The Code

Inmates talk endlessly about “the code.” The conversation always begins with “Back when the penitentiary and doing time meant something, guys lived by the code.”  It’s funny, but the guys that say that weren’t doing bids back in those penitentiary days. The guys who were – those men down twenty, thirty, even forty years – know that “the code” was just a fancy word for mind your own business, ignore what you see, and don’t snitch.

            It was a brutal world where every man had a blade hidden for protection, where extortion and rape were daily occurrences; and where the officers had little control over the lives of the inmates. Ironically, that’s still the way prison is. By the time guys get here from the higher levels, where they walked through the mine fields and either were victim or victimizer, they can see home and aren’t willing to tack on more time to their sentence. Give a twenty year old thirty years and he can’t comprehend it. What’s he do? He fights, he steals, he does whatever he has to do to make a name for himself and protect himself.

            But, ten years in and now he’s thirty and his girlfriend has stopped writing. Friends have moved on. He has little left outside and he realizes all the time he’s done so far only accounts for a third of what he must do. The realization sets in that he may never get out. Most go to “the code.” They see nothing; they say nothing; they do nothing. And, like the stranded boys alone on the island in “Lord of the Flies,” tribalism and Darwinian observation like the strong preying on the weak, become the inmate’s daily existence. It’s all about survival. Nothing more, nothing less.

            I’ve been thinking about “the code” a good bit during Lent. Every morning during this Lenten season I take a three by five index card and jot down a meaningful verse or two from my morning reading. Throughout the day, I’ll refer back to the card to focus on what I consider the important thought of the day. Every verse I jot down is contrary to “the code.” How we live in here, how we conduct our lives in here is contrary to what God expects. But, here’s the irony – so is the way I lived “BP” (before prison). I keep coming back to the Proverb: the wisdom of man is foolishness to God.

            What does all this have to do with “the code?” I find myself going against the grain. I’m being pulled two directions most times. My eyes tell me the vast majority of men I’m locked up with are full of malice. They feel victimized; they lack empathy. Ignorance flourishes in here. Each day I try and fight the urge to berate someone for being disrespectful, dishonest, or just not caring enough about themselves or their loved ones to get right. Simply put, almost every day I find myself thinking, “I hate this place and the men in here.”

            But then, there is the other side, the side that tells me to empathize and be compassionate toward even the worst. Call it an attempt to atone for my own misjudgments, but I try and see the good in all. So, I butt in when the code says “butt out.” I tell guys what I think even when I’m warned over and over to keep my opinions to myself. Under “the code,” truth is a casualty.

            Why am I writing this? I don’t really know. I’ve had a few weeks of confrontations that have only emboldened me. One of cards I carry has the words from Isaiah 40:10-13 on it. It is one of the most moving pieces of scripture I know. It says:

“Do not fear, for I am with you.

Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you, surely I will help you;

Surely I will uphold you …

Those who war with you will be as nothing and non-existent.

For I am your God, Who upholds your right hand,

Who says to you, Do not fear, I will help you.”

            Here’s what I take that to mean. You do the right thing and you know God will have your back. There is no “code” above His. Too often men in here do the expedient thing to get by. Too often out there, the same thing is done. It’s a pretty radical idea, but it’s one I’m trying. Too many men fail in here. Too many fail out there. There has to be a better way

All in Your Head

It was bitterly cold here the other morning.  The temperature, in the upper thirties, along with wind gust hitting thirty-five miles per hour made it feel even colder.  But like so many other days with lousy, frigid weather, my friend DC and I went out to run and workout.  Neither of us wore sweats.  And it was cold.  Once I got moving, I forgot about the chill, but it still took awhile to get use to.

We both headed in on a door break and guys looked at us like we were crazy.  “How can you go out there like that?” one guy asked DC.  He smiled and said “It’s all in your head”.  His words got me thinking.

