“A beautiful testimony of how our shared-life in God is renewed through story. It shows the reconciling power of God’s love in our openness and vulnerability — the way to Peace. If you want to see who we are created to be for one another, read this book. It is a wake-up call.”

— Sr. Helen Prejean, csj, Author of DEAD MAN WALKING

“Restorative justice is, simultaneously, an ancient way of healing individuals and community, and at the cutting edge of the intersection between faith and justice. Doing Time with God and Bill Dyer are right at that edge.”

— Allison DeFoor, Episcopal priest in prisons, lawyer and former judge and Sheriff

“As a victim of domestic violence, a mother whose son has spent time behind bars, and someone whose best-friend/step-sister was violently murdered, my life-mission is to reduce crime. Healing is a vital part of that process. I love these stories for how they affirm God’s healing power that perpetrators and I experience together, when I share my story in prisons.”

— Katherine Burns, Director of a Re-entry Center for ex-offenders

“Bill Dyer peels back the layers of humanity as he shares these gripping stories. He provides a compelling glimpse of the struggle with forgiveness and redemption, the breaking down of cultural stereotypes, and the collision of emotions between victims of crime and those who inflict the pain. The presence of a loving, nurturing, and persistent God weaves its way through each page-turning account of how lives are changed by Faith. I highly recommend this book; especially to anyone who believes the redemption of God has human limitations.”

— Joseph Pryor, Assistant Warden; Chief Chaplain,

Federal Bureau of Prisons (retired)

“At a time when our nation spends more money locking people up in prisons and jails than rehabilitating and educating them, and when more and more prisons are profit making ventures, this challenges us to remember God’s awesome power in finding the lost, healing the sick, and turning people’s lives around. Read this compelling book and be inspired by what is being done to transform lives and restore people to productive places in society.”

— Lynn Huntley — Former Civil Rights Attorney, US Department of Justice

“I used to say ‘Throw away the keys.’ Not anymore after reading this book.”

— Veronica Stephens, Retail store owner and victim of gun violence

DOING TIME WITH GOD

Stories of Healing and Hope in Our Prisons

BILL DYER

DOING TIME WITH GOD

Copyrighted Material

Doing Time with God

Copyright © 2014 by Bill Dyer

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise — without prior written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

For information about this title or to order other books and/or electronic media, contact the publisher:

Bill Dyer

Restored Life Journeys

PO Box 10361

Jacksonville, FL 32247

BillDyer@RestoredLifeJourneys.org

ISBN: 978-1-61961-907-4

FEEDBACK WELCOME

Thanks for downloading my book. At an appropriate time, please review this book on Amazon. I’d like your feedback to make the next edition better. Thank you so much! ~Bill Dyer

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Feedback Welcome

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Author’s Reflection

Reflection and Discussion Questions for Each Chapter

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to extend my profound gratitude to my parents for their love, sacrifices, and teaching me to follow my heart.

I wish to thank Caroline for your encouragement to keep writing that other book, even though the desire to publish it faded away. I fully appreciate how much that process contributed to how this book is written.

I want to express my deep appreciation for Dena Harris and Chris Laney. To Chris, for our unplanned coffee shop conversation when you informed me there was one seat left in your writer’s class starting the next day; I had no idea it would lead to this. To Dena, for sharing your idea to write this book when some of us met that night after class; To both of you, for your time, lessons, and guidance.

I would like to thank Linda Schumacher, Vikki Spencer, Linda Stansbury, and Kim Williams for your feedback when I first got underway with this project; it inspired me to keep writing.

I wish to humbly thank the many people who gave freely of their time and hearts to make this possible, including: Judy Barney, Holly Barrett, Hayden Behnke, Bryna Bozart, Jackie Bradley, Mike Burnett, Katherine Burns, Dave Cecil, Allison DeFoor, Jordan Duchscherer, Ann Dyer, Greg Dyer, Wes Ely, Mike Goodrich, Kimberly Corson-Hicks, Lynn Huntley, Shellie Jacobs, Susan McCann, Jane Offill, Sharon Pittman, Sr. Helen Prejean, Joe Pryor, Mary Risley, Bea Staub, Veronica Stephens, Merikay Tillman, and Becky Williford.

My immense gratitude goes out to Beth Tjoflat. Thank you for your friendship. Your generous offer of time and expertise, so soon after we met, was humbling, affirming, and came right on time.

To Janine and Eddie Jones, thank you for introducing me to your friends. To Janine, thanks for your friendship, being a great sounding board, and thinking out-loud with me as we travelled up and down the road. Your vision, perspective, and enthusiasm was energizing and motivating.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

With the exception of what I’ve written describing my personal experience as a victim of violence, this is a work of creative nonfiction. I have taken the liberty to change names, omit or alter details, and arrange some sequences of events to protect people’s privacy, taking care not to compromise the character of the stories. I’ve created dialogue from my imperfect memory, sometimes from dozens of similar conversations with different people about separate events. I have not named specific institutions of the many I have entered, and haven’t identified a specific program from the various ones I have led or participated in over the years.

I’ve done the above to ensure anonymity, while maintaining the essence of my experience of God’s transforming presence in prisons.

INTRODUCTION

Going to Prison

It’s a two-hour drive from home. I left the interstate forty-five minutes ago. Only passed a few cars in the last half hour; not much is happening out here. A few homes scatter the landscape, all in need of major repairs. This scene contrasts last week’s visit, just off a beltline with skyscrapers in view. The facility was more relaxed and reminded me of a new community college, although the cameras and barbed wire revealed a higher priority than the education offered there. Today’s institution is eighty years old, four times bigger, and more imposing with its sniper towers peering over towering walls. That’s one reason it sits on the far side of the boondocks. Baking on high heat in mid-August and crumbling at the edges, this broken road goes on forever through a forest of deep southern pines.

Rumbling over cracked asphalt and straddling faded yellow lines, I review the points to make with the group today — sharing my experience of being robbed and shot at an ATM. Lots of ground will be covered in thirty minutes, including the physical, mental, and emotional suffering that traumatized me as a victim of violence: the stories of self-hatred I tortured myself with for three months in the hospital; the hot rage that bubbled up like lava beneath my pretender face that said, “I’m ok. I can handle this.” The baseball bat I imagined raising hell with to break my shooter’s legs; the steady flow of resentment that destroyed every area of my life. Lessons learned from my reckless reactions, including how I missed God’s presence; then, God’s light breaking through my darkness, leading to forgiveness.

The prison sign seems to appear from nowhere. It is a reminder how God has brought me full circle. The population here is around 1,500. After parking the car, I sense being watched. The towers have eyes. Although there is no way of knowing how many are looking, I do know they are trained to miss nothing. Before leaving the car I empty my pockets of all things that can get me in trouble: pen, change, wallet, and phone. Then make my way across the parking lot to join another volunteer named Katy. With each step toward the main entrance, the scrutiny increases. Eyes behind mirrored sunglasses want to know our business. Rifles-at-ready confirm their right to know. I talk to myself, “Only ID. Only ID,” patting myself down again to make sure nothing was missed the first go-round.

