Diagnosed with cancerous cells on her cervix after the birth of her second child, Jocelynn James-Edmonds was advised to have a hysterectomy. In her 20s at the time, the mother of two was hoping for more children, so she instead opted for laparoscopic surgeries. Six procedures over a year and a half, and each came with a prescription for the opioid pain medication Lortab.
“I got addicted to them really fast,” says James-Edmonds. Initially, a full pill made her sick. But a half dose brought about a different feeling. “I will never forget the day that I felt the rush of that pill. I was instantly hooked.”
A Swift Descent
The pills, initially a medical necessity, quickly became a coping mechanism. Lortab masked the pain of an unstable childhood featuring a distant father mired in his own addiction; teenage grief over the death of the uncle, “a godly man” who had taken her in and became the beloved father figure in her life; and, in adulthood, past miscarriages.
“It kind of numbed anything that I dealt with in my life,” says James-Edmonds. “I could go through life and didn’t care.”
The addiction deepened, quickly escalating. Despite her best efforts, James-Edmonds ended up having to undergo a hysterectomy. By then, the prescribed pills had run out and she turned to street purchases, then to meth and intravenous use. James-Edmonds was also regularly getting arrested and spending stints in jail.
“I mean, literally, within a year, I lost everything, everything,” says James-Edmonds. “I lost my home, my job, my car, my self-respect. I lost everything, but my kids, and I should have lost them.”
The Rocky Road to Redemption
After becoming homeless, James-Edmonds and her children were living with her ex-husband. On Nov. 5, 2012, while watching TV, James-Edmonds saw her mugshot in a local news segment that listed her as one of Franklin County’s Most Wanted.
“It was that moment that I realized I didn’t want to live that life anymore,” says James-Edmonds. She called the sheriff, turned herself in, and began a six-month jail sentence. The detox process in jail was brutal. “I didn’t eat or sleep for six days,” says James-Edmonds. The cold, harsh reality of a nasty jail cell solidified her resolve.
“I knew I never wanted to go back,” she says.
After six months, James-Edmonds entered the Lovelady Center, a faith-based recovery program. Although sober, she remained broken and angry. A pivotal moment came when a staff member confronted James-Edmonds about her journal entries, which were filled with expletives and complaints.
“She asked, ‘What can you do while you’re staying at Lovelady [to] be pleasing to God?’” says James-Edmonds. “I just literally threw my hands up, and I said, ‘I surrender,’ I walked out a changed person.”
A Life of Service
As she left the Lovelady Center, James-Edmonds felt a divine calling to run a women’s facility. Without a job, a car or a driver’s license for a year, she started small.
“I met her in the Walmart parking lot, walking in,” says James-Edmonds of the first woman she helped.
What started as individual acts of kindness soon evolved into a burgeoning ministry. James-Edmonds secured multiple jobs to fund gas and intake fees, initially hesitant to seek help as a “16-time felon.” However, the community began to notice her dedication. Judges, district attorneys and probation officers called. Donations flowed. The Place of Grace, her women’s facility, began to take shape.
One morning, scrolling through Facebook, James-Edmonds saw a post. The first sentence read: “My father’s going to die if he doesn’t get a kidney.”
The father was now retired Phil Campbell, Alabama Police Sergeant Terrell Potter, the officer who had arrested and thrown James-Edmonds in jail three times.
“The Lord told me right then I had his kidney,” says James-Edmonds. Despite initial reluctance, James-Edmonds acted, ultimately discovering she was a perfect match, reflecting on her body’s transformation after years of drug use. “It was nothing but God.”
The donation sparked an outpouring of blessings: land for a Place of Grace, a new marriage and blending of families via the couple’s five children — more than fulfilling James-Edmonds’ earlier wish for a husband and another child.
Today, the Place of Grace operates out of a five-bedroom home, with a 6,000-square-foot facility still under construction. James-Edmonds remains on the ground, counseling women and instilling in them the steps needed for recovery. She emphasizes tough love for families of addicts, urging them to avoid enabling behaviors.
“It doesn’t matter who you are, how much money you got, what color you are or who your mom and daddy is,” says James-Edmonds, urging loved ones to reach out to support groups and learn, as a family, how to overcome it. “It can happen to anybody. It could be your family. Don’t give up. There’s hope for anyone who’s got breath.”
