I watched “Forrest Gump” on TV the other night for about the 100th time. I love that movie. My favorite scenes involve Forrest and Lt. Dan, his commanding officer in Vietnam. As you know, Lt. Dan comes from a family with a long military history which, we find out, involves some relative dying in every war the U.S. has ever fought in.
The unit is out on patrol and they’re ambushed. The North Vietnamese are everywhere, bullets and bombs hitting men on every side of Forrest. Lt. Dan calls a retreat and Forrest runs. He’s out of danger, but alone. He can’t just run away. He goes back, over and over, rescuing wounded men. He finally goes back for Lt. Dan who cusses him. He wants to die on the battlefield, it’s his fate. But, Forrest saves him anyway.
Next time we see the two men, they are in a military hospital. Lt. Dan has lost his legs. He is angry and blames Forrest. “I should have died out there with my men”. Forrest, always the sweet, gentle moron, just lets it roll off him.
For the next hour of the movie Forrest and Lt. Dan cross paths again and again. Lt. Dan’s life is in complete turmoil. He is drinking heavily, let’s himself go and is awash in bitterness. However, with nothing else to do, he shows up in the Gulf and helps Forrest run a shrimp boat. That too, proves a failure until he calls out to God. A tremendous hurricane strikes while the boat is out at sea.
Lt. Dan, at the height of the storm, yells at God, “You’ll never sink this ship!”! The next day the sky clears, the shrimp are plentiful and a calm, at peace Lt. Dan looks Forrest in the eye and says “I never thanked you for saving my life”. As Forrest points out, Lt. Dan made his peace with God.
I’ve had my own “Lt. Dan moments” these past two years. You build your life, head in a particular direction, and anticipate how it will work out. Then, whether by your own doing or having circumstances suddenly thrust on you, your life is in complete disarray. You wonder, “what the hell am I gonna do? How did I end up here?” You panic, fret, worry, fear, and yes, get bitter over the circumstances you find yourself in. And, you replay over and over the whys, and hows, and what ifs of your life.
I think I like Lt. Dan because he’s so, well, human. He is just like each and every one of us as we struggle day to day to get on with life. I’ve had my moments when I’ve called out God. Like Jacob, I wrestled God and ended up bruised. I’ve been like Job asking how can a loving God let all this happen?
And, just like Lt. Dan, Jacob, and Job, I’ve found peace. It’s a peace that comes from discovering that no matter how badly things go, no matter that I can’t make sense out of all this, I’m not now, nor ever been, alone. God’s always been there, even when I was stealing, even when my heart was breaking over the loss of my wife. I don’t know how, but I’m a better person than I was before my arrest.
Fact is, I had a wonderful life. I loved, with all my heart, my wife. I have such beautiful memories of her and our time together. I wouldn’t trade away any of that. I’ve been told by well-meaning people to “get over her, move on”. I’ll never get over her. I will always love her, always pray for her happiness and well-being. In spite of all that has happened between us, I consider my time with her as a blessing, an amazing gift from God.
It took my arrest and conviction for me to be reminded of the merciful, loving, hopeful person I used to be. As I told Big S last night, had it not been for this experience, my arrest, two men would still be languishing in prison. “Pilly” a nice Mexican man would still be here not back in his native Mexico, if I hadn’t been here and taken the time to review his paperwork and discover DOC had miscalculated his release date.
Had I not been here, “Mr. W”, dying of pancreatic cancer, would still be here instead of home with his wife and daughters during his last months on earth. I’ve discovered the true meaning of Joseph’s words to his brother when they were reunited – and reconciled – in Egypt. As he welcomed and forgave them, he said “you intended this for evil, but God brought about good.”
Which led me to another eye-opening observation. I’ve discovered that as well-meaning and caring a person I tried to be “BA” (before my arrest), I quite frankly was also – excuse the vernacular – an asshole. It wasn’t too difficult to recognize. I was, after all, a big fish in a little pond. I was brash, opinionated and very sure I was correct. I knew in my core, I was right. And, because of my outgoing personality people just naturally accepted what I said.
Don’t get me wrong. I was good at what I did and I devoted a great deal of time and effort to helping others. But I did it on my own terms. I thought people just needed to suck it up and work harder. Their background, their baggage, was irrelevant. Then I cam into this salad bowl of human genes and conditions and saw a whole world I had ignored.
James, in his New Testament epistle warns believers to not be so hung up on a person’s appearance. He also notes that no one can completely follow the law. Therefore, we must be merciful, not judgmental. As we show mercy so shall we be shown mercy.
I never thought a great deal about that until I ended up in this dump. It’s a funny feeling to be thanking God for the blessing of losing everything.
At the end of the movie, Forrest is getting married to the woman he loved all his life – Jenny. It’s a bittersweet moment because you know Jenny is dying. Off in the distance you see a man approach, walking toward Forrest. Forrest runs to him and says “Lt. Dan, you got new legs!”(“Titanium; just like on the space shuttle”).
Sometimes it’s not just your legs that get replaced. Sometimes our trials give us a new outlook, a new heart.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Counselors
Every inmate ends up relying on their “counselor”. That’s a strange word to use, given there is no counseling that actually takes place. Much like George Orwell detailed in his great novel 1984, there isn’t any counseling done by the counselors, it’s just a word. Like the term “jumbo shrimp”, calling these folks “inmate counselors” is an oxymoron.
The concept is good. Each inmate is assigned a counselor who develops an “annual plan” to move the inmate toward release. Problem is, every inmate’s “plan” says virtually the same thing: “Keep charge free and get a job.”
The other problem is the people that work in “treatment” (that’s “DOC speak” for the counselor’s department at the prison) are lazy and not very bright. That may sound harsh, but the truth usually is. Counselors – more than any other operation at the prison, except for security – are the crucial link between an inmate and his release. Each building has an assigned counselor with an office in the building itself.
But, the counselor never shows up to the building to meet with inmates. We’ve seen our counselor less than two hours over the last two weeks.
DOC procedures require each inmate to have an annual review with their counselor. August is almost concluded and yet none of the August inmates have had their reviews. And this isn’t an aberration; this is “standard operating procedure” – run 30 to60 days late on reviews.
The counselors avoid meeting with inmates because, well candidly, they don’t understand their own policies. Take the case of Kareem. Kareem was sent to prison at the age of 17 for a second degree murder. Four weeks ago, at the age of 31, he left prison. He should have left the first of June, moved to New Jersey to live with his Mom and start college. Why didn’t he? Good question.
Six months ago he met with the counselor and filled out the interstate compact forms that are, in essence, a request from Virginia to New Jersey to accept a released inmate. The counselor lost the paperwork. Without written authorization from New Jersey to accept him, Kareem had no home plan. No home plan and DOC can hold you an additional 30 days. It normally takes 90-120 days for interstate compact approval.
It took Kareem’s family in New Jersey raising hell to expedite the paperwork. The counselor just shrugged it off.