After greeting Katy, the most dangerous gate in the state shakes into action and rolls back a few feet. We step through and the first level of maximum security closes behind us. Now we face another gate exactly like the first. We stand between towering fences laced with loops of shimmering razor wire surrounding the perimeter. Rows of the stuff crawl from the ground up into the evening sky like hazardous Slinkys. This next gate once took twenty minutes to open. Apparently a volunteer from another program complained about the delays. After four or five protests, he was never allowed back. When visitors enter this house, “Ma’am” and “Sir” can never be understated or overused.

Today the wait is short. After passing through, we walk down a short sidewalk between abandoned flowerbeds. Next, we open a brown door and step into a small room with no give. I would want all my loved ones in here if a tornado hit. The concrete walls are bare and uninviting. The uncovered light bulb overhead speaks well for this place: “We aren’t trying to impress anyone.”

The gray floor reminds me of a fiberglass factory where I worked one summer as a teenager for a boss who hated college bound kids. It was easy to sweep but hard as marbles to sit on while eating lunch. I couldn’t stand that job, wanted to quit every day. That’s when my father taught me a lesson about doing what you say and finishing what you start. Little did I know how that would apply to my ten-year journey with God two decades later, feeling as if I was heading in the wrong direction most of the time. It all makes sense now. The road with God led to places like this.

The room we’ve entered has no furniture. In one corner there is a barricaded area. The wall is waist-high and a smoke-colored material extends to the ceiling. I have heard it can stop bullets. Another inflexible person is behind there somewhere; someone with constant training to go by the letter of the law or find another job. We walk toward our distorted reflection and say “Hi” to the hidden one. A muffled “Hello” comes through and we begin the usual drill with little small talk. Driver’s licenses and DOC (Department of Corrections) cards are checked against an approved visitor’s list and sign–in sheets are passed through a sliding drawer that seems to be dragged over gravel. Upon approval, we pass through a metal detector. The sound of a nerve-racking buzz over rolling steel fills the room. A thick door that could double as tank armor slides back allowing further entry into this place that some of our classmates describe as hell.

Once the iron door bangs open, we move into a space the size of a storage unit. As the door thunders closed behind us, Katy and I instinctively back away from it. It rams shut with final authority. The small room is silent. A ceiling camera reminds us there is no escape unless someone wearing combat boots lets us out from another room. We’re getting a tiny taste of what it’s like for those who live here. Naturally, questions arise. “If I were locked up like this, how would I deal with it? Would my strategies work or would I go crazy? Would there be times I’d rather be dead?”

The next door roars into action, jolting me out of my disturbing questions. I am reminded that God’s presence on this pilgrimage exists for purposes beyond my self-focused questions. We make our way through a corridor that’s lit up like a hallway in a hospital. I’ve heard some inmates refer to prison as a hospital — a place for healing and rest. It is interesting how prison can be hell for one and a hospital for another. I suppose it depends on the person, the prison, and the life left behind on the outside.

We approach another guard station. The officer standing post greets us with a smile and explains the sign-in procedure. After being checked through, we walk on and encounter bars blocking the hall from floor to ceiling. I think of how much easier it is to get in here than out. This part reminds me of a zoo. Through the bars, I see more officers, an enclosed command center, and more corridors leading in different directions — to cell blocks, classrooms, offices, the open yard, and another outside area with human cages that resemble dog runs. Here we stand in the center of this highly secured, very unstable, and mostly forgotten community.

Moving through, I wave to an officer who last month was struggling with issues at home; he looks to be doing better. Another officer escorts us down a corridor. I stop at the door to Cellblock 8, wanting to see if an inmate I know has been moved to this area. Katy continues down the hall to our classroom. Inmates in 8 are doing hard time. Some are here for the nature of their crime, others because they haven’t followed the rules. The men here are referred to as “high risk”. Most are violent. Some break all the stereotypes. I once met a guy working on his third master’s degree. There have been artists, a physician, a pastor, and a fellow who was putting the finishing touches on his second novel. It’s impossible to predict who will be here or anticipate their wide range of talents. Some of their areas of expertise got them here. That’s why it’s good to remember where I am.

In this block, that’s not hard to do. The door must be unbolted by strong hands on both sides using keys the size of pliers. Once the door is unlocked, I plant my feet and use most of my 250 pounds to haul it open. My already alert senses are on edge. Death row is one block over; these men don’t face that plight, but must live with just as few privileges. Inmates refer to block 8 as “the hole.” There is no central air conditioning. These humid, 6x9 foot cells remain locked twenty-three hours a day. For some of these inmates it will take years, if they make it at all, to earn the privilege to get to the classroom down the hall where our class will soon begin.

While checking the resident chart, I stand in front of a fan that could double as a plane propeller. Maybe it’ll prevent me from breaking a sweat. The noisy draft from the fan feels good on my skin, but my overall experience is not enjoyable. The odor reminds me of ninety toilets that await an overdue flush that only happens simultaneously at certain times of the day. The hardship in this dungeon is potent. Existence here feels, smells, and sounds like it’s been marinating in human misery far too long. At this time of day, the energy is ramped up and unsettling. The cries of the people are varied.

Noisy chatter and uncontrollable banter travels between cells. Some voices are full of inner chaos; some are charged with defiance; aggressive rants are aimed at various people or things; insecure shouts cry out for attention; and other interactions represent more friendly communication that can’t happen unless the volume is cranked way up. All of this clashes together between the rails in three stories of open space, which a few have hurled themselves over in the past to end their suffering. Whatever the racket is about, some living here are weary and exhausted and want to change, if they only knew how. The charged noise drowns out and often fades into murmurs of broken voices in desperate need of love, hope, and a soft place to fall.

That’s why God is here — to comfort, heal, guide, and form those who are too exhausted to keep their guard up or who have mustered enough courage to let it down. In these lives, an opening exists for the radical love of Christ to enter in, have its way, and free the captives.

We drive many miles and then navigate the maze each week for this purpose: to participate in the mystery of God’s love that makes all things new. We know we are called, pulled, and finally compelled in a way that ultimately cannot be ignored or resisted. In that spirit we do our best to open to God, hoping to be instruments of love in service to the least, the last, and the left out: those whom God never forgets.

But we know our purpose for being here goes much deeper than that.

We know what we share with these inmates: we are all children of God, members of one human family, made from love, by love, in love, for the purpose to love. We are all on a journey, living with lots of upside potential to be fuller expressions of Christ for one another, finding and losing and finding our way again in this thing called life.

