Barefoot in grass, a small tattoo of faith resting against the earth. She has carried loss, illness, and injustice — yet still plants her feet in hope.
Lisa didn’t think twice when she pulled the money from her husband’s hand, tossing out, “I’m going shopping.” She didn’t know the man handing it over was an undercover cop.
From the outside, her life looked ordinary — a middle-class home, four children, no sign that her husband sold drugs. They didn’t use. But a week before a surgery she desperately needed, she was arrested. The law didn’t care. In prison, her tumor grew to ten pounds before rupturing a year later.
Her husband didn’t survive. Diagnosed with cancer in jail, he died three weeks later. And when the U.S. Marshals came, they told her plainly:
“Someone has to pay for the crime. You’re all that’s left.”
Choosing to see the light.
Lisa served eight years in a prison 1,000 miles from home, far from any chance of a family visit. When I told her how sorry I was, she smiled gently. “Oh, but Toby, I met the most wonderful women.”
Think of that. A widow. A felon. A cancer survivor. And still, she calls the friendships the richest part of a painful chapter.
Rebuilding by helping others
She knows the sting of rejection. Once, while reaching for a job application, she asked, “Do you hire felons?” The paper was yanked away so fast it left a cut on her hand. Lisa laughed — not at the cruelty, but at the absurdity.
After prison, she fostered teens whose parents were incarcerated, eventually adopting one. Today, she is a grandmother of ten and great-grandmother of two. Her health battles haven’t eased, but her joy hasn’t dimmed.
Her message is steady and true:
Love yourself. See the beauty and humor in hard places. Rise to the challenge. Refuse anger, and keep moving forward — with faith in your own two feet.
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