Then there’s Malik. Malik has been locked up for the past 20 years. Throughout his entire bid, his wife remained by his side. They decided to renew their vows for their 25th Anniversary. Malik meets with the chaplain and the warden and the ceremony is approved. He submits a list of guests to the counselor who will be coming in for the ceremony. Security approves the list (background checks had to be run).
The “big day” arrives and the guests file in. All that is except for the wife. The counselor “forgot” to include her on the list. The ceremony had to be postponed and rescheduled due to this “small glitch” (the counselor’s words).
Two examples out of dozens collected. Fact is, you want to know something about a DOC policy or procedure – research it yourself.
Each day guys are given incorrect information; paperwork is lost and/or improperly filled out. These are the state professionals charged with getting inmates rehabilitated. Is it any reason there’s a 40% recidivism rate?
The concept is good. Each inmate is assigned a counselor who develops an “annual plan” to move the inmate toward release. Problem is, every inmate’s “plan” says virtually the same thing: “Keep charge free and get a job.”
The other problem is the people that work in “treatment” (that’s “DOC speak” for the counselor’s department at the prison) are lazy and not very bright. That may sound harsh, but the truth usually is. Counselors – more than any other operation at the prison, except for security – are the crucial link between an inmate and his release. Each building has an assigned counselor with an office in the building itself.
But, the counselor never shows up to the building to meet with inmates. We’ve seen our counselor less than two hours over the last two weeks.
DOC procedures require each inmate to have an annual review with their counselor. August is almost concluded and yet none of the August inmates have had their reviews. And this isn’t an aberration; this is “standard operating procedure” – run 30 to60 days late on reviews.
The counselors avoid meeting with inmates because, well candidly, they don’t understand their own policies. Take the case of Kareem. Kareem was sent to prison at the age of 17 for a second degree murder. Four weeks ago, at the age of 31, he left prison. He should have left the first of June, moved to New Jersey to live with his Mom and start college. Why didn’t he? Good question.
Six months ago he met with the counselor and filled out the interstate compact forms that are, in essence, a request from Virginia to New Jersey to accept a released inmate. The counselor lost the paperwork. Without written authorization from New Jersey to accept him, Kareem had no home plan. No home plan and DOC can hold you an additional 30 days. It normally takes 90-120 days for interstate compact approval.
It took Kareem’s family in New Jersey raising hell to expedite the paperwork. The counselor just shrugged it off.
Then there’s Malik. Malik has been locked up for the past 20 years. Throughout his entire bid, his wife remained by his side. They decided to renew their vows for their 25th Anniversary. Malik meets with the chaplain and the warden and the ceremony is approved. He submits a list of guests to the counselor who will be coming in for the ceremony. Security approves the list (background checks had to be run).
The “big day” arrives and the guests file in. All that is except for the wife. The counselor “forgot” to include her on the list. The ceremony had to be postponed and rescheduled due to this “small glitch” (the counselor’s words).
Two examples out of dozens collected. Fact is, you want to know something about a DOC policy or procedure – research it yourself.
Each day guys are given incorrect information; paperwork is lost and/or improperly filled out. These are the state professionals charged with getting inmates rehabilitated. Is it any reason there’s a 40% recidivism rate?
Friday, September 10, 2010
Conversation with Jerry Lee
I was out on the track the other day finishing up my workout when Jerry Lee asked if he could walk a few laps with me. I’ve gotten to know a great deal about Jerry Lee in my time here. I’ve written about him before. He and I come from different worlds, yet have a deep bond between us. I’ve met his daughters, his mother, and his fiancé. I respect his opinion immensely.
He wanted to talk about his still pending pardon application to the Governor that I filed for him three months ago. We are both cautiously hopeful that the Governor will do the right thing, the just thing, and free him.
Jerry Lee recently “celebrated” his 18th year in the penitentiary. He also just turned 40. When he was convicted and sentenced back in 1992 to 35 years, the judge specifically announced “if you remain as remorseful as you appear, with Virginia’s lenient parole rules, you’ll be released early”. Three years later, in a quirk of the Virginia penal system, DOC determined his eight robberies, committed over nine days to support a staggering drug habit, constituted multiple convictions and made him a “three time loser”, thereby making him ineligible for discretionary parole (i.e. early release). Jerry Lee has a mandatory parole date of 2016.
Anyway, Jerry Lee’s time in the system has given him amazing insight into people and the inevitable circumstances we all find ourselves in. He’s not a deeply religious man – not as society defines religious – yet he’s somehow managed to become a very good father (his oldest just graduated seminary last June and has been to Haiti twice since the earthquake). He also has a deeper understanding of the human condition than any of the supposed “educated” folks I used to socialize with.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never felt the frustration of dealing with blatant ignorance I frequently feel in here, while hanging with the folks I used to be around. But, there isn’t as much hypocrisy with guys locked up.
Like it or not, when you’re living 96 to a building, when you can’t even go to the bathroom with any privacy, you learn rather quickly life isn’t all about you. For better – or worse – you learn to live and let live.
That explains in large part, how you can have a flamboyant homosexual in the bunk on one side (I’m talking guys who cut and sew their t-shirts and underwear to resemble bra and pantie sets), and a rabid Nation of Islam follower on the other side and not lose a moments sleep.
We walked and talked and he matter of fact like brought up Moses. He said, “You know, Moses was a murderer. He fled; stayed away a whole lot of years, then God said ‘I got something for you to do.’ So he does it, only it’s not easy. Ten times Pharaoh says ‘up yours,’ and his own people bitch, but he hangs in there. And, he helps the folks. What do they do? Bitch some more. Forty years wandering around, never getting into the Promised Land. Never quit believing in his God or his people, even when they bitched.”
Jerry Lee got his point across to me, and it meant more to me than almost any sermon I ever heard in church.
Sometimes the circumstances we find ourselves in don’t make much sense. Whether we’re in a hell we created (like embezzling $2 million over 12 years) or when it’s thrust upon us (like how my ex-wife and kids had to deal with the news of my arrest). It’s at those times we’ve got to do what God directs, not what our hearts tell us to do.
Jerry Lee told me good men struggle, they question, they have regret over the decisions they made “But”, he said, “You’ve got to see the purpose. Look how many men you’ve helped in school and in court. You don’t think God put you here for a reason?” Funny, I didn’t even know he was talking about me when we first started our conversation.
Yes, sometimes the path God takes too get us where He wants us to be doesn’t go according to our understanding. Sometimes the people we most love and most abandon and betray us, but somehow God keeps moving us forward.
A great deal of news coverage was focused this week on Tiger Woods’ divorce. I couldn’t help but think – as I heard his ex give her “People” magazine interview about justifying her decision to divorce him –about the Chinese Philosopher Lao Tzu who said “marriage is three parts love and seven parts forgiveness of sins.”
Observing the broken, twisted lives of so many of the men in here, I realized Lao Tzu’s quote doesn’t just apply to marriage. Life really is about love and forgiveness. Unfortunately, those are the very two things we usually refuse to give out unconditionally.
Like the former Mrs. Woods, we can spend hours, days, months, even years, convincing ourselves we were right to “fall out of love”, right to reject someone, condemn someone, not open our heart and forgive someone. But that’s not what God is calling us to do.