Some prisons have nothing to do with living behind bars. Many of us understand how we build our own holes of solitary confinement and lose our life in them. We’ve paced back and forth in ruts called getting through the day and keeping up with the Jones’. We’ve been captured by thoughts that invade our minds like panicked bats trying to fix and change past moments to feel better. We know the discomfort of sleeping on metal cots made of fear, worry, and doubt. We’ve been trapped in anger and resentment; confined by false beliefs and ignorant prejudices. We’ve worshipped our self-centered agendas and understanding, tied up in the stress of constantly trying to fix ourselves or get from here to there to have more; attached to the ball and chain of addictive strategies to find happiness that doesn’t last. We know the pain of looking for love in all the wrong places and putting on a smiley face to look good on the outside when our world is coming undone on the inside. We’ve been so caught up in our problems that we are doomed to create more. We’ve been convinced that we are victims of our circumstances, powerless to choose another way and stop the madness. We’ve careened down that slippery slope many times and crashed into walls of self-imposed suffering.

As God patiently waits for us, we remain locked up in inner prisons, unable to experience God’s love while sitting in the midst of it. As we ignore God’s presence, we experience the figurative and dismal meaning of the words — Doing Time with God.

To be saved from ourselves, we realize that we need God as much as anyone wearing a DOC jumpsuit. In God’s classroom, while we might teach or lead a discussion in one moment, we find ourselves a student in another, as God reaches out to us through inmates. We often see more peace in inmates than we do in ourselves or in others on the outside, including some who seem to “have it all.” For those of us who have never lived behind walls in a prison with bars, there is a precious jewel of wisdom to learn from that. For many inmates, the depth of their desire for God and the good they have to offer can’t be measured by the numbers on their back.

For the sake of God and one another and the world, we prayerfully come together each week for the purpose of healing and restoring peace in our lives and world. Our hope and intention is to participate with God in slowing the revolving door on prisons, creating safer communities with fewer crime victims and less taxpayer burden associated with incarceration. We open to God so God can do what we alone cannot, and we are never disappointed. Unconditional love seeps into the darkest corners of our being, like water into cracks of hardened dirt, growing flowers fragrant with new life in God.

The process of opening to God begins with victim-survivors of violence sharing their stories with inmates. Although the inmates are not the direct perpetrators of the offenses they hear about, the stories bring them face to face with the devastating impact of crime on individuals, families, and communities. Inmates “hear” the voices of those they have hurt; they “see” the pain they have caused; they come to grips with the fact that it can last a lifetime. Inmates also see their own families in the stories they hear. They become aware of the pain they have caused loved ones; how they have hurt themselves; and how they’ve been hurt in life — by hardships, wrongdoing, crime, unhealthy environments, substance abuse, addiction, betrayals, and childhood abuse, trauma, or neglect.

As empathy is awakened and compassion grows, a safe space is created for inmates to share their life stories, including the events and choices that landed them in prison. All this leads to meaningful conversations through which victims of violence and inmates open themselves to receive God’s love for healing, forgiveness, guidance, and formation.

It is humbling to be with victim-survivors and inmates as they willingly surrender for healing and reconciliation. It is a blessing to see inmates’ desire to grow and stay out of prison after release. It is a joy to watch inmates participate with God and take necessary steps to restore peace in their lives, relationships, and in their community.

Although it is impossible to fully capture these transformative experiences with words, in the stories that follow I hope to do justice in pulling up a chair for you in God’s classroom, as I have experienced it in various prisons. As you join our journey, perhaps something life giving will awaken in you; maybe an insight will shed light on your own journey. Questions for reflection and discussion are listed at the end of the book for that purpose; you can bring them to each chapter. Perhaps you’ll be touched in a meaningful way by the inmates and victim-survivors who make these stories possible. My hope is you will see how God is restoring peace in our world from behind prison walls and fully appreciate the literal and promising meaning of the words — Doing Time with God.

CHAPTER 1

“Suddenly everyone started picking up the pieces…”

I’m on my way out of town for business. Standing in front of the ATM, I hear movement behind me. I turn to say good morning to who I assume is another bank customer. No words make it past a hard swallow. There’s a gun pointed at me. I get instructions: “Take out the max amount. I need it for crack.”

I never saw this coming. This past weekend I strolled along this quaint street, stopped to read the paper in a coffee shop, and then wandered in and out of gift stores before stopping at a deli for the best chicken salad ever. None of these places are open now. It’s too early, around 4:30 in the morning.

My heart races toward nervous wreck. While I attempt the transaction, my card is rejected. I insert it again. It still won’t work. The voice behind the gun gets louder, more demanding, “Hurry up!” I make another try. No luck. “There’s another machine at the grocery store up the street.” Even as I speak, I know the store is closed, but say nothing more. It seems like a better option than staying here the way things are escalating. The gunman is game for the idea. I remember my car idling on the curb and ask if I can turn it off before we leave on foot. It seems absurd, being cautious of my car being stolen while in the midst of a robbery. None of this makes any sense.

The robber says he’ll turn off the car. While he’s bent over in the driver’s side door twenty feet away, I think about running but my legs don’t move. I think about it again, but now he’s done and hurrying back. My keys go in his pocket.

We walk the uneven sidewalk in pitch dark, occasionally passing through a swath of light cast from street lamps. I’ve walked this stretch many times but I don’t remember it taking this long. Upon reaching the store, we find it closed. The gunman turns me around with orders to return to the original machine or else. During the walk back, I remember another credit card in my wallet. I use it on my next attempt.

Thank God, it works. While withdrawing money, I hear a noise behind me. It sounds like a sharp clap, louder though. A thought enters, “The gun just went off.” Nothing hits me or ricochets off the pavement or wall. I continue the transaction. A second thought arises, “It didn’t sound real.” I retrieve two hundred dollars and hand it to the robber. He counts it, sticks the gun in my side, and says, “Let’s go.” With gun jabbing me, we walk again, this time in another direction down a side street. I have no idea where we’re going. A few blocks later, I remember hearing on TV that the chances of survival drop with every step in this situation. I stop walking. He has no choice but to do the same. “I’m not going with you. Please just give me my keys and let me go. You have the money to get your crack.”

He reaches into his pocket and looks surprised to find the keys there. He takes them out, looking confused, unsure of what to do. Seconds pass, then he announces a new plan — to steal my car. He hurries away looking nervous and afraid. I watch him go. I think, “This is wrong. I’m out here making an honest buck, saving up to get married, and this guy’s stolen two-hundred dollars and now going for my car and his gun isn’t even real!” Out of that conviction, my feet start moving, following him in the direction of the car. I raise my voice so he can hear me halfway up the block, “Come on. Don’t take my car. Don’t take my car!” The gunman starts running away. My mind races, faster and faster. Then it jumps its track. I snap; I’m out of my mind, a madman. I don’t know the person I become in that moment, sprinting after him.

