Things I Learned This Week

It never seems to surprise me, but when I’m at my weakest, most self-pitying self, I get slapped in the face and reminded I really am blessed. So, here goes:



My Mom. A friend in here – “J” – told me the other day “as long as your mom still believes in you, there’s hope.” We were talking about a guy in here who really is trouble. “You can tell he’s scum; even his mom gave up on him.”


I have put my mom and dad through hell. I let them down in more ways than I can count. They grieve over the divorce, worry about my ex and our kids (and still maintain a loving, family relationship with her). I know it kills them each time they come up for a visit. Still, every month they show up.


My mom has never given up on me. Even after my arrest and conviction, she loved me and prayed about me. My father was furious. For months he didn’t speak to me. He was through with me. The stress in their 50 plus year marriage was evident. Still, my mom loved me.


One day I called home from jail. My mom just said “Larry, talk to your dad” and thrust the phone to my father. That simple act started he and I communicating again.


As I pondered how truly blessed I was to have these two people as parents, I remembered a verse from Isaiah 49. God is telling His people who are feeling forsaken and abandoned how great His love is. “Can a woman forget her nursing child and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely, they may forget, yet I will not forget you.”


My folks came for a visit last week. It was extremely emotional. I had to apologize for a lot and let them know how much I loved and appreciated them as parents. It was something that I said to the court the day I was sentenced that I felt I needed to repeat.


I learned something interesting about my mom during our visit. A few years ago there was a terrible auto accident involving a group of teenagers and alcohol. One of the drivers was the son of a woman from my parents’ church. The woman was devastated and withdrew from church. Her son sat in the local jail and later prison on a vehicular manslaughter charge. My mom wrote and called on that woman and wrote the young man in jail. She put her faith in action in ways I never did.


Go Chez. There’s a young guy that’s now part of our little circle. We call him Go Chez. He’s 23 and has another two years on a manslaughter conviction. He’s already served three years. He and his girlfriend were drunk and high returning from a party. He lost control of the car and crashed. He was in a coma. His girlfriend was killed.


Go Chez still bears the visible scars of the accident. His collarbone, crushed and splintered was rebuilt. It now protrudes about two inches off his chest. He bears the noticeable scar from a tracheotomy. He also bears the emotional and psychological scar living each day knowing he was responsible for his girlfriend’s death.


He’s a good kid who made a terrible mistake. I wonder if you ever fully heal from that knowledge.


DC. Another conversation with DC. As I’ve detailed before, DC is one of my favorite people in here. He knew I was struggling and pulled me aside to show me a photo. It was a picture of him in early 1972 at the DC gym he boxed at. He was jumping rope with Muhammad Ali. DC told me he told Ali “I’m gonna be a better boxer than you champ.” He probably could have been. But, he broke the law, ended up in prison in ’72 and has been here ever since.


He told me even after 38 full years in here, he has hope. “You gotta remember Larry, you had more, you lost more, than almost anyone in here. Married to the same woman all those years; education; good career; well-adjusted kids. You’re gonna feel this pain differently than any other guy.”


He told me to just keep being who I am, do the best I can and remember I have no control over how others react to me. “If folks forgive and love you, it will be on their own. You can’t control it.”


The strange thing was, DC said and explained exactly what I had been talking to myself about. After the conversation I felt a great sense of relief. I knew, no matter how alone I felt, how distressed I got, DC was there for me.


I realized I was blessed to have a guy like DC in my corner.


College Guys. Working with these guys I see and hear a good deal. There’s “Toby Three Thumbs”. He has an extra thumb growing out of his left thumb. Even has a nail growing on it. “Helps me in computer typing,” he told me. There’s “G” a guy that knows virtually everything about basketball, and “71/2 mile” who reminds me of Pig Pen from “Charlie Brown”.


Throw in Jeff, an Eminem knockoff, and Lafferty, a goofy kid who reminds me of Waldo. Every one of the remaining 37 guys is unique. A lot of them haven’t been in school in years. They can be needy, annoying and ignorant. Yet, I try everyday to help them.


I was suffering from a case of “why should I care more than them?” the other day. They had corporately ticked me off with their poor study habits, their whining and trying to cut corners. Meanwhile, Craig was teaching a remedial math class to five guys in danger of failing math, and I was designing a grammar review class to start in a week (these guys still don’t know a comma from a semicolon).


But, Wednesday I painfully watched these guys practice public speaking. Most broke out in beads of sweat. They stammered and stuttered and “um’d” their way through.


I told DC and Craig about it. These guys are so use to failure in school, so insecure, so afraid of ridicule. For all their puffing and tough talk, they really are the most fragile men I have ever met.


That realization helped recharge my batteries. I knew people outside of here may have given up on me, but in here I was the last chance some of these guys had to turn their lives around. My perspective on my work in here and myself changed. There is always someone who needs your help, no matter what your circumstances.


Courage. I’ve been giving courage a good deal of thought this week. The entire Middle East is in a state of chaos, despots being overthrown because a poor fruit vendor in Tunisia had finally hit his breaking point. On December 17th, after being run through the corrupt system of his police state life, being deprived of the opportunity to sell fruit, this young vendor, in a desperate act to reclaim his dignity, doused himself with gasoline and set himself aflame.


Within a day hundreds began protesting. Hundreds led to thousands. Thousands led to the Tunisian Government collapsing, the Mubarak regime in Egypt collapsing, Bahrain, Jordan and Yemen protests, and, as I write this, the final days of Gaddafi in Libya. One simple man who had had enough.


There’s another kind of courage I found this week as I read a beautiful piece about the Apostle Paul. The writer pointed out that as Paul approached his death he was abandoned by almost all his friends. He was imprisoned. When he appeared before the Roman court he noted in his letter to Timothy “No one supported me, but all deserted me.” Paul was lonely. He was going through a very trying situation and the people he thought loved him had left him.


The writer pointed out Paul was just like you and me. He wasn’t perfect; he had human weaknesses. He struggled with the discomforts and pain of prison life, the isolation.


But with all his being, he knew God was with him. He forgave those who abandoned him.


I’ve been mired in a good deal of self-pity and doubt these past few weeks. The last strands of hope I was clutching to were, it seems, torn away. But, as I read the writer’s story about Paul and a letter I received from a reader, I felt a sense of peace. I knew God was with me and this too would pass.


Another week went by. It was a week I will recall for a long time.