Perhaps there is no better known Hymn in America than “Amazing Grace”.  That song crosses generations, races and denominations.  Something about the words, “saved a retch like me” – most of us don’t even know what a retch is – just resonates with us.  We claim it corporately; it’s a deeply personal, moving song that somehow makes sense to everyone.

Yet, the history behind the song is more profound.  John Newton was a British slave ship captain.  He’d made a number of cross-Atlantic trips from Africa, to the Caribbean, to the Eastern seaboard of the American colonies, then finally back to London.  Each trip was the same:  human cargo piled in cramped, filthy ship holds to the islands and colonies, and then crops and products back to England.

It was a good life.  He was paid well and regarded with respect by this peers.  In the eyes of society he was a success.  His life, however, took an abrupt turn on one return trip from the colonies.  Off the coast of Carolina, near Hatteras, Newton’s ship was caught in a horrendous storm.  The ship was forced onto the rocks and began to break apart.

It was dark.  The wind howled.  The rain poured down.  And, Newton’s ship cracked and tore open as the sea’s waves slammed it over and over against the jagged rocks.  Newton knew he was going to die.  This life-long member of the Church of England, a good loyal subject of the King and country, knew he would drown.  In those hours of fear and desperation he prayed not just to live through the night but also he faced God with his life.  He realized what a sinful life he led.  And, he asked his God to forgive him.

The next morning, he awoke to find calm seas and his ship still there on the rocks.  The sky around him was blue.  The sun shone.  He realized God had spared his life.  He wasn’t sure why, but he knew, God’s hand was in his life.

Sometime later, Newton penned the song “Amazing Grace”, built around his survival that night in the storm.  He returned to England, resigned his ship captaincy, and began a career as a church worker.  He was one of the driving forces in Britain’s decision to outlaw slavery.  For the remainder of his life he tried to understand the mystery that was his God.  He was saved for a reason.

This past week, I finished reading major league pitcher RA Dickey’s autobiography, “Wherever I Wind Up”.  It is not a typical sports story.  Dickey’s career has had more than its share of ups and downs.  To describe him as a journeyman pitcher would be an understatement.  He went from Olympic team member and first round draft pick to the minor league circuit, barely hanging on, occasionally getting called up.

He carried great secrets, baggage.  Sexually abused as a child, he presented the image of a happy, faithful husband and father.  Infidelity almost cost him his marriage.  An inability to throw effectively almost cost him his dreams.  He was separated from his wife, on the minor-league circuit, barely making enough to support himself and his family when he bet some teammates he could swim across the Missouri River.  He tried…and almost drowned. 

It was the beginning of a new life for Dickey.  His pitching improved. His marriage began to rebuild as he dealt with the pain and torment caused by his abuse.  Last year, Dickey won 20 games and the National League Cy-Young award.   Dickey’s book opens with the Latin maxim.  “Dum, spiro, spero”, which means “While I breathe, I hope.”

The human mind is indeed a funny thing.  It is capable of great thoughts, powerful, merciful, healing thoughts.  It is also capable of great evil.  “It’s all in your head”.  My friend DC doesn’t understand how truly insightful his words are.

In “Forever Young”, the classic ballad written by Bob Dylan, a father tells his children all his wishes for their future.  As I’ve written before, just moments after both my sons were born, as I held them for the first time and looked on the God-given miracle that is life, I whispered Dylan’s words to them as though by reciting them they would be imprinted with those characteristics of righteousness, mercy and courage.  One line, “May you always know the truth and see the light surrounding you”, would cause me to choke up, perhaps because I wanted desperately to feel that light around me.

I have come to see life in a new way in here, surrounded by men with lives so broken, angry, and lost.  In reality, they’re no different than anyone else.  We all have baggage and it builds up, weighs us down, and eventually we find ourselves pushed against the rocks.

There are days in here when I just can’t make sense out of what these men do.  I see utter mayhem in Syria, I see the tiny white coffins in Newtown, and I wonder what is going on.  None of it – my own feelings included – makes sense.   It is as if the whole world is drowning.  Then, I remember the season, Christmas, a time of hope, and I think RA Dickey was right.  “Dum, spiro, spero.”