It happens so fast, finding out I was wrong about the gun. The thief whirls around and a gunshot breaks the pre-dawn silence like a bolt of lightning splitting the darkness. The hollow point strikes and my leg explodes. My shattered femur can’t hold my weight, and I crash to the pavement while the shooter runs away. I try standing up but there’s no way. “Surely I’ll wake up from this nightmare any moment.” Seconds pass before reality steamrolls my wishful thinking; “I’m in big trouble. I might die in this street.”

“Help! Help!” I cry out with all I can muster, over and over, for what seems like eternity. At last I see a car approaching. “This is the help I desperately need.” I rise up on an elbow to wave it down. The headlights come closer and closer, and then swerve to avoid hitting me. I watch in disbelief; the taillights disappear. All hope gone, my mind floods with images of my family and fiancé, but then a sense of peace washes over me, and a new thought emerges: “I’m not dead yet.” But then: “The robber may come back to finish me.” Looking around, I see a deep shadow on the sidewalk. “If I can crawl into it and keep still, and the gunman does return, maybe he won’t find me.” I begin dragging myself toward it.

Inching along, I finally reach the curb. While pulling myself over it, I see a man near the ATM. He’s easing toward me like my dog Max would when approaching a raccoon, unsure of what it was or what it might do. In the light of his silhouette, I can tell Mr. Cautious isn’t the shooter. The faint sound of approaching sirens is heard in the distance, getting louder and louder. “Maybe this guy called 911.” Before he reaches me, red and blue lights and crime scene tape are all around. I’m covered by an oxygen mask and hurried into an ambulance, then rushed to the emergency room. The sun hasn’t even hit the horizon, and already this is the worst day of my life.

After sharing my story with our group, I describe my miserable existence while recovering in the hospital, highlighting my obsession with revenge and the costs of my reaction — wasting precious time; doing nothing productive or constructive; making zero contribution to the world in a positive way; sabotaging relationships with loved ones; feeding my anger and fear; creating more stress that didn’t help me heal; getting stuck in a downward spiral of hopelessness and negativity; and giving myself no chance to experience God’s presence.

After asking if anyone wants to say anything about what they’ve heard, an inmate named Mike has a confession to make.

“I snapped like you did,” he said. “That’s why I’m in prison.”

I ask, “Would you be willing to tell us what happened?”

Without hesitation, Mike describes the party he went to with a friend five years before. There were lots of people there he didn’t know. He hit it off with a few of them talking Atlanta Hawks basketball. A few hours later, Mike was with his new friends in a smoke-filled room. Everyone was loaded, in more ways than one. There were baggies and bottles, pills, pipes and assorted weapons lying around. An argument started over a girl and ended in a gunfight. Mike says, “It happened so fast…” His voice trails off with his eyes. He stares into space remembering that day with agonizing regret: If he could just go back and undo the snap.

I say, “I snapped and paid the price of getting shot. If I had gotten my hands on the robber, I may have killed him. That would have landed me in prison. It’s a losing proposition either way. Once I saw that, I realized it was important for me to accept responsibility for the violence in me, by opening to God for the healing of past hurts. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”

We all take a moment, reflecting on the cost of our knee-jerk reactions. Although Mike feels horrible about what happened at the party, there is an opening in his pain — a desire to grow. This provides a good opportunity for talking about surrender and giving God room to work in our lives. We discuss and share examples of how God heals and guides us, and helps us stop destructive reactions. We talk about finding new life in God beyond our limited understanding and the challenge of trusting more and being vulnerable; how truth is often revealed through patience; and the miraculous things that can happen when we don’t force our issues, when we pause for God. During the course of our conversation, Mike says, “I want to change when I get out of here. I want to get better at pausing for God.”

Curtis, a volunteer and recovering addict, doesn’t waste time offering some wisdom from personal experience. “Mike, you say you want to change when you get out of here, but change is a ‘here-now’ thing. It needs to happen while you’re in prison. This class is a training ground for when you get out. If you don’t take advantage of that you’ll probably be back.” We see Mike reach to grasp this concept of prison as a training opportunity for positive change. His experience so far has been just the opposite.

Curiously, I ask Mike, “Have you ever snapped in prison?”

“Yes” he says, in a tone that suggests it’s impossible for there to be another answer.

“Did you get in trouble?” I ask him.

“I went to the hole for it.”

While sitting on his cot one day, Mike noticed that a bag of potato chips was missing from his locker. They couldn’t be far, because he wasn’t away long. Mike crammed a bar of soap into a sock, tied a knot in it, wrapped the loose part around his hand, and jumped up like a cage fighter. Everyone cleared back. “Who took them?! Who’s got my chips?!”

The guilty party was easily spotted. Tornado Mike took a path down the aisle on a beeline to his target. As he tells the story, I notice his strong, bulging, tattooed arms. I understand why some in our class call them guns. He looks like Popeye on steroids. I can imagine how scary it would be to see him coming with that sock, if I knew the swings were intended for me. Five words explain why he landed in the hole: “I went crazy on him.”

“Over a bag of chips?” I ask.

As soon as the words are out, I sense my error. The smallest possessions are like gold in here, and I pay for my mistake. The venom in Mike’s voice tells me I’m an idiot: “It’s disrespectful. You let one guy get away with it, and you’re a target for the rest.”

Everyone looks at me to see what I’ll do. I nod my head affirming what Mike has said, then let him know I’ve heard the same from others.

At a loss for what to say next, I fall silent. Mike is somewhere between defense and attack mode, and my words put him there. For progress to be made, we’ll have to get back to Mike’s soft spot — the one he showed earlier, where his regret and sorrow live.

Another inmate breaks the awkward silence with a question for Mike. “Is that why the ambulance came?” Mike’s glare somehow answers yes.

“What’s the hole like?” Curtis asks. “Is it hard being in there?”

Mike responds, “Not really.”

“What does it cost you to go there? What do you lose?” I ask.

“Can’t go outside much,” says Mike. “Have to be in a cage when you do. Can’t leave the cell and move around. No mail comes in. No one visits…I mean no one can…visit.” These words trip over each other on the way out of Mike’s mouth.

“Does anyone visit you regularly?” I ask.

Mike looks away before answering, “My mom.”

“So you couldn’t see her when you were in the hole?”

Head down, Mike says, “Right.” A few seconds pass before he adds, “My mom visits every month if she can afford it.”

“Does it hurt you to not see your mom?” I ask.

He continues staring at the floor and doesn’t answer.

I ask again, a bit differently “Does it hurt your mom when she can’t see you?”

Mike wipes his eyes, answering both questions at the same time.

“Are your potato chips more important than your mom?”

Mike shifts in his chair. There’s no way his potato chip defense can wiggle out of this question and take the top spot. No one moves. No one looks around. No one speaks. Seconds pass.