Just like the woman caught in adultery whom Jesus announces “he that is free of sin, cast the first stone,” if God gives second, third, twentieth chances, shouldn’t we?
Jerry Lee hit me at a point when I was struggling to decide if I’d help a young, black inmate. He had asked me to handle a pardon application for him and even got me to speak to his mom on the phone (she’s an evangelical preacher in South Philadelphia).
My problem arose from his crime. He has done 8 years of an 18 year sentence for rape. He was a sailor in Norfolk living in an apartment off base with two shipmates. A female sailor he knew ran into him at McDonalds. They went back to the apartment and started drinking. One of the roommates kept making her drinks stronger. She headed back to the bedroom with the roommate.
A short while later the roommate called the other two back to the bedroom. He had a video camera set up.
“Join in. She’s a freak.” All three guys had sex with a semi-conscious female, and videotaped the entire thing. When she awoke later she saw the videotape and left the apartment and flagged down a police car.
All three guys were arrested. Everything I detailed came right from the young man’s confession, without a lawyer, given immediately after his arrest.
The two roommates took plea deals and received five years. This guy turned it down (“I did wrong, but I didn’t ever mean to hurt her”), went to trial and got 18 years.
I read his transcript and told him, point blank, if I had a daughter I would have wanted to see him beaten within an inch of his life. I had an immediate visceral reaction and I let him know it.
But, here was where it gets tricky. In his file was a letter from the victim. She wrote him after sentencing and told him “I know you’re a good guy. I don’t want you to suffer with such a long sentence. What you did was wrong, but I forgive you.” The victim forgives, yet society punishes.
I’m still torn. But, as I walked the track with Jerry Lee and considered the path God has put me on, I kept coming back to that young woman’s profound, yet simple words. If she could see beyond the act, to the heart of the man, shouldn’t I do the same?
If God didn’t give up on me – even when almost everyone I knew did – don’t I owe the same to a remorseful young man? Maybe Jerry Lee and I can get another walk in.
He wanted to talk about his still pending pardon application to the Governor that I filed for him three months ago. We are both cautiously hopeful that the Governor will do the right thing, the just thing, and free him.
Jerry Lee recently “celebrated” his 18th year in the penitentiary. He also just turned 40. When he was convicted and sentenced back in 1992 to 35 years, the judge specifically announced “if you remain as remorseful as you appear, with Virginia’s lenient parole rules, you’ll be released early”. Three years later, in a quirk of the Virginia penal system, DOC determined his eight robberies, committed over nine days to support a staggering drug habit, constituted multiple convictions and made him a “three time loser”, thereby making him ineligible for discretionary parole (i.e. early release). Jerry Lee has a mandatory parole date of 2016.
Anyway, Jerry Lee’s time in the system has given him amazing insight into people and the inevitable circumstances we all find ourselves in. He’s not a deeply religious man – not as society defines religious – yet he’s somehow managed to become a very good father (his oldest just graduated seminary last June and has been to Haiti twice since the earthquake). He also has a deeper understanding of the human condition than any of the supposed “educated” folks I used to socialize with.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never felt the frustration of dealing with blatant ignorance I frequently feel in here, while hanging with the folks I used to be around. But, there isn’t as much hypocrisy with guys locked up.
Like it or not, when you’re living 96 to a building, when you can’t even go to the bathroom with any privacy, you learn rather quickly life isn’t all about you. For better – or worse – you learn to live and let live.
That explains in large part, how you can have a flamboyant homosexual in the bunk on one side (I’m talking guys who cut and sew their t-shirts and underwear to resemble bra and pantie sets), and a rabid Nation of Islam follower on the other side and not lose a moments sleep.
We walked and talked and he matter of fact like brought up Moses. He said, “You know, Moses was a murderer. He fled; stayed away a whole lot of years, then God said ‘I got something for you to do.’ So he does it, only it’s not easy. Ten times Pharaoh says ‘up yours,’ and his own people bitch, but he hangs in there. And, he helps the folks. What do they do? Bitch some more. Forty years wandering around, never getting into the Promised Land. Never quit believing in his God or his people, even when they bitched.”
Jerry Lee got his point across to me, and it meant more to me than almost any sermon I ever heard in church.
Sometimes the circumstances we find ourselves in don’t make much sense. Whether we’re in a hell we created (like embezzling $2 million over 12 years) or when it’s thrust upon us (like how my ex-wife and kids had to deal with the news of my arrest). It’s at those times we’ve got to do what God directs, not what our hearts tell us to do.
Jerry Lee told me good men struggle, they question, they have regret over the decisions they made “But”, he said, “You’ve got to see the purpose. Look how many men you’ve helped in school and in court. You don’t think God put you here for a reason?” Funny, I didn’t even know he was talking about me when we first started our conversation.
Yes, sometimes the path God takes too get us where He wants us to be doesn’t go according to our understanding. Sometimes the people we most love and most abandon and betray us, but somehow God keeps moving us forward.
A great deal of news coverage was focused this week on Tiger Woods’ divorce. I couldn’t help but think – as I heard his ex give her “People” magazine interview about justifying her decision to divorce him –about the Chinese Philosopher Lao Tzu who said “marriage is three parts love and seven parts forgiveness of sins.”
Observing the broken, twisted lives of so many of the men in here, I realized Lao Tzu’s quote doesn’t just apply to marriage. Life really is about love and forgiveness. Unfortunately, those are the very two things we usually refuse to give out unconditionally.
Like the former Mrs. Woods, we can spend hours, days, months, even years, convincing ourselves we were right to “fall out of love”, right to reject someone, condemn someone, not open our heart and forgive someone. But that’s not what God is calling us to do.
Just like the woman caught in adultery whom Jesus announces “he that is free of sin, cast the first stone,” if God gives second, third, twentieth chances, shouldn’t we?
Jerry Lee hit me at a point when I was struggling to decide if I’d help a young, black inmate. He had asked me to handle a pardon application for him and even got me to speak to his mom on the phone (she’s an evangelical preacher in South Philadelphia).
My problem arose from his crime. He has done 8 years of an 18 year sentence for rape. He was a sailor in Norfolk living in an apartment off base with two shipmates. A female sailor he knew ran into him at McDonalds. They went back to the apartment and started drinking. One of the roommates kept making her drinks stronger. She headed back to the bedroom with the roommate.
A short while later the roommate called the other two back to the bedroom. He had a video camera set up.
“Join in. She’s a freak.” All three guys had sex with a semi-conscious female, and videotaped the entire thing. When she awoke later she saw the videotape and left the apartment and flagged down a police car.
All three guys were arrested. Everything I detailed came right from the young man’s confession, without a lawyer, given immediately after his arrest.
The two roommates took plea deals and received five years. This guy turned it down (“I did wrong, but I didn’t ever mean to hurt her”), went to trial and got 18 years.
I read his transcript and told him, point blank, if I had a daughter I would have wanted to see him beaten within an inch of his life. I had an immediate visceral reaction and I let him know it.