“It’s all in your head.”  After finishing my workout I always stretch.  I lay down on the concrete, close my eyes, and recite Bible verses as I loosen my legs.  I lay there, eyes closed, saying in a whisper the words from the final four verses of Isaiah 40.  I memorized those verses my first week in jail as I struggled with my very survival.  They are words of hope and encouragement for a people who thought their God wasn’t seeing their loss and pain.  Isaiah reminded his people that God heard their cries.  “The everlasting God, the Lord, does not grow weary or tired….”  And then he reminded everyone that those who wait on the Lord will be given new strength.  “They will soar on wings like eagles.”

“Look at that, Larry.”  It was DC.  Directly overhead was a huge eagle, wings spread wide.  He was floating on the air currents circling round and round our ball court and rec yard.  He never flapped his wings; just soared.

Was it a sign?  I don’t know.  I know there are a lot of things wrong right now.  People are hurting – in here and out there.  So many are suffering.  Lives out of control with divorce and rejection, war, violence, loneliness.  But at this particular moment in time I choose to look elsewhere.  “It’s all in your head.”  There is good news.  Dum, spiro, spero.  While I breathe, I hope.  And hope will see us through.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

 

Summer Break

Dear Blog Readers:

It’s summer, that period of time between Memorial Day and Labor Day when folks feel the natural tug to slow down and recharge their batteries.  Friends came out to see me last weekend and I lived vicariously through their travels:  one already returned from Florida with wife and children in tow, the other just weeks from heading to his summer beach house.  Summer is a great season.

Life is different in here.  You can do your bid just sleeping away the days, only coming out for meals and the twice monthly walk to commissary.  Or, you can head outside everyday; you run or workout regardless of temperature or precipitation or your own outlook.

I love the summer.  The days are longer, the sky clear, the temperature warm. Summer reminds me of beach trips and bike rides, swimming and runs in the sand.  As I said, summer isn’t the same in here.

This will be my last blog until Labor Day.  There are a number of important issues I need to address this summer which require more attention than I’ve initially given them.  In July, I’m able to petition the Governor to modify the terms of my sentence.  The Virginia Constitution gives the Governor absolute power to modify the terms of any sentence.  Each year, hundreds of inmates petition the Governor to modify their sentences; very few are granted.  I’m not sure what the reaction will be to my petition.  I only know that I can honestly tell the Governor that I’ve done everything possible since my arrest and conviction to atone for my bad deeds.

As I’ve written previously, I have an eBook in the works.  It’s a collection of short stories and essays I’ve written over the last few years.  The working title is “40”.  It’s the title of a story I wrote while in receiving in the heat and humidity of a Virginia August.  My four months in receiving taught me more about the ills of humanity and the possibilities of redemption than anything I’ve ever experienced.  It was horrible, and disgusting and painful.  And, I consider it, in hindsight, a blessing.

“40” is based on a real young man I met.  He was going through heroin withdrawal while locked up in the Henrico County Jail.  Watching that young man suffer as his body, physically craving the drug, broke down before my eyes is an image I will always remember.

But it’s the story of hope.  It was during that same time frame, as I’d talk to that young addict and then return to my cell and battle the self loathing I felt, the intense internal call to give up, that I read on one particular sad, lonely night Isaiah 40.  I found verse 27 and froze.

 “Why do you say and assert your way is hidden from the Lord, and the justice due you escapes the notice of your God?”

It was addressing the people of Israel who had squandered their chosen status as “God’s people” and were in the midst of a loss beyond comprehension.  Exiled and enslaved in a foreign land, their life, their home destroyed, they wondered “Where is God?”  And in those few brief, beautiful verses Isaiah tells them:  God sees you; God knows what you are going through; and, God will deliver you.  “And those who wait on the Lord will soar on wings like eagles.  They will run and not get tired.  They will walk and not get weary.”

