In November 2008, I was barely hanging on to my sanity and,
quite candidly, my life. I’d been in
jail over three months by the time that first Thanksgiving rolled in. I was pale.
My muscle tone had deteriorated and I’d lost almost thirty pounds. The weight wasn’t an issue. For the past year I’d binged on rich meals
and booze in a state of guilt and depression knowing I’d inevitably lose
everything.
But as Thanksgiving approached, I was in an alien place,
with little or no control over even the most rudimentary aspects of life. The week before, I’d appeared in court and
plead guilty to all six counts presented against me. A reporter from the local Richmond paper wrote
about my appearance in court – as she did every other hearing – and once again I
was big news. Don’t believe the old
adage “any publicity is good publicity”.
I was constantly hounded by other inmates begging for help with any and
all issues. And, to a man, none could honestly
assess their lives, their problems, or their futures.
Friends by the dozens bailed on me. My church neglected me. My spouse wrote vindictive, hateful letters
all the while demanding I give her everything.
I was embarrassed, ashamed, and defeated. There was no hope. And the worst part? I’d done it all to myself. I knew long ago what was coming. But, I somehow thought it was easier to give
in to everyone else’s dreams and ambitions.
Everyone would like me if I just delivered. Who cares if I knew what I was doing was
wrong?
There I was, Thanksgiving day, with a disgusting, mostly
inedible meal, and I wished I was dead. There
is nothing worse than being alone, without hope. “In all
things, give thanks.” Paul had no
idea what he was saying. He wasn’t me.
2009 brought even more difficulties. I was sentenced. The sentence shocked everyone who had come to
court, a handful of friends and former coworkers. The ink on the sentencing order wasn’t even
dry and I was served with divorce papers.
I’d already signed everything over to my wife (our property settlement
was a chief piece of my asset settlement agreement with my employer). I was going to prison for thirteen years,
divorced, penniless, and with the exception of a handful of family and friends,
alone.
As bad as jail was, it didn’t equip me to handle DOC’s
Receiving Unit. For over four months I saw
the worst in men: stabbings, beatings,
extortion. That I moved in and around
such utter violence and chaos unscathed never registered as a “blessing”. I was just trying to survive.
Then, the Friday before Thanksgiving 2009, I left receiving
and came here. This facility wasn’t even
on my “suggested” correction center list.
Two days after arrival I was hired as a teacher’s aide. Two days after that I ate my first real
turkey in over sixteen months. The meal
wasn’t “like home” but it was hot and tasty and filling.
I have eaten four Thanksgiving meals at this prison. A few weeks ago I found myself wondering how
it was that I came to a prison on the cusp of beginning a college program and I
would discover a gift, that I could teach.
How was it that I moved so easily, so safely among so much violence and
difficulty?
I remembered the words to the old Scottish Psalter, the
Doxology, the “Old Hundred”. It was a
song of my childhood and comfort to me in difficult days. I went for a run and found myself singing, “Know
the Lord your God is good, His love for us is ever sure, we are his flock He
doth us feed, age to age He shall endure.”
“In all things, give
thanks.” That doesn’t mean you have
to jump for joy when your world is falling apart. It does mean “have faith” God knows what He’s
doing, even when we can’t figure out His ways.
Thanksgiving morning 2012, I ran in thirty degree weather in
short sleeves. And the words to the “Old
Hundred” played through my head. And, I
thought of other Thanksgivings – good and bad.
Barefoot on the cold concrete, stretching, I thanked my Maker for this
journey. There really are blessings in
trials.
No comments:
Post a Comment