But, here was where it gets tricky. In his file was a letter from the victim. She wrote him after sentencing and told him “I know you’re a good guy. I don’t want you to suffer with such a long sentence. What you did was wrong, but I forgive you.” The victim forgives, yet society punishes.
I’m still torn. But, as I walked the track with Jerry Lee and considered the path God has put me on, I kept coming back to that young woman’s profound, yet simple words. If she could see beyond the act, to the heart of the man, shouldn’t I do the same?
If God didn’t give up on me – even when almost everyone I knew did – don’t I owe the same to a remorseful young man? Maybe Jerry Lee and I can get another walk in.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tough Guys
Prison violence is a daily occurrence. Even at a low custody facility like this, fights break out almost daily. I’ve maneuvered my way past physical confrontation throughout my incarceration. Sometimes it’s easier than others.
Shortly after my arrest I ordered a pair of cheap, Velcro sneakers. I had spent the first two weeks of my jail stay wearing “Jackie Chan’s” (the prison name for the cheap shower shoes they hand out to each newly arrived inmate). I had my T-shirt and underwear (ironically, an Italian silk boxer-brief pair my then wife bought me in Las Vegas) which I had to wash out every night. The jail provided no shoes, no underclothing, just ugly, two piece Khaki uniforms (two sets, exchanged at laundry once a week).
My sneakers and underclothes order came in. I put the sneakers on and began walking around the pod day room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young black guy, covered in tattoos approach me. “Nice shoes old head. Give ‘em to me”. I looked at him. He was serious. He wanted my shoes and if I didn’t give them to him, he was prepared to take them. I had never seen the inside of a jail before, but knew I couldn’t give up my “property” without a fight. I understood the unwritten rule of prison life – it’s better to get your ass kicked than give in to a bully. “Can’t have them.” With that I tightened up, got in a good “fighting stance” and clenched my fists. Guys nearby moved away.
Funny things happen in prison. Just as I was contemplating where and how to hit him, the jail psychologist walked by. He saw her out of his peripheral vision, turned to the screen covered window and uttered the greatest “pick up” line of all time – “Heh baby, yo’ look fine.”
Truth was, she was a very attractive mid-thirties blond. She stopped, looked at him and then . . . noticed that he had lowered his pants and began masturbating (known as “gunning” in prison, guys will get caught doing this in front of female CO’s all the time). In less than 30 seconds the pod door opened and four male CO’s came in grabbed “tough guy”, handcuffed him and took him to the “hole” (solitary confinement). He never came back to the pod. My shoes were safe.
Guys will fight over anything in prison. Robbery in some buildings is a real problem. Two or three young “toughs” pull up on you, demand something, then jump you if you refuse. Yet, those very same guys won’t fight alone. Too afraid.
Loudmouth guys threaten to fight every day; yet, you soon learn their words are mere false bravado.
The “old heads”, the guys who’ve done real time, who’ve seen stabbings, and rapes, and murders in prison, will tell you real fights happen without words. There is just an outbreak of fists, combination locks in socks, shanks, then blood.
I my eight months here there’s been one serious fight: 2 gay lovers in a spat which led to each guy being stabbed in the chest with a broken broom handle.
One of my students – a 62 year old – has busted heads twice in the last six months with combination locks (his nickname in his building is ‘master lock’). Two other inmates suffered serious facial bone breaks from punches in separate fights.
But, most fights at this level are over in a few punches and boil down to simply a man’s fear of losing respect. Respect is the most important emotion there is. Over and over you hear guys say:
“I’m a grown ass man!” (which makes me think guys who say that don’t know the first thing about being a real man). Guys avoid fights for the most part because a fight can bring a discipline charge, a loss of good time, a level increase (and transfer to a tougher prison), and – in serious cases – a “street charge” (prosecution in court for assault or attempted murder).
The loudest, most threatening guys, I’ve learned, are really the weakest. They may talk a tough game, but they act out of a sense of fear, a sense of inadequacy.
I’ve also discovered, if push came to shove, I’d be willing to defend myself. Could I hurt someone? I like to think no, but I realize if I felt truly threatened, truly endangered, I could tear someone apart.
Instead, I’ve discovered that non-violence really does work. Psalm 146 speaks clearly about not putting your faith in “princes”, but in the Creator. I know I’ve been brought safely to this place. I have to trust in God over any other power.
I also think about Paul’s admonition in his first letter to Timothy to set an example, in his “speech, conduct, love, faith, and purity, for all those who believe.”
How we react to fear, to disappointment, to anger, depends on our focus. When your hope is in the Lord, you can overcome anything.
The real “tough guys” in here are the ones who don’t fight, act decently, and never lose faith.
I gave up everything to my ex – all our financial wealth accumulated over 28 years. I didn’t battle her for custody or visitation of our youngest son. She then completely cut me off from all contact with her and our son. Every weekend, I write my youngest. Twice a day I pray about her and our two boys.
Most guys think I’m a fool for giving in and still caring. Big S and a friend from home see it differently. They both told me it proved how tough, how courageous, how loving I am. I’m OK with the decisions I made. And, I didn’t have to fight to keep my sneakers!
Shortly after my arrest I ordered a pair of cheap, Velcro sneakers. I had spent the first two weeks of my jail stay wearing “Jackie Chan’s” (the prison name for the cheap shower shoes they hand out to each newly arrived inmate). I had my T-shirt and underwear (ironically, an Italian silk boxer-brief pair my then wife bought me in Las Vegas) which I had to wash out every night. The jail provided no shoes, no underclothing, just ugly, two piece Khaki uniforms (two sets, exchanged at laundry once a week).
My sneakers and underclothes order came in. I put the sneakers on and began walking around the pod day room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young black guy, covered in tattoos approach me. “Nice shoes old head. Give ‘em to me”. I looked at him. He was serious. He wanted my shoes and if I didn’t give them to him, he was prepared to take them. I had never seen the inside of a jail before, but knew I couldn’t give up my “property” without a fight. I understood the unwritten rule of prison life – it’s better to get your ass kicked than give in to a bully. “Can’t have them.” With that I tightened up, got in a good “fighting stance” and clenched my fists. Guys nearby moved away.
Funny things happen in prison. Just as I was contemplating where and how to hit him, the jail psychologist walked by. He saw her out of his peripheral vision, turned to the screen covered window and uttered the greatest “pick up” line of all time – “Heh baby, yo’ look fine.”
Truth was, she was a very attractive mid-thirties blond. She stopped, looked at him and then . . . noticed that he had lowered his pants and began masturbating (known as “gunning” in prison, guys will get caught doing this in front of female CO’s all the time). In less than 30 seconds the pod door opened and four male CO’s came in grabbed “tough guy”, handcuffed him and took him to the “hole” (solitary confinement). He never came back to the pod. My shoes were safe.
Guys will fight over anything in prison. Robbery in some buildings is a real problem. Two or three young “toughs” pull up on you, demand something, then jump you if you refuse. Yet, those very same guys won’t fight alone. Too afraid.
