The Visit

I had an emotional visit last Sunday. One of my close friends, a man who regularly visited me during my year of hell in jail, came by. He brought an elderly man with him. That man was always one of my favorite people in our church. He and his wife sat directly behind my family every Sunday morning. He and I would laugh and joke before the service. I considered him one of the finest, most decent men I’d ever met.



He and his wife were married in that church over fifty years earlier. His mother and father were members there. His children married there. His grandchildren were baptized, married and then had their children baptized in that church.


He’s 84 years old and he has seen a great deal. He was there in Prince Edward County when they closed the public schools after Brown v. Board of Education was handed down. The whites in the county didn’t want to integrate the schools. He doesn’t see color. A farmer all his life, he and his wife are simply kind, gentle, Christ like people.


After I was arrested, while nearly my entire church ceased communicating with me, he would send me a card or a quick note just to let me know he was praying for me. He testified on my behalf at my sentencing. I reread the transcript of my sentencing hearing. The Commonwealth Attorney was trying to get him to say how shocked and angered he was when he learned of my thefts. He looked the Commonwealth Attorney in the eye and said “No sir. He’s a human, made a mistake; but, he’s a good man.” That moment in the hearing always stayed with me as I struggled with the guilt I carried for letting so many people down. I didn’t feel like a “good man”. Far from it. I thought everything was my fault. I thought I deserved everything that was happening.


Then Sunday at visit he and I were talking, catching up on people at church. He told me he missed having me in the pew in front of him. Both men told me how well I looked and how impressed they were with my attitude and the work I was doing.


I couldn’t handle what happened next. As the older man listened, my friend told me my ex and younger son were “hanging in there”. I choked up and told them how much regret I felt over the hurt I caused my ex and two sons. “Not a day goes by that I don’t die a little because of the divorce. Everything that happened is my fault.” My friend fought back tears.


Not the old man. He grabbed my hand, looked me straight in the eye and said “Larry, you’re a good man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. We all fall short. You’re still a fine man and I’m proud to have you as a friend.”


There are times when things are said at just the right moment; that was one of those times. What most people don’t understand is I write a good deal about this place to help me deal with what I face. I come across as moving easily in and out of the various groups of inmates. And, that is true. But, what people don’t see is the level of sorrow I feel over what happened.


I live each day with the constant thought that I let down my wife and two sons. I didn’t just let them down, I devastated them. Imagine going through the remainder of your life knowing you deliberately failed the three people you love more than anything.


There is nothing DOC could do to me that would be worse than what I already feel. So yes, I write about the evils and stupidity of the corrections system. Yes, I write about the hustles guys run to cope with life in here. But, each day is filled with sadness and sorrow.


At our wedding a friend sang Jim Croce’s song “Time in a Bottle”. I can’t allow the words to even enter my mind. I want to go back to a time when I could look at her face and hear her say “I love you”. I want to go back to a time when my older son hugged me. I want to go back to a time when my younger son and I were in the yard playing catch.


Shortly after Croce released “Time in a Bottle”, he died in a plane crash. I wondered how long his wife grieved, how many months, years she prayed for just one more day.


My older friend’s visit reminded me at my core I’m a good man. Right now, I live with a great deal of memories and regret. But, there is still time.