Why?

I had half dozen topics to write about this week.  Then, as I returned to the building after a long run and workout on a day off, I noticed the eerie quiet.  Dozens of guys were huddled around their TV’s watching as the news broke about the tragic and senseless shooting of children at a Connecticut elementary school.

“What is wrong with people?”  Those were the words of a twenty-eight year old father of two who just happens to be doing three years for drug use.  “Children?  Why?”  I wish I knew.

I have seen a great deal in prison and learned many painful lessons about human failings and the consequences of our behavior.  They have not been easy lessons.  And, I have seen a great deal of senseless violence.  I’ve written much about the fights – and worse – that I’ve seen.  Candidly, it’s my way of dealing with it.  But, children?  What, indeed, is wrong with us?

Were this an aberration, a once-in-a-lifetime event, you could rationalize that a crazed person, unhinged, brought such mayhem and destruction forward.  That is not the case.  Columbine, Oklahoma City, Aurora, Newtown.  Each name evokes images of fear, death and disbelief.  We are I am coming to believe, an angry, unempathetic mess. 

Last week I finished reading writer Wally Lamb’s powerful 2009 novel, “The Hour I First Believed”.  Set against the backdrop of the Columbine shooting and a survivor watching her life disintegrate, it was an amazing story of a family’s secrets, the seeming randomness of violence and crises, and ultimately about finding faith to go on.  I found the book both personally touching and difficult.  In an “afterward”, Lamb explained why he used so many factually accurate details about Columbine.  He saw the senselessness of it all and how violence begets violence.  That I finished his book less than five days before this murderous rampage is not lost on me.  Why?

This isn’t a platform for me to talk about gun control, or mental health issues, or locking down our schools, and locking up more people.  This is just the words of a guy who thinks we’ve collectively lost our way.  I do time with men locked up for murder and to a man they all sat stunned, wondering “What is going on out there?”

A few days ago, Ms. Jackson buried her son.  He was a player on the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys.  Driving to the church service with her was the man who killed her son.  He was driving drunk, lost control of his car, and crashed.  And Ms. Jackson’s son, a passenger in the car, died.  She asked the driver to go with her, to sit with her family to show anyone paying attention that God expects us to love, and forgive, and be merciful. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted;

Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth;
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied;
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy;
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God;
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”

I couldn’t think of anything else, so I turned to the Beatitudes, the Sermon on the Mount which tells us more about God with us, than us with us.

This blog isn’t about prison.   On second thought, maybe it is.  “Why?”  I’m not smart enough to know.  I do know there’s way too much senseless, tragic violence out there and in here.  And, we have to start doing better.

Ten Years After (2)

It is one week until the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attack of 9/11, “the day that changed America”.  As I sit here in this prison dormitory I recognize how much my own life changed.  On 9/11 I was an in-house attorney for a large, Virginia headquartered property and casualty insurer.  I was “happily” married to my college sweetheart.  We were the stereotypical upper income, white American couple with two “perfect” sons, a “perfect home”, a “perfect” life.  After the attack, all that would be tested.  I was sure what our country needed to do.  I was equally sure what I needed to do.  Ten years after, I confess I was wrong on almost every count.

Just as I sold my soul to prove some vague, abstract point about love, commitment and family, so too did America after 9/11.  We are not a better nation for our reaction to 9/11.  America has lost its moral framework.  We were wrong in our reaction to the evil foisted upon us; we are wrong for our behavior – at home and abroad.  I fear the lives lost that day and in the years since in Afghanistan and Iraq will be for nothing.  As Judy Collins mournfully sang, “When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?”

Luke, in his Gospel, recounts Jesus speaking to the multitudes.   Over and over the Savior says “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you; give to everyone who asks you… “He calls on his followers to forgive, show mercy.  And then He brings forward these words:

“You call me ‘Lord, Lord’, and do not do what I say.” 

In other words, we talk a good game, but we don’t put our money where our mouth is.

 A few years ago a deranged gunman broke into an Amish schoolhouse and shortly thereafter brutally murdered a number of young Amish girls.  What was the reaction in the Amish community?  They prayed for the dead gunman and wrapped his family in compassion and mercy.

I was all in favor of obliterating Afghanistan.  I bought into the doctrine that you are either “with us or against us”.  Arrest foreign nationals and hold them without trial?  No problem.  Torture to get information?  I’m OK with that.  Kill thousands of men, women and children in Afghanistan and Iraq – “collateral damage” – in the name of winning the war on terror?  Small price to pay for “safety”.  That was all “PI Larry” (pre-incarceration Larry).  Now I see my country:  the one $17 trillion in debt where 46 million people need food stamps, where over 2.3 million people are behind bars, the vast majority of which are locked up for nonviolent crimes – and I ask what of our founding declarations that all “men” are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?  Wonderful words, but just words if we are willing to sell our collective soul for safety and fail to show mercy.

Politicians get standing ovations for demanding that the Ten Commandments be posted in schools and offices to remind us of our “Judeo-Christian” heritage.  But, I wonder what would Jesus say about our reaction to 9/11?  What do we make of His Sermon on the Mount, His call to forgive “seven times seventy”?  We talk a good game but we fall way, way short.

On 9/11, as I detailed in other blogs, I consoled my then wife as she sobbed, worried our sons would be drawn into some worldwide conflagration.  We made love that night, two people trying to cling to innocence in a world seemingly gone mad. Shortly after, in an attempt to “prove” our life would be better after the attack, I began stealing increasingly larger sums of money.  I had stolen before – then always to gain some psychological response of love and appreciation from my “soulmate” who deep down – I knew didn’t feel for me what I felt for her.  After 9/11 I was determined to have it all!

Ironically, as I sit in here I see the same convulsive behavior in my country.  Why did they hate us so?  We asked after 9/11.  And then immediately we retaliated, launching attacks aimed at eliminating the danger. 