Loudmouth guys threaten to fight every day; yet, you soon learn their words are mere false bravado.
The “old heads”, the guys who’ve done real time, who’ve seen stabbings, and rapes, and murders in prison, will tell you real fights happen without words. There is just an outbreak of fists, combination locks in socks, shanks, then blood.
I my eight months here there’s been one serious fight: 2 gay lovers in a spat which led to each guy being stabbed in the chest with a broken broom handle.
One of my students – a 62 year old – has busted heads twice in the last six months with combination locks (his nickname in his building is ‘master lock’). Two other inmates suffered serious facial bone breaks from punches in separate fights.
But, most fights at this level are over in a few punches and boil down to simply a man’s fear of losing respect. Respect is the most important emotion there is. Over and over you hear guys say:
“I’m a grown ass man!” (which makes me think guys who say that don’t know the first thing about being a real man). Guys avoid fights for the most part because a fight can bring a discipline charge, a loss of good time, a level increase (and transfer to a tougher prison), and – in serious cases – a “street charge” (prosecution in court for assault or attempted murder).
The loudest, most threatening guys, I’ve learned, are really the weakest. They may talk a tough game, but they act out of a sense of fear, a sense of inadequacy.
I’ve also discovered, if push came to shove, I’d be willing to defend myself. Could I hurt someone? I like to think no, but I realize if I felt truly threatened, truly endangered, I could tear someone apart.
Instead, I’ve discovered that non-violence really does work. Psalm 146 speaks clearly about not putting your faith in “princes”, but in the Creator. I know I’ve been brought safely to this place. I have to trust in God over any other power.
I also think about Paul’s admonition in his first letter to Timothy to set an example, in his “speech, conduct, love, faith, and purity, for all those who believe.”
How we react to fear, to disappointment, to anger, depends on our focus. When your hope is in the Lord, you can overcome anything.
The real “tough guys” in here are the ones who don’t fight, act decently, and never lose faith.
I gave up everything to my ex – all our financial wealth accumulated over 28 years. I didn’t battle her for custody or visitation of our youngest son. She then completely cut me off from all contact with her and our son. Every weekend, I write my youngest. Twice a day I pray about her and our two boys.
Most guys think I’m a fool for giving in and still caring. Big S and a friend from home see it differently. They both told me it proved how tough, how courageous, how loving I am. I’m OK with the decisions I made. And, I didn’t have to fight to keep my sneakers!
Friday, September 3, 2010
Tattoos
One thing you soon discover about prison is almost everyone has tattoos and they almost all were done inside “the walls”. With the exception of “Big S”, almost every guy I know has a tattoo.
Guys’ tattoos come in all shapes and sizes. A lot of young-mostly back guys get their area code or “hood” name tattooed on their arms or neck. Then there are the gang tattoos. Dozens of Hispanic guys sport “MS13” tats; “bloods” and “crips” gang signs adorn hundreds more.
Prison security tracks your tattoos. When you arrive here you strip down and every tattoo you have is recorded on a sheet. Gang tattoos? You make the investigator watch list. Every six months or so, the officers come in and get everyone to line up by their bunks strip down to their underwear and then they check for new tattoos.
Tattooing is illegal in prison. Yet every day guys show up with new artwork. Good tattoo artists in prison can make hundreds of dollars a month for their work. One of my GED students – Scottie – is a regular Picasso. He can do tattoos on your back that look like the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He built a tattoo gun with a smuggled in cell phone charger, a BIC plastic pen, and replaceable staples.
His artwork is incredible – and in color! He does nudes – women (again a highly priced item, a beautiful naked woman on your arm, leg, or torso) – that resemble airbrushed “Playboy” centerfolds.
Ink and tattoo needles? Glad you asked. Old school artists melt down chess pieces then create a “chimney” where the melted piece is burnt further. The “chimney” is then scraped and the residue mixed with hair grease to make black ink. Red and blue? Ink from pens mixed with hair grease.
Today, art supplies are allowed to be purchased so new tattoo artists just buy the ink colors they need.
Needles are another matter. Hepatitis C and HIV are epidemic in prisons for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which is tattooing. Many IV drug users end up in prison already infected. Needles for tattoos usually consist of a staple, straightened and filed sharp (with a nail file), then heated with a match or lighter to sterilize. The staple is “melted” into the tip of a plastic BIC pen. Wires run through the plastic and make contact with the staple. The staple is dipped in ink and the skin pricked (after the design is laid out on the body).
Scottie did an entire family tree on one guy’s back – 11 grandchildren as branches with their names and birthdates engraved. Another guy – 2 naked women in an embrace that move when he flexes his forearm.
Guys get tattoos everywhere. They shave their heads and get their skulls tattooed. Some guys get tear drops tattooed below their eyes. Depending on who you ask, those either me (1) a tear drop for every person you killed; (2) a tear drop for every friend who’s died violently; or (3) you “belong” to another inmate (one guy in my building has a heart tattooed on the back of his neck from an earlier “bid” at a maximum security prison. His tattoo fits into category number 3).
Guys get tattoos for good reasons, bad reasons, because they’re bored, and yes, because they’re stupid.
I tutor a young guy, actually quite bright. He quit school and stayed in and out of trouble until 18 when he got busted for dealing crack. He’ll earn his GED within the next few months then, if he stays motivated, move on to working on his Associates Degree.
I asked him one day what he wants to do after prison. “I want to work in sales. I’m good with people. Maybe start my own business.” I looked at his knuckles on his right hand: “F--k”; on his left “you!”. On his neck – above the collar, a globe that says “F--k the world.”
I asked him who he thought would hire him with those tattoos. His reply: “they can’t deny me a job because of my philosophy. That’s discrimination!” “Yes it is”, I told him. “But, it’s not illegal discrimination.”
I have my own tattoo story; two actually. One “BA” – before arrest: one “AJ” – at jail.
In 1999, when my youngest son was two, I ran a marathon in November. Three weeks later I was at a company meeting. A group of managers went out that night for dinner and drinks. One manager “Bonnie” was busy drinking shots. She ended up fairly drunk; she looked at me and said: “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”
Me: “Yeah. My wife and I talked about getting them.”
Bonnie: “If I find a tattoo parlor tonight, would you get one with me?”
Me: After checking my watch and seeing it was 11:00 pm on a Sunday night, in Roanoke, Virginia “Sure.”
What happens? We walk out of the restaurant and immediately across the street is Roanoke’s finest tattoo parlor, open 11 to 11.
One hour later I’m the proud owner of the Japanese symbol for courage on my left shoulder (or as my then wife liked to call it “the Japanese symbol for I’m a dumb ass”).
Fast forward to spring 2009 in the Henrico County jail. I had befriended a Brazilian guy named Manny. Manny had gone AWOL from the Brazilian army and made his way to Richmond. He met a local woman; they married and had two sons. He also started a construction company. Business was slow so Manny started dealing cocaine. He was arrested, convicted, and threatened with deportation.
