Little Things

Thanksgiving 2010. My third Thanksgiving incarcerated. I went out early this morning, first rec call at 7:45, and walked, did calisthenics, and then ran. It was cold and crisp, overcast, a real November day. I ran in a tee shirt and shorts, with gloves and an orange knit cap to keep my hands and head warm. I’d run a sprint, 125 yards in 21 seconds, stop and catch my breath and run back. Twenty-one seconds down, twenty seconds rest, twenty-one back.



I felt great. I felt grateful. Here I was, three Thanksgivings locked up, but I was running, I was breathing, I was enduring. It was beautiful, the trees with the leaves orange and red, the fresh air. Life, even in here, can be beautiful.


A friend of mine left the other day. He’s been in prison eight years. We laughed a bit about the little things you take for granted “BP” (before prison).


“I’m gonna go in the bathroom and close the door and just sit (Privacy in the bathroom, privacy anywhere in prison, doesn’t exist).”


“I’m gonna turn lights on and off when I want, and sleep in the dark (lighting is automatic in here. It’s never completely dark, even at night).”


“I’m gonna go in and out of my house whenever I want. I’ll sit in a room, then move to another (all movement is regulated).”


“I’m gonna make love to my wife, then just listen to her sleep.”


Eight years is a long time to not turn a lamp on, open a garage door, use a knife, fork and spoon. Eight years is a long time for attempting to rob a pharmacy to support a prescription drug habit. The man is a Vietnam Vet; he served his country for twenty years (you’d be surprised how many inmates were in the service). Yet, he isn’t bitter for the years he lost “in the system”. He knows he put himself in here, put his life in the hands of a judge the moment he walked in the Walgreens with a gun and a note.


He’s reflective about his time behind these barbed wire fences.


“Wasn’t all bad. Met some good people. Learned a whole lot about myself and who my real friends are. Learned who really loved me. Just missed a lot of things.” Little things like kid’s birthdays, graduations, Christmases, and anniversaries. Little things like going to the beach and just gazing at the ocean and smelling the salt in the air.


I’ve thought a good deal this week about how radically different my life is from where I was on the day I was arrested. I sometimes think we get too hung up on the loss and don’t appreciate, don’t have gratitude, for what we’ve gained. As I ran, I realized I had a great deal to be grateful for.


I read devotion at 4:30 this morning that said:


“Did you ever consider thanking God for something that doesn’t seem like a blessing – such as a difficult circumstance you want changed or removed? A grateful heart is most precious to God when, from our human perspective, our situations don’t warrant giving thanks.”


I’ve learned over the past three Thanksgivings to believe and trust in God. I know there is a purpose in my struggle, my incarceration. I trust His promise that “all things work” for our good. I hate the circumstances I find myself in, but I trust God and I know I have the strength to endure this.


Each day I pray for certain things to happen, particular people to forgive me, be restored to me, my sentence to be shortened. But each day I also say “it’s in Your hands. Whatever comes my way, I believe in You. You have a plan and you will see me through.”


Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I can endure the little things in here because I have hope. And, in the end, hope is a big thing, and not just in prison.