But danger can’t be totally eliminated.  We will always face the risk of someone – anyone – trying to do the unthinkable.  Much like I had to learn that I couldn’t make someone feel what I needed, we need to learn there is not absolute safety.  There is pestilence, natural disasters and the occasional sociopath lurking.  But if we truly believe in God, then we know we are called to be strong and courageous.  We are not to fear, though “the mountains fall in the sea”.  God is our help; not B1 bombers, not drones, nor laser technology.  We can’t violate our own core principles in the name of security.

I read a piece in the September issue of “Esquire” concerning a Sudanese man captured and held at Guantanamo Bay for ten years.  He was held chained and naked in a freezing cell for days on end; hands chained above his head, hands and feet chained to the floor; denied access to counsel.  Is this justice?  Is this an appropriate response?  Should this be tolerable in America?  This alleged “mastermind” (who coincidentally is uneducated and speaks no English) was eventually given a 34 month sentence (that’s right – 34 months).  

I have witnessed firsthand the barbarism and unjust circumstances of prison.  A just, compassionate society can do better.  As I sit here, I wish we as a nation had done things differently.  I wish I had acted differently.

There is a Bible parable I return to often as I struggle to make sense of my life.  At the end of Luke’s version of the Sermon on the Mount he records the savior telling His followers to hear the words and act on them.  They will be “like the man who dug his foundation on the rocks. And when the flood came and the torrents burst against the house” it could not be shaken.

The part that so intrigues me in the story says “when the flood” comes, not “if”.  Faith is like that house on the rock.  Troubles are inevitable in our individual and collective lives. But by faith, we are sustained.  My marriage, I realized, was not built on a strong foundation.  Love and commitment were mere shifting sand.   The rule of love, opposition to torture?  Those deeply held “virtues” of America’s psyche were also cast in sand.

Ten years later and what have we learned?  Is war ever justified?  Is torture ever acceptable?  Does safety trump freedom?

A poet/songwriter once wrote a piece comparing America, his America, to a wayward love.  She was breaking his heart because she couldn’t see how beautiful she was; she didn’t understand how her behavior was killing him.  Ten years after 9/11, divorced, alone in prison, I look at my country and I understand what he meant.  The past ten years have not been kind to her.

Bend, Don't Break

DC came by to talk to me the other night. As I’ve written before, DC is one of the most interesting guys I’ve ever met. Though we are from completely different worlds, I feel a kinship with him I’ve seldom felt. Prison is terrible, but survivable because of the friendships I’ve been blessed with. I count DC as one of those blessings.



He knew I’d been struggling in a valley these past few weeks. He knew I felt beaten down and abandoned by friends whom had been there for me, yet now when I so desperately needed to hear from them, utter silence. He knew I was dealing with another round of rejection from loved ones that had set me back months, if not years. He came by and sat down and never once mentioned my situation. Instead, he told me something his father told him when he was sitting in the hole years ago.


His father, a Korean War infantryman, told him “take every day at a time. Bend, don’t break. When you lay down at night, thank God He saw you through.” DC then stood up, headed back out of my cut. Before leaving, he looked at me, told me he respected my courage, my compassion for these guys and my decency and simply ended “just bend”.


I went to bed that night like I do every other evening by reciting the words to the 103rd Psalm, by praying that my ex find someone she can love and trust and in turn loves her unconditionally, that my sons are joyous, secure, forgiving and loving. I prayed for my parents, for my cousin and her husband who have been so steadfast in their love and support for me, and for friends – even as some pull away from me. Those are difficult prayers at times for me as I struggle with issues like rejection and abandonment. Still, I pray. That night I added one additional prayer: “Please don’t let me break, God. I know you’re listening. Let me bend, not break.”


There’s a lot going on right now. I am working an extraordinary amount of hours, close to twelve a day, helping guys with their college studies. I’m paid forty-five cents per hour for thirty hours of work. The money isn’t necessarily the issue. No, I’m working my butt off to keep guys motivated who have an initial reaction to difficulty to quit. I’m working my butt off for guys who are all going home in the next one to two years (max), many of whom are here for their second or third time. Meanwhile, I still have ten years remaining on my sentence.


As I lay in bed I began to think I must be crazy. Everything I knew, everything I built, everything I longed for, was gone. And, here I was putting out all this effort and I had nothing to show for it. All night I tossed and turned. I finally got out of my bunk at 3:30 and began to pray. “Please let me bend, not break today” I prayed. I noticed my devotional was from the Sermon on the Mount. As I read the Beatitudes I wondered what they really meant. “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” I reached for Big S’s modern language Bible.


“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His role.”


“Your blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.”


Those words rolled through my brain. “At the end of my rope.” I’d been there almost every day the past six weeks. Not a day had gone by that I didn’t wonder what was my breaking point. I was hanging by a thread, reaching for a small light that grew dimmer each moment. “Lost what is most dear to you.” Let’s see, rejected by my wife and kids, loss of my freedom, loss of my wealth, abandonment by friends. Things were so bad I’ve had crack addicts doing their fourth bid tell me “damn, your life sucks.”


“Bend, don’t break.” Those words kept hitting me between the eyes. I remembered an anonymous quote I picked up shortly after my arrest. It said simply,


“Pain is synonymous with spirituality. When you’re in the most pain you are closest to God.”


The simple fact was, I realized, that there was absolutely nothing I could do that day to get me out of prison right then, or make my ex-wife love and forgive me, or make my kids tell me they loved and missed me, or make a close friend take five minutes out of his day to write me back. But, I could make a difference in these guys’ lives.


So that afternoon, I led a review session in the dayroom for a group of English students on critically evaluating a social science piece called “Can Money Buy Happiness?”