I tutored Manny in the jail GED program. He told me about his deportation and his fear of having to leave his wife and kids (all American citizens) behind. I explained he had a right to meet with representatives from the Brazilian embassy. I put the request in and the embassy staff met with him and arranged to get him an immigration attorney.
Manny was a great tattoo artist. He also cleaned the medical unit, which gave him access to packaged needles. He told me he wanted to do a tattoo for me and since he always saw me sitting on my bunk reading the Bible he had a great idea for a cross.
“What the hell”, I thought. I was already locked up, already been served with divorce papers. What would a tattoo matter?
He designed a Celtic cross, about 5 inches in length. Wrapping around the cross is a banner. On it he put my favorite Bible verse: Isaiah 40: 27-31.
I started reciting that verse multiple times each day shortly after my arrest. I still start each day with it. It is all about God’s omniscience, omnipotence and omnipresence. It’s Isaiah telling a questioning people to look around; God created all of this, everything, on His own. If He could do that, He is capable of handling our problems.
It closes with a charge to be patient and let God be God. “Yet those who wait for the Lord will be given new strength; they will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not get weary.”
It doesn’t look like it was done in jail. In fact, most guys think I had it done outside. It’s on my right shoulder. I regret the first one, but not the cross.
So, I get to receiving and the investigator – a cute blond – is interviewing me because my legal background is in my file. She has to make sure I have no enemies.
Her (sarcastically): “Any tattoos?”
Me: “Yes.”
Her: “This I’ve got to see.”
I roll up my sleeves and show her.
Her: “Damn, that cross is beautiful. What shop in Richmond did that?”
I just smiled.
Guys’ tattoos come in all shapes and sizes. A lot of young-mostly back guys get their area code or “hood” name tattooed on their arms or neck. Then there are the gang tattoos. Dozens of Hispanic guys sport “MS13” tats; “bloods” and “crips” gang signs adorn hundreds more.
Prison security tracks your tattoos. When you arrive here you strip down and every tattoo you have is recorded on a sheet. Gang tattoos? You make the investigator watch list. Every six months or so, the officers come in and get everyone to line up by their bunks strip down to their underwear and then they check for new tattoos.
Tattooing is illegal in prison. Yet every day guys show up with new artwork. Good tattoo artists in prison can make hundreds of dollars a month for their work. One of my GED students – Scottie – is a regular Picasso. He can do tattoos on your back that look like the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He built a tattoo gun with a smuggled in cell phone charger, a BIC plastic pen, and replaceable staples.
His artwork is incredible – and in color! He does nudes – women (again a highly priced item, a beautiful naked woman on your arm, leg, or torso) – that resemble airbrushed “Playboy” centerfolds.
Ink and tattoo needles? Glad you asked. Old school artists melt down chess pieces then create a “chimney” where the melted piece is burnt further. The “chimney” is then scraped and the residue mixed with hair grease to make black ink. Red and blue? Ink from pens mixed with hair grease.
Today, art supplies are allowed to be purchased so new tattoo artists just buy the ink colors they need.
Needles are another matter. Hepatitis C and HIV are epidemic in prisons for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which is tattooing. Many IV drug users end up in prison already infected. Needles for tattoos usually consist of a staple, straightened and filed sharp (with a nail file), then heated with a match or lighter to sterilize. The staple is “melted” into the tip of a plastic BIC pen. Wires run through the plastic and make contact with the staple. The staple is dipped in ink and the skin pricked (after the design is laid out on the body).
Scottie did an entire family tree on one guy’s back – 11 grandchildren as branches with their names and birthdates engraved. Another guy – 2 naked women in an embrace that move when he flexes his forearm.
Guys get tattoos everywhere. They shave their heads and get their skulls tattooed. Some guys get tear drops tattooed below their eyes. Depending on who you ask, those either me (1) a tear drop for every person you killed; (2) a tear drop for every friend who’s died violently; or (3) you “belong” to another inmate (one guy in my building has a heart tattooed on the back of his neck from an earlier “bid” at a maximum security prison. His tattoo fits into category number 3).
Guys get tattoos for good reasons, bad reasons, because they’re bored, and yes, because they’re stupid.
I tutor a young guy, actually quite bright. He quit school and stayed in and out of trouble until 18 when he got busted for dealing crack. He’ll earn his GED within the next few months then, if he stays motivated, move on to working on his Associates Degree.
I asked him one day what he wants to do after prison. “I want to work in sales. I’m good with people. Maybe start my own business.” I looked at his knuckles on his right hand: “F--k”; on his left “you!”. On his neck – above the collar, a globe that says “F--k the world.”
I asked him who he thought would hire him with those tattoos. His reply: “they can’t deny me a job because of my philosophy. That’s discrimination!” “Yes it is”, I told him. “But, it’s not illegal discrimination.”
I have my own tattoo story; two actually. One “BA” – before arrest: one “AJ” – at jail.
In 1999, when my youngest son was two, I ran a marathon in November. Three weeks later I was at a company meeting. A group of managers went out that night for dinner and drinks. One manager “Bonnie” was busy drinking shots. She ended up fairly drunk; she looked at me and said: “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”
Me: “Yeah. My wife and I talked about getting them.”
Bonnie: “If I find a tattoo parlor tonight, would you get one with me?”
Me: After checking my watch and seeing it was 11:00 pm on a Sunday night, in Roanoke, Virginia “Sure.”
What happens? We walk out of the restaurant and immediately across the street is Roanoke’s finest tattoo parlor, open 11 to 11.
One hour later I’m the proud owner of the Japanese symbol for courage on my left shoulder (or as my then wife liked to call it “the Japanese symbol for I’m a dumb ass”).
Fast forward to spring 2009 in the Henrico County jail. I had befriended a Brazilian guy named Manny. Manny had gone AWOL from the Brazilian army and made his way to Richmond. He met a local woman; they married and had two sons. He also started a construction company. Business was slow so Manny started dealing cocaine. He was arrested, convicted, and threatened with deportation.
I tutored Manny in the jail GED program. He told me about his deportation and his fear of having to leave his wife and kids (all American citizens) behind. I explained he had a right to meet with representatives from the Brazilian embassy. I put the request in and the embassy staff met with him and arranged to get him an immigration attorney.
Manny was a great tattoo artist. He also cleaned the medical unit, which gave him access to packaged needles. He told me he wanted to do a tattoo for me and since he always saw me sitting on my bunk reading the Bible he had a great idea for a cross.
“What the hell”, I thought. I was already locked up, already been served with divorce papers. What would a tattoo matter?
He designed a Celtic cross, about 5 inches in length. Wrapping around the cross is a banner. On it he put my favorite Bible verse: Isaiah 40: 27-31.
I started reciting that verse multiple times each day shortly after my arrest. I still start each day with it. It is all about God’s omniscience, omnipotence and omnipresence. It’s Isaiah telling a questioning people to look around; God created all of this, everything, on His own. If He could do that, He is capable of handling our problems.
It closes with a charge to be patient and let God be God. “Yet those who wait for the Lord will be given new strength; they will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not get weary.”
It doesn’t look like it was done in jail. In fact, most guys think I had it done outside. It’s on my right shoulder. I regret the first one, but not the cross.
