Tanya Glessner

I learned that when you ask God for something, you better be prepared to receive it.

God blessed me with a lengthy prison sentence instead of a death sentence. I grew up in Kansas City, Kansas, in a home filled with chaos. “Home” was an ever-changing address, with the only constant being my parents fighting.

My dad enjoyed his plethora of drugs, and my mom enjoyed pushing his buttons and being the victim. They finally decided to call it quits when I was 11 years old, but not before I found out that he wasn’t my biological father. My grandma broke the news to me in an angry, drunken stupor, right before presenting me with the news of the divorce.

It was absolutely crushing. My mom and the man I thought was my dad had two sons, both younger than me. Come to find out, I also had two younger half-sisters on my biological dad’s side. At this point, the message being sent was that I was unwanted and didn’t belong. Hence my series of poor choices, which eventually led me to the foot of the cross.

My biological dad made minimal effort to see me before he died of cancer in 2008. After my parents’ divorce, I lived with my mom and two younger brothers. She continued to choose men struggling with addiction and violence. When their violent attentions turned on me, I decided it was better to become the monster than to be the one subjected to it.

I started beating girls up at school and being rewarded at home for my victories. I was eventually expelled from school and had to complete my schooling that year in the mental health ward of a hospital. Once I returned home, I ran away repeatedly and would stay with friends until their parents would turn me away. My mom eventually had enough of me and sent me to live with my grandma in Fort Scott, Kansas for my freshman year of high school.

I was kicked out of school that year because of a confrontation with my teacher and had to finish the school year at another school. I moved back home with my mother during my sophomore year, and we got along like rabid dogs. When my 16th birthday came along, I went to school, dropped out, went home, packed my bags, and moved in with a friend in Fort Scott.

This lasted about two years before I started bouncing back and forth between Kansas City and Fort Scott. I am my mother’s daughter, and over the next twenty years, I gave birth to two sons of my own and married a man who was the sum of every man I had ever known. He was wild, abusive, addicted to anything that made him feel good, and promiscuous. I became the mirror image of my mother. I knew how to push his buttons and play the victim, always convincing myself that I could change him.

It took over a decade for me to realize this was a war I would never win. I finally filed for a divorce and decided to leave him for good. At first, I did well. I went to work, raised my boys, and occasionally had a girl’s night out on a weekend when the kids were with their dad.

I kept myself busy to keep my focus off the unbearable emotional pain I held deep inside. Eventually, it did make its way to the surface, and I began to unravel. Girl’s night turned into every weekend. Every weekend then turned into a meth addiction, which in turn caused me to lose my job. Now, bills were piling up, and I had to find a way to make money without interfering with my addiction.

So, I made a phone call to a friend I grew up with in Kansas City. I decided to get my own source of meth so I could sell it and make some money. Everything moved quickly from there. Within a few months, I was making a few thousand dollars a day and spending it just as quickly.

My house was a revolving door of addicts, boyfriends, guns, and drugs. I started using the needle and decided it was best to send my children to live with my grandmother. After a boyfriend broke both of my wrists, I had a lawyer draw up papers leaving my children to my grandmother, in case something more permanent happened to me.

I knew I was either going to end up dead or in prison. My addiction took precedence over everything in my life. At this point, all I wanted to do was die, but that was all about to change. Three years into my addiction, I found myself at a complete stranger’s house, suicidally depressed, injecting a needle filled with a large amount of meth into my vein. As the needle fell to the floor and landed on the old carpet like a dart, I collapsed to my knees.

I was on the verge of losing consciousness and cried out to God to save me. I wasn’t prepared for how he would choose to respond. As a child, I attended various Catholic and Christian schools alongside public schools, and my grandmother was a strong believer in Jesus. Having spent so much time with her, I knew in that desperate moment that salvation could only come from God.

A few weeks later, I made a stop at a house to drop off some drugs. When I arrived, there was a woman there that I had a bad history with, so I confronted her and ended up putting her in the hospital. I was arrested a week later and found myself facing 21 years in prison. So, when I was offered a plea agreement of eight years, I gratefully accepted the offer.

After spending three months in county jail, I started attending the ministry group organized by a local church for inmates. Toward the end of a service, I approached one of the church members. We prayed together, and I accepted Jesus Christ as my savior. I received a Bible and some reading materials, which I delved into eagerly. I read the Bible so frequently that the pages started to wear out, and I had to carefully tape them back together.

