“Sign here.” The court clerk taps the paper before me. My cuffed hands tremble as I grip the 3 inch pen. It bends into a C shape.

Crap. Too much pressure. I struggle to attain just the right tension to keep it straight while applying ink. Through fear-blurred vision, I scan the 9 felony charges.

I am guilty of nothing.

“Sign,” she repeats. “Your release depends on it.”

I know who goes before me/I know who stands behind…

Chris Tomlin’s song, God of Angel Armies, pierces my numbed mind as a deputy escorts me back to the block, weaponry jingling at her waist. All conversation ricochets off concrete block, distorting normal conversation to loud sounds of anger. Plastic slides slap against stark metal stairs as I ascend to our cell for four. Metal bunks. Bolted metal desk and stool. Open toilet.

The God of angel armies/Is always by my side.

A flicker of hope pierces my numbed mind as a deputy announces the arrival of another carb-charged meal over the intercom.

Afterwards, I stumble to the exercise yard, half the size of a school gym, with 30 foot concrete walls and floors. Blue sky canopies the open square. I breathe deep.

My strength is in Your name/For You alone can save.

My worship-leader-turned-drug-manufacturing-synthetic-marijuana husband’s actions has landed us both in jail – with matching bracelets and felony charges.

You will deliver me/Yours is the victory/Whom shall I fear?

Unable to read – even the provided Bibles – or comprehend circumstances, I cling to Tomlin’s simple chorus for many months – even after jail and awaiting trial.

Nothing formed against me shall stand/You hold the whole world in Your hands

I'm holding on to Your promises/You are faithful.

“Yes, Lord, You are faithful.”

I am exonerated. I am free.