It's Alright

I hadn’t thought much about my reaction. Truth is, I’d always kept that little bit of hope, that micro-glimmer – if there is even such a thing – of hope deep in the recesses of my mind that there’d be a “we” again. The card in tonight’s mail disabused me of that dream.

            It was from a friend saying he knew “Friday” (that’s tomorrow!) would be a difficult day but he knew I am “stronger” than I think and I will “endure” this.

            Strength; endurance; great words. Words of hope, and perseverance, and grace. Like I said, I hadn’t thought much about my reaction. Then I read the card and I felt the air go out of me … for a brief moment. Then I did the unexpected, at least to the old me. I opened my Bible and read Psalm 103. For six years that Psalm, “Bless the Lord O my soul and all that is within me bless His holy name,” has sustained me. I read that Psalm moments after I decided, sitting in that cell at the jail when all was lost, that I would go on because God expected me to never give up.

            There was something about those words that told me to endure, persevere, overcome. Every difficult decision, every bad day … or night, I’ve turned to Psalm 103. The pain, the sorrow and emptiness is still there, but it’s ok.

            “How does it feel

            How does it feel      

            To be on your own

            With no direction home

            A complete unknown

            Like a rolling stone”

            Dylan is blaring through my headphones. It’s always Dylan tunes on nights like this. Before I had my CD player in here I just wrote his lyrics down from memory, dozens of his songs, as if those words would suddenly open my minds-eye to what all this means. So I play “Like A Rolling Stone” a dozen times; I hear “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright;” I’m listening to Bob and the Band sing “I Shall Be Released” –

            “They say every man must need protection

            They say every man must fall.

            But I swear I see my reflection

            So high above this wall.

            I see my light come shining

            From the west down to the east

            Any day now, any day now

            I shall be released.”

            And of course, I play “Forever Young” over and over. How could I not? Those words were the first words I spoke/sang to both our sons moments after they entered their new world. “Our” sons; “Our” wedding; “Our” grief; “Our” is no more.

            As I write this, it is the eve of her remarriage. It was inevitable and I’ve accepted it (funny, like I could do anything to convince her otherwise). Every night since that August day in 2008 I’ve finished my day with prayers. They’ve always included her and her happiness and well being. I never prayed for reconciliation. Oh, I hoped for it; I daydreamed about her coming to see me, telling me she really did love me. Those were dreams. But my prayers – I knew what had to happen. So I asked God to watch over her, let her be happy.

            I’m not a strong man. I am weak and I am broken. God, however, in His infinite wisdom keeps telling me to go on. I do. I’m not sure why; I just know I can’t go back, I can’t stay here, I have to go on. I work out five days each week with a young Salvador-American. “O” is cut like a running back. We move weight the likes of which I never imagined I could lift. I’m his “project,” rebuilding me, muscle by muscle. Everyone around here notices how lean and muscular I’ve become. My body no longer looks like that of a 55 year-old man.

            Other guys have worked with us and quit. “Too intense,” they’ve said. I tell O “I’m not a quitter. I won’t give in; I’ll die first.” I have a quote pinned inside my locker from Ernest Hemingway. He wrote,

            “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

            I love Hemingway’s simple understanding of the human condition. I see those words as I jot this down. Hemingway, you fucking genius! You know what I’m saying.

            I never got to tell her goodbye. I never got to say how sorry I am and how I only ever wanted her to be happy and love me. I don’t think she ever understood how I felt/feel about her, how I can’t listen to “Shelter From the Storm” without seeing her and wishing, wishing things were different.

            That’s not in the cards. Maybe that’s why I turned to Psalm 103. It says God is bigger than all this and He’s to be trusted. Maybe it’s just a placebo, but I always turn to Psalm 103 and I always go on, and this time is no different.

            “When you go nothing

            You got nothing to lose”

            Bob is right you know. It’s easy standing strong when there’s nothing left to pull at you and say “but what if …” The toughest thing for me these past six years was not reacting, not fighting back, not playing “what if.” So many times in the last year I wanted to write her and say, “please don’t” when I learned she was moving on. But, I couldn’t. “In love.” I learned what those words meant after August 2008. You love someone, they break your heart, still you do what has to be done. My friends tell me how courageous I’ve been; how strong. No one knows how much energy it takes to not write, not fight, not get angry, not quit.

            I look at my watch and know the vows are being exchanged. So, I open my Bible to Job:

            “Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

            And naked shall I return there.

            The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;

            Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

            And, I’m ok because I know what Job is talking about. I get it. My buddy DC checks on me. “Main man, you good?” He is always there, a brother I wouldn’t have recognized in his days of death and destruction, days of violence and a dead heart; here he is, a man who I love like a brother who knows what tonight is. He sees my smile and he knows I’m good, I’m through this.

            I’m thinking of Jim Croce. It’s November 1981 and my best man’s fiancé; a beautiful girl with huge expressive eyes and the voice of an angel is singing “our” song, “Time in a Bottle.” The song ends, the organist hits the first note and I look to the back of the church and I see her for the first time that day … and she is more beautiful than I could imagine. My life is in front of me; my life is perfect.

            Jim Croce died in a plane crash, too young and too soon. I think of him singing tonight, but it isn’t “our” song, it’s “Operator.”

            “Operator, oh could you help me place this call?

            Cause I can’t read the number you just gave me

            There’s something in my eyes, you know it happens every time

            I think about the love that I thought would save me”

            He laments the loss of his love and wants so badly to call and say “I’m good; I’m happy.” But, he then realizes there isn’t any reason to call her, to say what’s on his heart.

            “Operator, oh let’s forget about this call

            There’s no one there I really wanted to talk to …”

            No one there. Yeah, Jim, you were right. What was so long ago isn’t anymore. And that’s alright. All I can do is move on from here, be the best me I can be, and live, love and forgive. Don’t think twice about it; it’s alright.

            “So long honey babe

            Where I’m bound. I can’t tell

            Goodbye is too good a word babe

            So I’ll just say fare thee well

            I ain’t sayin you treated me unkind

            You could have done better

            But I don’t mind

            You just wasted my precious time

            Don’t think twice, it’s alright”

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.