Mike responds, “My mom is number one in my life over everything else. Every time she visits I see how much it hurts her that I’m here. She cries every time. It starts as soon as she sees me. She gets so torn up. I’ve told her she doesn’t need to come if it’s too hard, but she says the pain of not seeing me would be greater.” As Mike’s words fade into silence, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, reflecting on his biggest cost for snapping — hurting his mom.

Healing is happening all around our circle. Everyone looks like an innocent boy lost in thoughts about his own mother. Ervin’s voice emerges from the silence: “My mom has always stuck by me too.” We sense words taking him to a deeper place. With watery eyes he tells us, “For as long as I remember she always supported me. She made my lunch, took me to school, and came to all my games.” He invites us back to a simpler time in his life: “She was the gum-mom for all my teams growing up. She’d bring it for everyone and sometimes make brownies to give us after games. All my friends liked coming to our house to play. She’d tell them to bring their uniforms if they were dirty so she could wash them. She fed them too.”

Ervin shares other childhood memories before fast forwarding. “One day a few years back, I was with my mom in her car. I saw the guy who stole my cousin’s car and tried to pimp my baby sister. I had my gun and opened the door. My mom knew what was up. She said, ‘Let it go. Let it go.’ I got out of the car to go shoot him. My mom got louder, ‘Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.’” Ervin pauses then says, “I got back in the car.”

After finishing the story a small smile breaks across his face. Looking bashfully, he says, “I’m a momma’s boy.” Other inmates look at Ervin like they can’t believe what he just said. Some look like they can identify. I find myself smiling at Ervin, appreciating how a mother’s love stopped a shooting.

Ervin was arrested a short time later for something unrelated and shares the meaning he’s gleaned from today’s session. “If my mom hadn’t been with me that day, I’d probably be doing life right now. I think God has me here so I can learn more about what my mom was teaching me about letting stuff go.” Toward the end of the program we see the impact of these conversations on Mike and Ervin.

Mike reads a letter written to his mom. “I’m sorry I messed up and didn’t follow everything you taught me. Please forgive me for what I’ve done. I know I’ve disappointed and embarrassed you and I promise to do better when I get out. I’m working on my self-control. I know how hard it is for you that I’m in here. I’m sorry for hurting you so much and making you cry. I love you, Michael Benjamin Richard Washington.”

Looking around I see that everyone is touched. After taking it in for several seconds, Marcus (a good friend of Mike’s) starts chuckling about something. He covers his mouth trying to be polite but can’t stop. Finally he just says it: “That name…,” he laughs again, “…it’s so long, man…” Mike smiles, but isn’t in a joking mood. This is no ordinary letter; he has given it lots of thought.

He tells Marcus, “I know it sounds funny but that’s my real name, the one my mom gave me. I signed it that way because she always called me that when I was in trouble as a kid.”

Later in the program, we see how Ervin’s mom continues teaching him through our class conversations. He describes an incident while playing dominoes. Ervin owned the set and after he won the game, the other inmate jumped up furious and cleared the table with one swipe of his arm. Pieces flew through the air everywhere, bouncing across the floor and under tables and chairs from wall to wall. The game’s loser stormed off. “I just sat there,” Ervin says. “I couldn’t believe it.” He tells us about the other inmates who saw what happened. They gathered around and started shouting, “You just gonna sit there!? Aren’t you gonna do anything!?”

“I didn’t move, just sat there thinking of what to do.”

Still, the others kept egging him on. “You just gonna sit there!?”

Ervin finishes the story, “I was about to get after him…” Looking at the floor shaking his head in awe, “…Suddenly, everyone started picking up the pieces and bringing them back to me. I never got out of my chair.”

Moved by this image, I wonder out loud if Ervin sees God in this anywhere. “What do you take away from this experience?”

Ervin looks up at me, then back to the floor as he mulls it over a minute. He looks up again and tells us, “It gives me hope.”

A few seconds later, Mike quietly adds, “Me, too.”

CHAPTER 2

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Katy is our victim speaker today. She’s in her mid-thirties. This is her second time volunteering in prison. After her first visit, she decided to return for two reasons. First, Katy has lived a nightmare and wants to do what she can to prevent others from living their own; maybe the inmates will be inspired to change. Second, she found healing for herself the first time she shared her story with inmates, and she wants to continue that process.

Katy begins her story by telling us about getting pregnant at sixteen and being disowned by her father. She lived with her grandmother until she was eighteen and then married her baby’s father, Sam, after he graduated high school. Soon, the verbal and physical abuse started. Except for grocery shopping, Katy went nowhere without Sam. The rule was clear — call every hour or else. Katy says Sam was a control freak the entire eight years they were together. “Make me breakfast.” “Get in the bedroom and take off your clothes.” “Shut up.” “Bring me a beer.” If she didn’t obey the drill, or do it the right way, Katy hid in the house for the next day or two…or three. It all depended on the amount of damage to her face and how well her make-up did with the cover-up. Katy was a failure in Sam’s eyes. “You stupid bitch”; Katy heard and felt those words every day.

Katy wanted to run away but was terrified to make a move. “I felt so stuck. Sam threatened to hurt my daughter, Brittany. Plus, I thought I’d be a worse mom if I left. I didn’t think I could provide for us.”

As Katy opens her wounds, the emotions spill out as she climbs her way out of a tortured past. It seems like it all happened yesterday. One moment Katy is furious about the living hell she’s been through; in another, she turns on herself and feels ashamed for staying so long and setting a dangerous example for Brittany. She is saddened by what Brittany endured and how it will likely affect both of them for years to come. Katy’s heart is wide open, laid out for all of us to see how it has been shaken, pulled and torn apart like a pitbull’s play toy.

With tears flowing, Katy tells us, “Even though the memories are painful, I know that remembering and crying are good for healing. I always feel better a few days after.”

Katy’s words are filling up empty holes of male perspective. The quality of the listening is high all the way around our circle. However, the filters are different. Katy’s story seems to be hitting home in a variety of ways. Some inmates listen with their ears and eyes; others cannot bear to look at Katy; her tragic story strikes too close to home.

One day everything changed for Katy. Something changed in her. It happened on a Saturday as Brittany, then seven, peered out from behind the couch watching it all. Sam had Katy pinned from behind against the window with such force she thought it would break. The curtain was wrapped around her neck. Using all her power, she couldn’t ease his stranglehold, much less get him off her. With head pulled back, face smashed against the window and the life being choked out of her, Katy’s struggle weakened until she had nothing left inside for pushing back. She gave up the fight, trusting there must be more to life than what she was living.

That’s when the sky outside came into view. Katy became transfixed on the most beautiful deep-blue-transcendent-something she had ever seen. In that moment, she made herself and God a promise. If she made it out alive, she would run away with Brittany as soon as possible.