I found solace in verses like Jeremiah 29:11, which speaks of God’s plans for his people, and 1 John 3:18, which speaks of expressing love with actions rather than mere words.

As I sat in county jail for several months, my mind began to clear from all the drugs. I found myself overwhelmed with remorse for what I had done, and I wanted the opportunity to make amends with the woman I had hurt. In the cold white cinder block cell, I slid down on my back, adjusting my orange jumpsuit. I pulled my knees into my chest, clung to my Bible, looked up with tears running down my face, and asked God to make the way.

The next morning, an officer pulled me into the hallway to inform me that the woman I hurt had just been arrested, and because of my good behavior, they didn’t feel it was fair to ship me to another county to be held until I was sent to prison. They gave me the choice to either be housed with her or farmed out. My head spun in disbelief because this is not something that happens normally!

I knew right then that God had heard my prayer, and this was my opportunity to put up or shut up. As my victim entered the jail pod, you could see the fear all over her face. She went straight to her cell and crawled up into her bunk. I gave her a few minutes and then made my way over to her door. I told her she was safe and invited her to eat with me. In the following weeks, I managed to reconcile with her.

We both apologized and started setting aside time every day to explore the teachings of the Bible. We exchanged Scripture passages that resonated with us and even marked, signed, and dated our favorite verses in each other’s Bibles. Occasionally, I still glance at those pages, and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes, witnessing how God worked within the confines of that jail.

I’ll always cherish the memories of how God began to mend my brokenness. It’s incredible how he turned the devil’s plan to destroy me into something positive, spreading waves of healing to everyone around me. I spent the next seven years in prison, earning all my good time. The experience was overwhelming, but I used the time to grow closer to God, and I established a godly reputation among the prison staff and my fellow inmates.

I became a leader of a women’s Christian ministry inside the prison, and I started prayer groups in the dorms. Women sought me out for guidance, friendship, and prayer. I also tutored women for their GEDs, filed their taxes, and cut their hair. God used me in countless ways and continued to help me grow throughout the process.

I was released in 2020 and soon afterward married my high school sweetheart, who works as a paramedic. Adjusting to his schedule took some getting used to, as did the experience of being a stepmother. During my husband’s absence for 48-hour periods, I readily assumed various responsibilities. Each morning, I diligently woke up to prepare breakfast and lunch for the children before driving them to school. I assisted them with their homework, accompanied them to their sports activities, and provided care when they fell ill.

It was important to me to create a healthy routine as a family. During this period, I also started rebuilding other relationships in my life, including the one with my brother, Canaan. We didn’t have many opportunities to talk while I was in prison, so it felt good to reconnect with him. He worked a lot, but we stayed connected through phone calls and occasional text messages to let each other know we cared. Fortunately, he managed to join me for Christmas during my first year out of prison, and it was truly special to share that time with him.

I made a conscious decision not to take any pictures that Christmas because I wanted to immerse myself in the present moment rather than being preoccupied with my camera. Little did I know this decision would later bring about regret. In May of 2021, my brother was found dead in a hotel room in Colorado from a fentanyl overdose.

He was a Millwright worker who traveled all over the world for work and was away on a job. He turned 38 on May 13th and was expected home a few days later, but now, instead of planning his birthday party, we were planning his funeral. After dealing with the initial impact of my grief, I decided I wanted to do whatever I could to help make sure no other family ever had to go through this.

So, over the next 3+ years, I began mentoring incarcerated men and women, as well as recovering addicts in my community. I served as the President of the Fort Scott Salvation Army and Compassionate Ministries, where I participated in organizing fundraisers and volunteering. Additionally, I initiated a fundraiser to raise awareness about mental health issues, as I strongly believe addiction often stems from this.

My goal was also to contribute to eliminating the stigma associated with seeking mental health assistance. Just as we seek medical care when our bodies are unwell, it is equally important to seek help when life becomes overwhelming. Today, I am a proud Christian author, and I allow God to use me wherever I am with what I have.

I love writing and using my voice to speak out about addiction, incarceration, abuse, and the saving grace of Jesus Christ. I am living proof that no one is too far gone to be saved. God never wastes a hurt. He is using my past to brighten others’ futures. God uses my words to give a voice to those who need it.

When God pulled me out of the darkness, I used one hand to cling to Him and one hand to pull someone else out.