So, I get to receiving and the investigator – a cute blond – is interviewing me because my legal background is in my file. She has to make sure I have no enemies.
Her (sarcastically): “Any tattoos?”
Me: “Yes.”
Her: “This I’ve got to see.”
I roll up my sleeves and show her.
Her: “Damn, that cross is beautiful. What shop in Richmond did that?”
I just smiled.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
By the Rivers of Babylon
I read Psalm 137 this morning. It’s a Psalm written at the time of Israel’s destruction and captivity in Babylon. It is a sorrowful lament and a cry to God to pay back the captors for the agony the writer experiences in captivity.
Captivity is a difficult experience. For those “law and order” types who believe in “lock em up” (and I was one), I can tell you, in general, prison hardens hearts and makes the criminal feel more like a victim than a contrite, rehabilitated individual who has learned that his behavior was wrong. In other words, prisons make prisoners more attuned to law breaking.
I’m here in a low custody facility. We’re in large (96 men) dorms, double bunks, in space that could reasonably accommodate at most 20 men: four commodes, two urinals, an open shower area with five showerheads. I share “cut space” (the area between my bunk and the next bunk) that is less than 21 square feet (7’ X 2’10”). Measure the floor space of a walk-in closet, a laundry room, a half bath, and you will find more square footage than in here.
I’m sure there are those who read this who will say “that’s what you get for breaking the law.” Fair enough. Problem is, in society’s quest to enforce its laws, Virginia (and every other state and the Federal Government as well) violates the law in its treatment of those incarcerated.
Federal law specifically requires inmates to have a minimum amount of floor space – violated. The law requires a state to provide a safe facility for inmates. Tell that to the three inmates murdered in Virginia DOC facilities so far this year. There is a presumption of innocence for every accused. Explain that to the two Virginians recently released after 15 plus years of incarceration for rape when DNA evidence proved conclusively they were innocent.
When society turns a blind eye to the rule of law to “keep the street’s safe”, when citizens tolerate keeping men and women in conditions that violate not only the law, but basic standards of human decency, society loses the moral foundation for its existence.
I’ve had the honor – and yes, it is an honor – to meet men who have survived the hell that is maximum security and maintain their humanity. Winston Churchill said “when you are going through hell, keep going”.
These men have seen, have experienced violent, forcible rape; the stabbings, the beatings (putting a number of combination locks in a sock has a great ability to split a man’s skull); extortion. An older, very wise inmate from the law library wrote a story he asked me to edit about the smell of tear gas and sound of rubber pellets zipping and bouncing around a cell as understaffed, undertrained officers tried to regain control of a cell block in the midst of a gang fight. This is what $1 billion in spending gets Virginia.
As the Israelites of old learned, captivity breaks a person.
Fortunately, the crime of incarceration, the failure of the system, is not the final word. An individual’s capacity to overcome is miraculous.
I think often of Abraham. God promised an elderly Abraham and his wife Sarah, a child. For 25 years they aged and waited. They strayed, they cried out “when O Lord, if not now, when”? Yet, God only answered “I am God, I have promised”.
Through travels and travails they endured. They doubted, they struggled, and somehow they kept faith. “And Sarah conceived and bore Abraham a son in his old age, at the set time of God.” (Genesis 21.2)
There are times in our captivity, whether imprisoned by the state, or by our addictions, our materialism, our bitterness, that we wait and wonder if God has forgotten us; at those times we trust, trust in the reality that we stand on the promise of a God that does not fail us.
There is a beautiful set of lines from the old Hymn “Standing On The Promises: that goes:
“When the howling storms of doubt and fear assail, by the living word of God I shall prevail.”
I trust, I have faith, that no power exerted by the state, in its warped desire to punish a wrongdoer, can destroy an individual’s God-given humanity, if that person truly accepts that God indeed loves him.
It isn’t easy. Prison can make you angry, bitter. You can focus on those who prosecuted you; family and friends who abandoned and betrayed you. You can obsess on the injustice of your sentence, the unfairness of the process. You can become a hunter, taking advantage of those weaker than you. You can run scams, hustles, and learn to be a more ruthless, sophisticated criminal.
Or, you can become – as these honorable “old heads” have shown me – a man of mercy and forgiveness. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s contrary to human nature. We tend to want to attach conditions when we show mercy?
“I’ll forgive you if you apologize satisfactorily.” Or “You must fix the problem before I stop being angry.” Or “You must make restitution before I let this go.”
That may be human nature, but it’s not God nature. God calls us to show mercy and forgiveness without condition. We are to love and forgive, even when we are hurt terribly.
Just as the Israelites experienced after 70 years, God always keeps His word. He always sets the captives free.
Captivity is a difficult experience. For those “law and order” types who believe in “lock em up” (and I was one), I can tell you, in general, prison hardens hearts and makes the criminal feel more like a victim than a contrite, rehabilitated individual who has learned that his behavior was wrong. In other words, prisons make prisoners more attuned to law breaking.
I’m here in a low custody facility. We’re in large (96 men) dorms, double bunks, in space that could reasonably accommodate at most 20 men: four commodes, two urinals, an open shower area with five showerheads. I share “cut space” (the area between my bunk and the next bunk) that is less than 21 square feet (7’ X 2’10”). Measure the floor space of a walk-in closet, a laundry room, a half bath, and you will find more square footage than in here.
I’m sure there are those who read this who will say “that’s what you get for breaking the law.” Fair enough. Problem is, in society’s quest to enforce its laws, Virginia (and every other state and the Federal Government as well) violates the law in its treatment of those incarcerated.
Federal law specifically requires inmates to have a minimum amount of floor space – violated. The law requires a state to provide a safe facility for inmates. Tell that to the three inmates murdered in Virginia DOC facilities so far this year. There is a presumption of innocence for every accused. Explain that to the two Virginians recently released after 15 plus years of incarceration for rape when DNA evidence proved conclusively they were innocent.
When society turns a blind eye to the rule of law to “keep the street’s safe”, when citizens tolerate keeping men and women in conditions that violate not only the law, but basic standards of human decency, society loses the moral foundation for its existence.
I’ve had the honor – and yes, it is an honor – to meet men who have survived the hell that is maximum security and maintain their humanity. Winston Churchill said “when you are going through hell, keep going”.
These men have seen, have experienced violent, forcible rape; the stabbings, the beatings (putting a number of combination locks in a sock has a great ability to split a man’s skull); extortion. An older, very wise inmate from the law library wrote a story he asked me to edit about the smell of tear gas and sound of rubber pellets zipping and bouncing around a cell as understaffed, undertrained officers tried to regain control of a cell block in the midst of a gang fight. This is what $1 billion in spending gets Virginia.
As the Israelites of old learned, captivity breaks a person.
Fortunately, the crime of incarceration, the failure of the system, is not the final word. An individual’s capacity to overcome is miraculous.
I think often of Abraham. God promised an elderly Abraham and his wife Sarah, a child. For 25 years they aged and waited. They strayed, they cried out “when O Lord, if not now, when”? Yet, God only answered “I am God, I have promised”.