I cheered my young drug-addled friend on, telling him he could survive withdrawal and he could turn his life around.  And I told myself the same thing every night as I recited those verses over and over.

That’s “40”.  That’s part of the book.  More importantly, it’s part of my life.  I’ll be working on that over the next two months.  When new blogs return I hope to do more interactive things, direct readers to groups pushing important issues like prison reform and restorative justice.

So, it’s off to draft my “Dear Governor McDonnell” letter.  I look forward to the new and improved Bars-N-Stripes blog after summer break.  Now, go enjoy this weather!

 If you would like to contact Larry directly during the summer you can do so at:

Lawrence H. Bidwell # 1402909
Bldg. 4A, Bed 81
Lunenburg Correctional Facility
P.O. Box 1424
Victoria, VA  23974-0650


There are some restrictions on sending mail to the prison and everything is read before Larry receives it.  Envelopes must be no larger than # 10 and no heavier than 1 oz (i.e. one postage stamp).  No stickers or other object may be glued or taped to the envelope.  They will only accept an envelope with a return address label, mailing label and stamp.  If you have items that exceed the 1 oz weight limit, you must split them up into several envelopes (each weighing no more than 1 oz) and you can identify them (as 1 of 3, etc.).

Danny's Song

This past week my older son celebrated his 23rd birthday. The last contact I had with him was three weeks after my arrest. He was entering his junior year of college and within days of flying overseas to spend a semester abroad. A dear friend came to the jail with my son. Through the Plexiglas, I looked out at my boy. Tears poured down my cheeks as I longed to hug him. As our visit ended he looked at me and said “we’re gonna be alright dad; I love you.”



Days earlier I had received my only letter (to date) from him. My son, so much like me in his interests in history, politics, music, cooking; began his terse correspondence with these famous words from Thomas Paine: “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Ironically, the same day that he wrote his letter to me, I penned a letter to him. My last sentence in that letter: “These are the times that try men’s souls.”


There has not been a day in that young man’s life that I haven’t recalled the precise moment, when my wife, beaming, told me she was pregnant. I doted over her for nine months, refusing to even allow her to pick up a bag of groceries. I watched how her body transformed, each day as the miracle she carried within her developed. I remember the first time I heard my son’s heartbeat, the first time I felt him stretch and kick.


The day after my wife told me she was pregnant, I was out running. On my headset I heard the beginning notes to Loggins and Messina’s ballad “Danny’s Song”. I started mouthing the words. I soon began singing the song as I ran. At the reprise, tears welled up in my eyes.


“Even though we ain’t got money
I’m so in love with you honey
and every day will bring the chain of love.
In the morning when I rise
sweet tears of joy in my eyes
and tell me everything is gonna be alright.”


It’s a song about a man expressing to his wife the love he feels as he realizes he is a father of a beautiful son.


So much has changed in the past twenty-three years. Until my arrest, both my sons thought I was the best father around. They loved me and looked up to me as only a son can toward his father. I loved my sons deeply. The three of us were inseparable.


I watched as my older son graduated high school and was admitted to a prestigious college. I was full of pride at his intellect and his character. There was never a day when we were together that we didn’t hug and say “I love you”.


Six weeks ago, my ex-wife wrote me the first in a series of letters we’ve exchanged. The reason for her first letter in over seventeen months was to let me know she had met someone through an internet dating service (a twice married man). Included with that brief piece of news (which tore apart what remained of my damaged heart) was a snippet of news on our sons. My older son, my baby boy who I cradled moments after his birth and gently sang Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” to, now refers to me as his “ex-father”.


A well meaning friend arrived for a visit shortly thereafter. “Worried” about me, he proceeded to tell me that my ex has been dating for a “long time”. She had had a long distance relationship with a Canadian band leader from a cruise she took before our divorce was final. That relationship, my friend confided, only ceased when my ex discovered the man was still in a “committed” relationship.