Katy kept her word. One night, with Sam at the bar, Katy’s friend Dawn swung by the house and they drove off into the night, never to return again. Katy and Brittany lived in a shelter in another town. Dawn’s place wasn’t big enough for the three of them. Eventually, they all moved into a bigger place together. Katy started taking high school classes again. Dawn helped with Brittany as Katy waitressed her way through school at a diner down the street. After getting her GED, Katy enrolled part-time in community college at night to become a hair stylist. That’s what she does today. As she talks about it, a smile breaks across her face. She loved styling her friends’ hair when she was younger, and she feels the same way about her job today. The future looks promising. Brittany is doing well in school and just made the varsity softball team.

Next, Katy shares the lasting impact of her ordeal. The nightmares still invade her sleep, although less frequent than before. She talks of how afraid she and Brittany feel when men raise their voices. Katy can’t stand to look at a beer because it reminds her of Sam and everything he did. She will never understand how a man can beat up a woman. Katy tells our group, “It’s cowardly, beating up women and belittling them in order to feel bigger. If any of you do that, you need to stop; you need to get help. If you don’t, you need to stay in prison.”

A few, whose eyes were on Katy before, now look away. A lingering silence falls on the group as some try to digest the rock Katy just fed them. Sensing the difficulty, Katy adds, “Obviously I care about you or I wouldn’t be here. I’m glad you’re in this class. You can change, and you deserve the chance. I hope my story helps with that.”

The group body language speaks volumes about the power of human stories when they come forth with such raw authenticity. Most in our circle continue looking at the floor or gaze into the past somewhere. Just how Katy’s story landed in each person is not known. However, there is no mistaking that, for some, Katy hit the mark hard, at a steep angle, with no landing gear.

Matt makes the first move, breaking the reflective silence. His words ride over a deep exhaled breath, “Oh my God…Oh my God…” Matt struggles to continue. He breathes as if the wind has been knocked out of him. He looks at Katy. “Thank you for telling us that.”

Katy replies, “You’re welcome.”

“My dad did that to my mom…” Matt continues, “…beat her up that way.” He pauses for a moment. There is much at stake now. “But I’m like my dad too.” He struggles to look at Katy. “I hit my girlfriend a few times, but I never came close to killing her.”

Katy pounces on Matt’s rationalization like a cat on a mouse, “It doesn’t matter that you never came close to killing her! Hitting her, period, it’s wrong. No one deserves to be treated that way. How would you like it if someone did that to you?” Matt remains still, frozen in the spotlight of Katy’s hunt. She can’t leave it alone. “You have no idea what it’s like,” she goes on, “You don’t even have to hit her. Do you talk to her like my ex did?”

Matt says nothing. Katy must know. “Do you?”

Matt quietly replies, “Sometimes.”

Wrong answer for Katy, “Well you need to stop that too! The verbal stuff can be more damaging than the physical. It makes you feel worthless, like you’re nothing. It takes lots of therapy to get your esteem and confidence back.”

Matt is taking serious heat with no relief in sight. At times like this, when the fire of God’s love gets hot enough to burn, BIG decisions are sometimes being made to get the H out of Dodge. Matt may be vowing to make this his last visit to God’s classroom. He says nothing else, just sits there mad and red-faced, like he’s wearing straightjacket pajamas covered with toy trucks.

This is when the answer to a question in Week One can save the day. I ask Matt, “Why did you say you want to be in this class?” Arms still tied in a knot, Matt can’t seem to hear the question. I ask again; still no response. I gently continue, “It’s your life. This is about your life, Matt. Change doesn’t come easy. That’s why we do it together. Like it or not, this is part of the process.” I give him a moment. “What did you say you want to get out of this class?”

The knot loosens, and he responds, “I want to learn to deal with my anger.”

I ask, “Are you mad right now?”

One guy chuckles at the question with an obvious answer. Matt shoots him a look. Katy shoots him another and he instantly knocks off the bad timing. Matt answers truthfully. “Yes.” The knot loosens more.

Katy gets back in the game with a more supportive tone, “Matt, I said all that to help you. Did my story help you?”

This picks the lock on Matt’s straight jacket. His arms relax down; then some more; not all the way though. He says Katy’s story did help, but he feels singled out.

We talk more about change being uncomfortable, how we all gain from what he has to share, and how everyone will have their day of feeling confronted in here. Matt says he feels bad about what he has put his girlfriend through and needs more time to process everything.

I agree. “It is a lot. We’ll leave you alone now. You’ve set a good example for all of us. Thanks for staying with it. You could have quit the class.”

As others acknowledge Matt for his willingness to stay in the conversation, his hands slide into his lap.

Thanks to Matt, the others are able to see firsthand what God asks of us. The next time someone in the group straddles the line between coming and going, remembering Matt’s example of staying the course could save their day.

Several weeks later, Matt takes us through his story. As he does, Katy wipes away tears. Throughout Matt’s childhood, his dad stayed drunk and abused his mom. Matt and his sister got it, too. Once when Matt was eight, he limped into the house after school with a bullet in his leg from a drive-by shooting. His wasted father took him to the bedroom and stuck a pencil in the bullet hole to toughen him up.

Routinely, Matt was locked in the attic when his dad had enough of him. Once a day, the attic door cracked open and a plate of leftovers was slid through. Though risky, Matt remembers the morning he made a little hole in the floor with a spoon handle. He watched cartoons from above, through the ceiling of the living room as his little sister watched from the couch below. That’s one way he survived solitary confinement in the attic.

Matt recalls what he witnessed at age ten. “I watched my dad kill my baby sister. He shook her to death.” Matt tells us his mom and dad went to prison after that. Matt went into foster care. There, things didn’t get better. Matt was abused so badly that he tried killing his foster parents when he was fourteen. He was not successful. After a few years in juvenile detention, he was taken to another house in a state-owned car to meet his next set of foster parents. When the car stopped, Matt jumped out and bolted. The officer gave chase to no avail. Matt ran for a few days before jumping a freight train to a new city. Now homeless, he slept in a wrecked van, accessed through a hole in the junkyard fence, and ate out of dumpsters for the next few months, until the fair came to town.

There, he met Sandy. She worked the goldfish game with her parents. Her family took Matt in, and he travelled the circuit with them. Matt worked the family business until he and Sandy turned eighteen; that’s when the young couple struck out on their own. The streets took them in, welcoming them with open arms. They got into drugs and small-time stealing to pay for rented rooms at seedy motels. Their niche became walking into stores and taking off with Xbox and PlayStation games without paying. As the price tag on their addictions grew, their takes increased accordingly. Eventually, Matt and Sandy were scrambling past check-out clerks and security guards with pillow cases full of treasures.