Through travels and travails they endured. They doubted, they struggled, and somehow they kept faith. “And Sarah conceived and bore Abraham a son in his old age, at the set time of God.” (Genesis 21.2)
There are times in our captivity, whether imprisoned by the state, or by our addictions, our materialism, our bitterness, that we wait and wonder if God has forgotten us; at those times we trust, trust in the reality that we stand on the promise of a God that does not fail us.
There is a beautiful set of lines from the old Hymn “Standing On The Promises: that goes:
“When the howling storms of doubt and fear assail, by the living word of God I shall prevail.”
I trust, I have faith, that no power exerted by the state, in its warped desire to punish a wrongdoer, can destroy an individual’s God-given humanity, if that person truly accepts that God indeed loves him.
It isn’t easy. Prison can make you angry, bitter. You can focus on those who prosecuted you; family and friends who abandoned and betrayed you. You can obsess on the injustice of your sentence, the unfairness of the process. You can become a hunter, taking advantage of those weaker than you. You can run scams, hustles, and learn to be a more ruthless, sophisticated criminal.
Or, you can become – as these honorable “old heads” have shown me – a man of mercy and forgiveness. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s contrary to human nature. We tend to want to attach conditions when we show mercy?
“I’ll forgive you if you apologize satisfactorily.” Or “You must fix the problem before I stop being angry.” Or “You must make restitution before I let this go.”
That may be human nature, but it’s not God nature. God calls us to show mercy and forgiveness without condition. We are to love and forgive, even when we are hurt terribly.
Just as the Israelites experienced after 70 years, God always keeps His word. He always sets the captives free.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Thinking About Roger
They indicted Roger Clemens this week for lying under oath to Congress about using steroids. I must confess, I can’t stand Roger Clemens. I’m a life long New York Mets fan. When Clemens deliberately beaned Mike Piazza – a great Met – I went ballistic. I still recall my wife reacting in horror as I led our then 3 year old son in prayers:
“Dear God, please make Roger Clemens’ arm fall off. May he choke and die, O Lord.”
Yeah, that was wrong-funny, but wrong (apparently praying for your husband to die in jail is OK though). So, yes I hate Roger Clemens.
But, lying about steroids? Give me a break. If Roger Clemens wants to shoot his butt full of steroids, so be it. If baseball wants to punish him, that’s their business. Clemens isn’t in trouble for using steroids. He’s in trouble for lying about using steroids.
I’ve got a definite opinion about lying. Lying to my wife hurt us more than anything. I couldn’t – or so I thought – tell her everything that was going on. Instead, I made everything seem perfect. Need more love and affection? Overwhelm her with gifts to prove my love and desire for her.
Fear is a terrible emotion. And, fear of failure, fear of loss, can lead you to do horrendous, self-destructive things. You finally realize that when it’s too late. I did. I decided to come clean when I was confronted about a questionable $30,000.00 check. My employer offered to suspend me with pay. I decided to tell the truth, the whole painful truth. What’d I get? A six count indictment and a 30 year sentence (with suspended time and good time I get out in 2020!).
The truth also led to my divorce and finding out the woman I loved hadn’t loved me for years. The truth sucks, right? Wrong. The truth made me free! (I wish I had coined that expression).
Which brings me back to Roger Clemens. It was reported they offered Clemens a plea bargain; no jail time if he admitted he used steroids. Clemens turned the deal down. He’s either innocent (which I highly doubt given that his former trainer kept incriminating evidence against Clemens “just in case”), or he’s scared to death what baseball people – fans, sportswriters, hall of famers – will think if he admits he used.
Fear is a terrible thing. So is the absolute, unlimited power of the Federal Government to prosecute you. The government will spend whatever it deems necessary to prosecute you, even if it’s only over a needle in your ass or a loudmouth Illinois Governor trying to auction off our incompetent President’s former senate seat.
Here’s my advice, Roger. I still can’t sand you, but I want to help. I’ve discovered during my time locked up that most incarcerated guys can’t be honest with themselves. They can’t come out and say either “I really screwed up. This is my fault; I’m responsible” or “Yeah, I did it.” Either way, they’d at least be honest about the circumstances that put them here.
This country – in spite of our current asinine judicial system – does forgive and give second, third, even fourth chances (isn’t that right Robert Downey Jr. and Marion Barry).
FDR was right. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Tell everybody you used. You wanted to pitch well into your 40’s. Your body was aging and you needed the edge.
As much as I can’t stand you, I don’t want you in prison blues.
“Dear God, please make Roger Clemens’ arm fall off. May he choke and die, O Lord.”
Yeah, that was wrong-funny, but wrong (apparently praying for your husband to die in jail is OK though). So, yes I hate Roger Clemens.
But, lying about steroids? Give me a break. If Roger Clemens wants to shoot his butt full of steroids, so be it. If baseball wants to punish him, that’s their business. Clemens isn’t in trouble for using steroids. He’s in trouble for lying about using steroids.
I’ve got a definite opinion about lying. Lying to my wife hurt us more than anything. I couldn’t – or so I thought – tell her everything that was going on. Instead, I made everything seem perfect. Need more love and affection? Overwhelm her with gifts to prove my love and desire for her.
Fear is a terrible emotion. And, fear of failure, fear of loss, can lead you to do horrendous, self-destructive things. You finally realize that when it’s too late. I did. I decided to come clean when I was confronted about a questionable $30,000.00 check. My employer offered to suspend me with pay. I decided to tell the truth, the whole painful truth. What’d I get? A six count indictment and a 30 year sentence (with suspended time and good time I get out in 2020!).
The truth also led to my divorce and finding out the woman I loved hadn’t loved me for years. The truth sucks, right? Wrong. The truth made me free! (I wish I had coined that expression).
Which brings me back to Roger Clemens. It was reported they offered Clemens a plea bargain; no jail time if he admitted he used steroids. Clemens turned the deal down. He’s either innocent (which I highly doubt given that his former trainer kept incriminating evidence against Clemens “just in case”), or he’s scared to death what baseball people – fans, sportswriters, hall of famers – will think if he admits he used.
Fear is a terrible thing. So is the absolute, unlimited power of the Federal Government to prosecute you. The government will spend whatever it deems necessary to prosecute you, even if it’s only over a needle in your ass or a loudmouth Illinois Governor trying to auction off our incompetent President’s former senate seat.
Here’s my advice, Roger. I still can’t sand you, but I want to help. I’ve discovered during my time locked up that most incarcerated guys can’t be honest with themselves. They can’t come out and say either “I really screwed up. This is my fault; I’m responsible” or “Yeah, I did it.” Either way, they’d at least be honest about the circumstances that put them here.
This country – in spite of our current asinine judicial system – does forgive and give second, third, even fourth chances (isn’t that right Robert Downey Jr. and Marion Barry).
FDR was right. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Tell everybody you used. You wanted to pitch well into your 40’s. Your body was aging and you needed the edge.
As much as I can’t stand you, I don’t want you in prison blues.
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