“Even though we ain’t got money
I’m so in love with you honey…”


So, the woman with whom I stood at the front of the church, whom exchanged vows with me, the woman I still love deeply, has been able to “move on” and close that almost thirty year chapter of her life. And my two precious sons, they go forward without a passing thought about the man just three short years ago they thought could never be replaced.


If you told me on that November afternoon in 1981 when we exchanged our vows, or that early March morning in 1988 when our older son was born, or that afternoon in July 1997 when our younger son joined our family; that those emotions we shared, those words we spoke to each other were nothing but fleeting thoughts that could be disregarded in times of crisis and distress, tribulation and disappointment, I would have told you you didn’t understand the bond we shared. There was, I thought, an unbreakable chain of love that would see our marriage, our family, through.


This past week the news reported that Leroy Hassell, Jr., son of the late Chief Judge of the Virginia Supreme Court (Chief Judge Hassell, Virginia’s first African-American Supreme Court jurist, died of cancer just two short months ago) was sentenced following his recent conviction for armed robbery. He was convicted of holding a young man at gun point in his apartment as he demanded money and drugs.


This was a violent crime. This was not his first conviction (he had prior convictions for marijuana possession and shoplifting). His sentence? 15 years will 11 years, 12 months suspended. In other words, Hassell has a two year sentence to fulfill for an armed robbery conviction. Two years is less than one-sixth the sentence I am required to serve.


In the past few weeks two anonymous readers have touched me with their words. Both readers urged me to find comfort in the Lord. I can assure you, if I wasn’t sustained by my faith, I wouldn’t be here right now. I have watched everything I worked for taken from me. I have seen the three most important people in my life utterly reject and abandon me. I have cried out to God more times than I can remember and have actually had more problems, more distress thrust on me.


I remarked to a friend the other day that I have absolutely no idea what God wants from me. I am doing everything in my power to live righteously in here. I turn no one down who seeks my help. I work tirelessly for these students in here. On more than one occasion, I have asked God “what more do you want from me?” I swear to Him I can’t go on, yet the next morning, I somehow jump off my top bunk at 4:00 am and start to pray.


One of the readers told me to “remember how blessed” I am during this trial. If I didn’t realize I was blessed, I wouldn’t be able to endure what’s become of my life.


I’m not a victim. I broke the law. I violated the trust my wife and children placed in me. But the consequences of my actions are significantly in excess of the actions themselves.


Still, I have faith. Still, I love those three. I pray each morning and evening for my ex to find a happy, loving committed relationship. It breaks my heart that she rejected me, but my love for her requires me to pray that someone can give her what I obviously can’t. I pray for my sons continually.


The simple fact is God has given me a “do over”. He has given me an opportunity to care for a great deal of men I would have never given a moment’s thought about. He has given me a chance to make a difference in the lives of many who need someone to just believe in them.


I am blessed. I’ve discovered a level of love, of forgiveness, of compassion and mercy I didn’t know I possessed. And, I have endured through some very dark, terribly lonely days.


Still, my son’s birthday was bittersweet. Like Valentine’s Day – the 30th anniversary of when I proposed to my ex-wife – I am filled with many wonderful memories and a deep sadness over our present circumstances.


I was running yesterday. As on most of my four mile runs around the track, I recited over and over the 23rd Psalm and Isaiah 40. Without realizing it, I began singing “Danny’s Song”. I thought back to that morning when she walked into my law office and said “I’m pregnant”. I thought back to holding my son in my arms, kissing his forehead and whispering “May God bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true…”


I recently heard music by a new musical group, “Mumford & Sons”. They appeared on the Grammys and sang with Bob Dylan. In a Dylanesque song called “The Cave” the following lyrics appear:


It’s empty in the valley of our heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you’ve left behind.


So make your siren’s call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say


Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it’s meant to be


And I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck


And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again.


Each day another memory is brought into view: birthdays, celebrations, dinners, just a quiet night with my sons, or dancing on the deck with my wife. Memories can be a curse or sustain you. The blessing is in knowing the difference.


