I first made a profession of faith when I was quite young, while wandering around the Ozark Empire Fair back in the early ‘80s. However, a decade later, when I was in my 20s, God truly converted me, and I was baptized.

A somewhat shy and spiritually-introverted version of me was under the discipleship of my then-pastor for several years. I grew closer to the Lord and my Bible study group.

words + photographs MARK APPLEGATE

One Saturday morning, the pastor recommended an opportunity to assist with a prison revival. He said they probably need people to haul stuff in and out and help counsel inmates who were struggling.

With fear and trepidation, I agreed to take a shot at this comfort-zone stretch and signed up. A couple of weeks later, having completed my background check, I learned more about the destination. It was a maximum-security prison near Jefferson City, Missouri.

The confidence in my decision waned rapidly as I learned more about what was required. The lead pastor said we were not allowed to bring ANYTHING, except a basic Bible. No papers, no similar items. Should they find anything on us, or in our belongings, failing to meet these expectations, I was assured there would be a full search, up to and including a body cavity search. Needless to say, I obliged, but with an angst not felt before.

On the way to the facility, our small group of eight to 10 men stopped for a fill-up at a dumpy little gas station with an outside facing bathroom, which was unlocked by using a key chained to a hubcap. We were warned to be sure we didn’t need a bathroom break past this stop because any bathroom facilities on the outside would be a 5-star Yelp review compared to the ones on the inside of the prison.

We happily obliged.

All but one of us made it back to the bus. The lead pastor was missing. With each minute gone, the rest of us grew in anxiousness, wondering where on earth he had gone and why he disappeared.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived and started the van. “Can I get a show of hands, besides mine, of everyone who shared their faith with the cashier?” he said. “It was a slow store, and he had time to talk.” Nobody raised a hand. “Just so you know, he needed to hear of Christ’s love as much as the men in prison do.”

On the prison grounds, we were required to pass through multiple checks. The ominous sound of a slamming door behind us signaled success. We were in.

We set up our audio equipment, unstacked chairs and waited until the inmates were brought in. The orange-suited guests said very little at first, and I wallflowered-it off to the side as best I could in the small room.

I was looking forward to the pastor sharing the Good News, shaking a couple of hands, going home. Growing a bit from the experience.

What happened next shook me.

The pastor gave a very short message. One that seemed a bit puny, given the amount of work it took to get to that point.

He then said seven words that made a body cavity search sound a better way to spend the day:

“Now sharing his testimony is Mark Applegate.”

Other than a brief sermonette from the baptism waters, I hadn’t publicly shared my faith. I was happy to prepare the room, help with manual labor, greet when needed. But this news-to-me, featured speaker assignment was beyond what I could do.

Yet.

Actual words came out of my mouth. Words clear enough to at least be partly understood. Afterward, a couple of inmates came up to me and said, “You did a great job, Kid. It can be scary to share your story.”

Then they prayed for me to grow in my boldness and my knowledge of the Lord’s love.

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These men, facing life without parole, had been found by Christ. They were clinging to Him long before a small group of men arrived at the maximum-security prison.

These men, facing life without parole, had been found by Christ. They were clinging to Him long before a small group of men arrived at the maximum-security prison.

I felt silly for being afraid.

I learned a critical jewel of knowledge about faith: Neither my skill in sharing nor the “right environment” for sharing are needed. Only willingness to do so matters.

When Jesus gifted us “The Great Commission” in Matthew 28, when He said, “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations,” the “therefore go” part could be translated, “as you go.”

Or, in the language of my people, “While you are out doin’ yer stuff,” make disciples.

That going could be just as easily accomplished in a gas station as a prison. It was a lesson well learned that I still draw from today when I am nervous to share. Even though these days I am much more “ready to give reason for the hope I have” than I was that day at the prison.

Crisis averted, attitude converted, and lesson learned.

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