Matt describes his life with Sandy once the police knew who they were and the heat was on. They constantly moved around, spending every night in a different place. “We were paranoid, always looking around, afraid to go out, sleeping in our clothes with our shoes on in case we had to move fast. Sandy was a mess, always talking non-stop. I was going crazy.” Suddenly, Matt looks at Katy sitting next to him. “That’s when I lost my temper and started hitting her.”

Matt shares how Sandy disappeared one day while he was out making a score. A frantic mess, he called her cell phone. It rang over and over. Matt dialed it again and again. This went on for days; a week later Sandy answered. “She told me she was with the dealer we owed money to: That she was never coming back; that her life was better now.” Matt describes how the dealer got on the phone and told Matt he better stay away if he wanted to live. Matt adds, “That didn’t fly with me, but before I could borrow a gun and go up there, I got arrested.” He pauses. “I think about Sandy all the time. I hope she’s OK. I still love her.” He searches the floor for something else to say, but comes up empty. “That’s all I got.”

The usual quiet follows. Katy speaks first. “I’m sorry about how you grew up. It breaks my heart.”

The next voice is also full of tenderness, “That’s tough, man. You’ve really been through it.”

A few more express their disbelief about what Matt endured in the attic as a kid. Matt says nothing.

Katy begins again, very gently. “I wonder if Sandy left because you were hitting her.”

Matt responds, “I think so, probably because of that and all the chaos. I can’t blame her.”

Katy addresses the refuge Sandy may have found with the other man. In mid-sentence she breaks down sobbing, unable to continue.

There’s no way to predict what will happen in these classes — what the love of God will open up for those who come. Katy goes with the flow of God’s medicine, even though it sometimes burns. She’s learned to stay with the healing that’s happening. Everyone allows nature to take its course as Katy cries. At last, she’s ready to talk again. She sniffles forward, explaining her feelings. “I’ve had opportunities to date, but I just can’t do it. I can’t trust. I’m still too afraid.” Wiping her nose, “But I’m lonely too. I left ten years ago and haven’t been touched by a man since…I mean in a good way. I’ll probably be alone…”

Katy loses it again. Her body shudders and more tears fall. The rest of the words break free from a deep place inside her, “…for the rest of my life.” Matt’s hand moves up and barely touches her shoulder. Katy jerks away like she’s been burned, then goes off on Matt for laying a hand on her. “What are you doing!?” Matt’s arm hangs in mid-air as Katy stares him down over her shoulder. Then his innocent hand returns to his lap and he looks away.

After a few seconds of watching Matt looking at the floor, Katy sees the answer to her question. Her shoulders return to the back of her chair. While wiping her cheeks with both hands, she gently says to Matt, “Thank you.”

Looking at her feet, Matt responds, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

CHAPTER 3

“I don’t want to hurt people anymore.”

After I share my experience of being robbed and shot, there is reflective silence. This is interrupted by slowly spoken words in a deep voice that come from the heart of an inmate named Ramon. Staring at a section of floor where the tiles are missing, he says, “I’m in here for selling drugs.” Then looking at me, “Did you say the guy who shot you needed the money for crack?”

I nod and add, “That’s what he said.”

Holding up his hand like a pistol and lifting his index finger to signify the kick of a hand gun firing, Ramon says, “I never shot or killed anyone before, but I wonder if I’ve ever sold drugs to anyone who did that to someone like you.”

Craig, another inmate who hasn’t said anything in three weeks, jumps in. “I bet they have. Drugs do that to you, especially when you don’t have a job or enough money and you need more.” He pauses; then his voice drops. “My dad did that; that’s why he’s in prison.”

I ask, “How old were you when your dad went to prison?”

He holds up both hands, all ten fingers. “I saw him being arrested. I was playing with some friends down the street and I remember they laughed and joked about it. I did too.” As Craig says this, it’s clear he no longer thinks it’s funny. His next words are spoken to an object on the wall that used to be a bulletin board, “My son is eight. I’m glad he didn’t see me get arrested.” Looks of agreement are exchanged around the circle. It seems like this is new territory. Perhaps some have never considered what their arrest meant to their children or what their incarceration means to their kids right now.

Ramon has a question for Craig, “Do you think your dad has something to do with you being in prison?”

“Yeah, I guess,” says Craig. “I really didn’t know anything else growing up. I don’t remember a time when my mom wasn’t smoking crack at the kitchen table as I ate my cereal before school. She was an addict too, as bad as my dad. That’s how she died.”

A hushed silence lingers like smoke from a bombshell. Gathering himself, Craig continues, “After my mom died, I went to live with my Aunt Tonya, but it only lasted a year. She couldn’t control me. By the time I dropped out of school, I was in the streets all the time.” Craig recalls how his aunt begged him to stop, but he didn’t. She finally kicked him out when he was fifteen because she didn’t want him around his nieces and nephew. When he went from spending lots of time on the streets to living on them, things spiraled downward like a war-torn plane falling from the sky.

A lengthy discussion follows about what God is revealing. We talk about how many variations of “victim” there are including victims of crime, poverty, abuse, alcohol, drugs, and other addictions; circumstance; poor role models; and incarceration. We also talk about restoring peace and co-creating a life we love by using our God-given ability to choose. We discuss the importance of accepting responsibility for our choices and owning up to actions that hurt others.

Throughout this conversation, every man in every seat slows down. They are engaged. Before these guys came to prison, most lived their lives going crazy fast — like driving jet-engine speedboats offshore in choppy seas at full throttle, eyes on a senseless mission, ears peeled back with fists raised in defiant victory. They were about the rush, the risk and the high; getting what they want ASAP with no regard for the well-being of themselves or anyone else.

Then they came to prison. Here, listening to victim-survivor stories that reveal our shared humanity, they slow down and turn inland. Paralleling the shore, the wake of hurt and pain they’ve caused comes into view. Watching it spread behind the boat farther and farther, the sun sets on their selfishness. They sense God’s call to change. Looking back more than forward, they slow to the pace of a houseboat. Before realizing what’s happening, they turn around to take care of unfinished business with God. While rocking through the darkness of victim stories, they toss and turn over waves of hurt caused by their recklessness. They drift into unchartered territory as a newfound compassion forms in their hearts, eventually running aground on the desire for a new beginning.

This has happened to Ramon. He looks lost and found at the same time. His identity, as a free-wheeling drug dealer, lost its bearings while listening to our stories. Like a lighthouse, God’s beacon of light illuminates a picture of ruin. Looking around our circle, all he sees is scattered debris of lives that were once innocent and full of promise. Ramon can’t deny the collateral damage from his years of dealing drugs.