Two thoughts struck me as I thought about love and forgiveness.


Dostoyevsky stated “Compassion is the chief law of human existence”.


An anonymous person said: “Young love is when you love someone because of what they do right. Mature love is when you love someone in spite of what they do wrong.”


God has blessed me. At least when it comes to compassion and love He has allowed me to reach my golden years.

Thinking about King

Today is the Federal holiday observance of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday. I’m not sure if his “birthday as holiday” can adequately inform Americans of the nobility of this man. Too many Americans have never read what Dr. King actually wrote. That is a shame because his views on justice, on freedom and on equality are timeless.



On Good Friday, 1963, Dr. King found himself in solitary confinement in the Birmingham, Alabama jail. His crime? He failed to apply for a parade permit before leading a protest march.


A number of prominent ministers in the Birmingham area wrote a public statement condemning King’s actions in organizing protests. Calling his actions “unwise” (their word), they urged King to seek compromise and conciliation with the civil authorities.


Kings was provided a pen (a violation of jailhouse rules) by a sympathetic guard. He then began writing, on scraps of newspaper and sheets of toilet paper, a 7000 word essay that would be smuggled out of the jail and receive international attention. Soon to be known as “Letter from Birmingham Jail”, King eloquently described the God-given right of freedom and justice every person was granted.


In a direct challenge to the minister/critics who chastised his actions, he wrote:


“Injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere . . . freedom is not granted by the oppressor . . .”


When I was sixteen years old, I read Dr. King’s essay. Though young and being raised by conservative Republican parents who weren’t overly thrilled with the civil rights movement, I was enthralled by his words. In 1975, I had my whole life ahead of me. I hated injustice; I loved freedom. In other words, I was a dopey teenager.


I went to college, then law school and became a lawyer. I had a wife, then a house with a mortgage, then kids. I knew “right from wrong” (at least out in public; inside I knew what I was doing wouldn’t pass my own litmus test), had a definite opinion on any political or social issue. I went to church, voted and participated in community service because that’s what “good people” do.


I was, and I hate to admit it, just like the right-thinking preachers that questioned Dr. King. And then, my whole life fell apart. I was arrested, divorced, alone. I sat in the county jail and pondered my future. While there, I rediscovered Dr. King’s letter.


In my favorite Bible verse (and the focal point of my prison tattoo), the prophet Isaiah in Chapter 40, writes:


Why do you say and assert your way is hidden from the Lord
And the justice do you escapes the
Notice of your God. . .


Isaiah goes on telling God’s people to have faith. God does not grow weary or tire. Justice shall prevail.


Dr. King’s words in his jailhouse essay were much like Isaiah’s. He called on believers to have faith, confront injustice, demand freedom. For a guy sitting in a jail cell, broken and feeling hopeless, Dr. King provided a testament to press on.


Dr. King reminded me that regardless of what we do, we are endowed by our Creator with freedom. And government must tread carefully when depriving one of their freedom, lest they become oppressors.


I, like hundreds of thousands of other incarcerated people deserve to be imprisoned for a time. But that does not allow government to act unjustly. Today, the criminal justice system is just that. It is unjust.


Go online and read his “letter”. http://www.stanford.edu/group/King/frequentdocs/birmingham.pdf

Think about the message. Celebrate the messenger by contacting your state representative and demand prison reform.

Through the Deep Waters

For months as I’ve run around the yard here I’ve prayed for divine intervention in my broken marriage, with my kids, and in my case. It dawned on me a few weeks ago that I was missing the big picture. It all made sense in my writing class a few weeks ago.



I was sharing a story with my advanced students. It concerned the call I had placed to my wife from the Goochland Sherriff’s Department. By the time of the call, I’d been arrested, booked and denied bond. I was waiting to be transported to the Henrico Jail. I remember every detail of the call from the precise time it was made, to pushing the buttons on the detective’s desk phone, to the painful exchange of words between my wife and me. It is a conversation that I will never forget. Each detail will stay with me for the rest of my life.


