caught on amazingly quickly. Her enthusiasm and intensity were contagious. At 3:30 PM we were yelled at to “Get ready for 4:00 count.” Alice asked if I could come out and teach her more after supper. I agreed. I wanted to know more about Alice…And her absolute, childlike joy as she made her first bird lightened Stella and Betty in a way all the theologizing and philosophizing could never do.

After supper I was ready. Armed with new squares I cut after 4:00 count and while I waited for “C-H-O-W.” I listened to one quite ill woman in a wheelchair talk about how the ceiling in her bed caved in and six inches of standing water, along with mold and mildew filled her room. I knew what she said is true b/c other women on the 5th floor shared similar stories and b/c in the dining room the ceiling tiles in one part have fallen in due to leaky duct work…It constantly leaks. It is like it is raining indoors all week. It fills up a 33 gallon trash can in 2 days. The floor there is constantly wet no matter how much we mop it. I cringe as older, sometimes disabled women walk past this area with the wet, slippery floors.

Alice came out and waited somewhat impatiently for me to finish listening to the woman’s story. Her radio and headphones seemed to give her a sense of groundedness that without them she would lack. Finally I broke away and she asked if she could learn where “No one could watch her.” Now if you could see this campus it is tremendously overcrowded. Everywhere people sit, stand, walk…I suggested we sit under the cover by the raven tree to escape the sun…I wanted to escape the crowd, too but we had to settle for escaping the sun…Alice again dug right in with the intensity of a dog with a bone. I told her maybe we could fold 17 new birds, one for each woman in Maximum. Helen Woodson is here in Max. Helen is a peace activist. If you want to know more specifics about Helen, go to the Johan House website. They tell her story and ministry of civil disobedience. I wanted to make these cranes for these women b/c we have absolutely no contact with them, so they could not even find out about the Peace Crane Project going on right outside their building b/c of the lack of contact. I am hoping Sister Ille can bring them a crane and tell them the story.

Alice made one, then two. By the third crane she had it…she almost jumped out of her seat, she was so proud of herself. She had amazingly caught on very quickly. You could see her visibly grow stronger, prouder of herself.

Alice’s story…well, I’m not quite sure. Perhaps she really does have CIA contacts and know Saddam Hussein personally. Maybe she has seen a nuclear weapon and has electronic tracking devices in her leg. It really doesn’t matter b/c it was as if Alice needed a task to center and ground her spirit and God gave her the task of peace crane maker. We whipped out 17 cranes in an hour.

Alice shared with me her radio. It is the first time in almost 2 months I have listened to the radio. Alice has all the preset stations to Christian music. “It’s all I listen to,” she confides. I offer her headphones back. “No, I have another one,” and she whips from her pants another radio. Now at Carswell this is “CONTRIBAND,” the catch-all word for anything they deem on any given day that they want to harass us with and threaten to take. Alice says she traded it for some tennis shoes. I wonder to myself how many times Alice has been taken advantage of in a place where getting “the Advantage” is the main task of the day. With her fantastic story, her child-like trust and intensity, I could only imagine the hell her life must be. I marveled at God’s goodness…in this simple woman, in letting her “find” me and the magic of a folded square of old magazine paper. Miracles, I believe, can not be categorized by big or small, major or minor. EACH and every miracle is an act of God’s faithfulness. Each a gift to us. So all are marvelous, wondrous and joyful. Each one is special. I had my doubts that the peace crane project would ever get off the ground. Honestly there are 1700 women here and a new bus load will be packed in this week. But I’ve learned a few things in the process. First, it really does not matter what the outcome is, whether we can make enough or have a way to disperse them. It is clear that the process is far more important, miraculous than the actual outcome. And second, if the officials were to shut down or try to shut it down, it’s unimportant b/c so VERY many people know how to fold squares of paper into cranes and the DEED (the seeds of peace) is already done. The women who fold and pass on the knowledge have a centeredness, a lightness, a purpose that is simply a gift from God and nothing, no punishment or punitive actions can take this away.

I know I just wrote a few days ago, but I so need to write down these miracles I see. To me, in this place and time they seem so beautifully poignant. The contrasts here of light and dark, of kindness and cruelty, of tenderness and harshness make it so visible. Honestly there are so many things I see and hear, I could NEVER, even if I had a 10 year sentence (for which I am ETERNALLY grateful I DON’T) I could never write it all down.

Yesterday even one of the guards asked me why I am here and listened intently as I told them about SOA and Fort Benning. I so grateful to Helen Woodson and Kathleen Rumph who have paved the way for me here. Some (a few, actually) are interested most aren’t…But this one listened intently.

Well, I got to get up at 4:00 AM. Must sleep.
Love,
Tina

P.S. You know as I read this I thought of the Beatitudes and I made up another…Blessed are the simple, for they know the joy of the wonderment of God.

P.S.S. Here are two women who would love to get mail
Eva Brasker #20191076—from Yakima, WA misses her family, the BOP put her far from home. Lisa Taylor #08253003 from Mobile, AL—very nice, compassionate woman



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