Something else struck me as I shared yet another story with the guys. My wife and sons showed tremendous resilience and courage getting through this trial. I’ve always known they were strong people. But, this situation which was thrust upon them could have broken each of them. Instead, they found the strength to go on.


For all the explaining and dissecting I do of the twists and turns my life has taken, the disappointments and failures, the simple fact is I knew what I was doing was wrong. I justified my behavior in a thousand ways. I’ve come to understand what led me to this behavior, but still, I can’t escape the fact I was wrong.


My ex is a remarkable woman. Yes, I am deeply hurt and pained by her abandoning me. However, she did an amazing job keeping our sons and herself going after my arrest. Our older son still was able to leave, three weeks after my arrest, to study at a university in Scotland. She handled all those details.


Last May, he graduated college with honors. The effort my ex put forth to ensure his college education moved forward was astounding, especially given the daily crises that popped up and her own emotional ups and downs.


She made sure our younger son had counseling. His piano lessons and other after school activities continued without interruption. She insisted that he would continue to live his life as he had before my arrest. Friends from home tell me he is the same happy, outgoing young man he was when our life came crashing down. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for her to tell our kids I’d been arrested. I know as bad as things were for me, I never had to tell our sons their mom let them down.


She dealt with a wide array of fears and concerns that I couldn’t even begin to understand as I sat in my cell at the Henrico County Jail. Jail isolates you from “the real world”. I never dealt with calls from creditors and nosey people in town. I was self-absorbed with my personal problems in the jail. My wife, on the other hand, faced newspaper articles about me. She spent dozens of sleepless nights worrying about our financial situation. Would she lose the house? How would she pay the monthly bills? How would she provide for our sons?


What I did to her and those boys was, well, shitty. Yet, she handled it with steely resolve. Most people saw her strength as she moved forward day to day. I bore the brunt of her anger, and frustrations, and tears. I shouldn’t have expected otherwise. I was the catalyst for the crisis that overwhelmed my family.


Throughout this trial I’ve seen my wife (sorry, I can’t help calling her that) and sons in a new light. As I’ve grown and been changed by this, I noted the changes in them as well. They are stronger and more resilient than I ever could have imagined. Their capacity to survive, to succeed in spite of great heartache, anger, and turmoil, was profound. I only wish they had the same level of commitment to forgive and love.


My ex has a favorite hymn – “How Firm a Foundation”, from chapters 41 and 42 in the Old Testament of Isaiah. In one verse these words appear:


When through the deep waters I cause you to go,
The river of sorrow will not overflow.
For I will be with you
Your comfort to bless
And sanctify to you
Your deepest distress.


Those are words of deep comfort and hope, knowing that whatever confronts us, our God is there and will see us through. I know there were terrible days for my wife and two sons, days they thought were impossible to survive, days when tears and fears and sadness and pain appeared to overwhelm each of them. But, it didn’t. They are three people of amazing faith and courage. I love them more having seen them weather this storm.


I read an interesting devotional take on Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. In a play on the often used chapter regarding love, the writer encouraged you to substitute the word “God” every time love appears in the chapter. “God is patient, God is kind . . . .” On and on the verses in Chapter 13 sing out with a beautiful melody about the elements of God’s feelings for His children.


Then, the writer suggested, insert your own name in place of love. My eyes welled up with tears as I recited: “Larry is patient, Larry is kind, Larry does not act unbecomingly . . . he does not take into account a wrong suffered . . . Larry bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things.”


I want to be that “Larry”. I owe it to the people I love deeply, in spite of all this: to my ex and my sons who acted with such grace and strength in a terrible situation. I owe it to my God, who saw me through my mistakes and gave me hope when all seemed hopeless.

Symbols

There’s been a whole lot of news recently about symbols. There was a crazy preacher in Florida ready to burn the Koran (question: How does the preacher explain his behavior against his professed faith in the “Prince of Peace?”); Americans are up in arms over the proposed location of a Mosque near Ground Zero. “Sacred land”, some argue, yet not too sacred to disallow a strip joint and an Irish Pub just offsite (I’ve had lunch and drinks at the pub. Great food and Guinness on tap!).


Frankly, to me both issues are asinine. I had a discussion months ago with a Muslim inmate I deeply respect. He got upset one night when the CO left his mail on top of his Koran. “She disrespected and defiled the Holy Koran.” I get the point. I believe the Bible is God’s word to us. One of my few treasured possessions I claim in here is a Holy Bible a close friend sent me two weeks after my arrest. I’ve read it cover to cover and have highlighted and underlined it extensively (which will probably offend some Christians).


The words in that book mean more to me than anything, because in my darkest moments they have provided me comfort and hope. But, as I told my Muslim friend, you could pick that book up and wipe with it and I wouldn’t react. The book isn’t the faith. Those words are etched in my heart.


Ironically, devout Muslims memorize the Koran. The first Koran was burned so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the “infidels”. Muslims memorize it so they can recreate it anytime, anyplace. Somehow the book has overtaken the word as the object of Holy adherence.


Symbols become important because we give them meaning. The same people that call Ground Zero sacred would likely scoff at a “Crips” gang member insisting on wearing his blue bandanna to show his colors.


I only really had one symbol in my life, my wedding ring. The day the divorce papers were served on me, I mailed the ring back to my wife. She wrote me shortly thereafter and said, “You could have kept it. It’s your ring” (ironically, she never thought about sending me the two carat diamond ring I designed and gave her for our 25th Anniversary). I wrote her back and told her I didn’t want a ring she didn’t believe in.


I noticed in that experience a great deal about symbols – they’re overrated. Our wedding ring was a symbol of our lifetime commitment, the eternity of our bond and love. Yeah, I buy that (sorry for the sarcasm).


“Crips” fight “Bloods” over the color blue verses red. Muslims will chop off hands over an alleged slight to their Holy book. Christian preachers burn Muslim Korans. It’s all about nothing except we made it important. I’m not so hung up on having symbols anymore. I see a whole lot of guys in here wearing crosses, yet they’re the first ones to cuss out a CO, get in a fight, or leer at one of the young nurses that work here.


I keep a few symbols in my locker. I have a painted card of Archangel Michael – a gift from an Episcopal minister friend. Michael, I was told, is the Angel that protects us. I look at him every time I open my locker. I keep two quotes from the Psalms in my locker that I recite over and over.


Psalm 55:24 - Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never let the righteous stumble.


and


Psalm 68:6 – God gives the solitary a home and brings forth prisoners into freedom.


I also keep a picture of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model Brooklyn Decker (man’s got to dream!).


The thing I’ve realized is, you can take it all away and I’ll be alright. The Psalms, my verse from Isaiah 40 or Ephesians 4, they’re in my mind and my heart.






We focus way too much on symbols. Prison life especially has too much emphasis on them. Guys will fight over the dumbest things: new blue shirts, crisp sheets, hats. Guys think the newness of their “stuff” signifies their place in here.


Truth is, none of the stuff matters. I’ve read a great deal by men who have overcome imprisonment. Mandela, Dr. Frankl, and the Apostle Paul. Not one of them ever wrote, “Man, I got through that experience thanks to my lucky coin”. No, what got them through was their faith, their hope, their belief in the future. They knew, in their hearts, that all the stuff could be taken away but they didn’t have to give up their souls.


So the Mosque near Ground Zero? Let them build it and perhaps we can all remember a little idea like religious tolerance (and remember, some of the people who worked and died in the Twin Towers were Muslim). The preacher in Florida? Pray God helps him pull his head out of his ass and Muslims remember their faith is based on peace.


As for me, I’ll keep praying for my ex and my sons. I’ll keep working to bring the failures of the prison system to light. And Brooklyn Decker? Her picture’s staying up.