A mother is dead, people have been shot, victim families have been crushed, dreams have been shattered, a father is in prison, followed by a son, families have been destroyed, and the cycle will continue if children like Craig’s son aren’t shown a different path. God’s classroom has gotten to others in our circle as well. Ramon isn’t the only one in here for dealing drugs, and Craig isn’t the only absent dad. The fathers in the group aren’t stupid. They know their children are learning ‘God knows what’ from ‘God knows who’; that they can’t teach them many of life’s lessons from behind prison walls.

Ramon’s next words speak well for where he and the others have come today. He shares his attitude about dealing drugs before joining our circle. Ramon never thought he should be in prison; he saw himself as no different from a liquor store owner. When people want liquor, they buy it off a shelf; if they want crack or crystal meth, they buy it off Ramon. It’s no big deal, everyone’s an adult, and no one gets hurt.

Seeing with new eyes, Ramon can’t buy that bag of lies any more, much less sell them as “really good stuff.” He realizes drug dealing has more to do with death and destruction than it does with wads of twenties and hundreds rolled up in rubber bands. For the first time in his life, Ramon knows he has participated in killing people without ever using a gun. Long shadows of ignorance have disappeared in God’s light. We see how brightly it directs his path forward when Ramon speaks his peace: “I don’t want to hurt people anymore.”

These are the words that witness to God’s love working in our circle. As we leave prison today, I am grateful for how God transforms lives when victims and inmates come together for purposes of peace. I’m thankful for how God restores lives from the wreckage of crime through victim-survivor and inmate storytelling. I am amazed how God reveals our oneness in our shared humanity, when most would say we have nothing in common. I thank God for the department of corrections staff for allowing us to enter this place and participate with God in restoring peace in our world.

Ramon is like ninety-five percent of the inmates in our class. They will be released and live among us. Their homes will be next door, down the street, and around the corner. As we wait at stop lights, some will hold signs; others will idle next to us in their car or pass in front of us on the crosswalk. We’ll find ourselves within feet of one another in other places too — pumping gas; standing in line at the store; sitting in a movie theater; waiting for a subway, bus, or plane; checking out a book at the library or singing in church. Our paths will cross on the way to and from work, as well as at ball games, festivals, parks, and concerts. Former inmates will wave flags or march past us at Veteran’s Day and Fourth of July parades. They will cook, serve, and eat food at restaurants, as we work alongside them or dine with family and friends at a nearby table.

As our lives cross paths outside prison walls, the picture of justice we’ve been counting on looks rather dim. National studies show that fifty percent of former inmates will return to prison within three years of release, leaving behind more victims, more pain, more brokenness, and more costs to cover to the tune of $30,000 per inmate per year. This is not very promising; especially with the average prison sentence being three years and another $30,000 a year being required for dependability programs for inmate families who can’t make ends meet.

County jails and state and federal prisons are our institutions. As taxpayers, we are paying for them. As citizens, we are counting on them. Unless we do something different, nothing will change. That’s why offering faith-based, self-awareness, and educational classes, behind bars, is so important. When God’s transformation enters the picture, recidivism rates drop significantly. Depending on the type and breadth of programs offered, the rate can fall below ten percent. In addition to programs inside the walls, ex-offenders need support after release to further reduce recidivism. Ex-offenders need assistance in all kinds of ways, from a variety of people, with various gifts.

I pray that the right ones will show up, that those who are called will respond, and that the revolving door will seize up in God’s love. Ramon exited God’s classroom tonight through a different kind of prison door. His broadened perspective won’t shrink back to what it was before. Ramon won’t forget what he experienced in our circle. He won’t be able to pretend it didn’t happen. I wonder how God will manifest in our next meeting. I pray we’ll be in for another long night like this one — where the time flew by, full of God’s amazing grace.

CHAPTER 4

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Eric got his first gun on a Saturday when he was eight. He wandered out on the porch at daybreak after going to his parent’s bedroom and seeing his mom curled up on the bed asleep with a black eye and bloody toilet paper in her nostrils. There was nothing he could do.

In one way, the scene from the porch was much the same, but in another way it was very different. He found his father passed out in the front yard. What had caught Eric’s eye was the .38 caliber laying in the grass inches from his father’s hand. As quiet as the sunrise, Eric picked up the gun. Then he eased away, tip-toeing backwards, before turning and running to the backyard. There, he hid it under a tarp inside an old paint can in the corner of the shed. Then he returned inside and watched cartoons with his three sisters. This wasn’t the first time he awakened to this scene, and it wouldn’t be the last. Over the next eight years, Eric saw, heard and felt much more, especially at night after going to bed.

Before getting this far sharing his story, Eric tries to back out of his agreement to share today. After we pray and take roll, he says “This morning I realized I’m not ready to tell my story. There’s so much that’s happened in my life. I don’t even know where to start.” He looks at me, silently asking for a break.

“Why don’t you just start with your childhood?” I suggest. “What was it like growing up?”

Eric shifts in his chair, looking disappointed that my expectations of him haven’t changed. Then he looks around at the others, waiting for someone else to back him up. Nothing going; his friends have learned to hold the space. Eric hones in on Katy. His eyes plead with hers. As this is happening, I wonder which way her compassion will take her. Eric is out of luck.

These are the moments when no one knows what will happen next. We don’t know how we will be moved until we are. There’s nothing to do except wait for the next movement and go with it. Sometimes the direction jumps around as it unfolds; sometimes it doesn’t. Whatever way the Spirit leads is always perfect. Eric could refuse to go on. He has that option. If he insists, we will honor it. He also knows that, if not now, his time will come. Others have bailed from their planned time to share, and in every case someone else stepped up. We applaud those who do and encourage those who can’t break through the fear yet.

Our wait continues. The ball is in Eric’s court. Someone may run to his side and rescue him from playing this dicey game. On the other hand, someone else may encourage him to pick up the ball and hit it back. We just have to see what happens.

Shifting around, Eric exhales a long breath of the old life being squeezed out of him. He picks up the ball and hits it back. “Man…it’s SO hard.” He sighs and shakes his head and wrings his hands.

Katy says, “Eric, you have an important story. You know this process is for you, but it’s for us too. We need each other to grow. We need you. No one can tell your story but you; no one’s story can help the way yours can.”

Eric takes this in. Still looking terrified he says, “OK. But I’m telling you, this stuff is crazy. People who know why I’m here think I’m nuts. Sometimes I think it myself. Maybe I am crazy.”

I think of how our self-image impacts what we do. What might Eric do in prison, or when he gets out, if he really believes he’s crazy? I say, “I’ve done stuff people thought was nuts,” then ask the group, “Has anyone else?”

Eric looks around to see he isn’t alone. This doesn’t help his case. He squirms around more; one last-ditch effort to escape the pressure. “Yeah, but like I said, this is CRAZY, crazy. It’s really out there, I’m telling you.” Eric shakes his head, saying “You all don’t understand and never will.”

Someone makes a funny. “If you think that then maybe you are crazy.” As the ice breaks, so does a tiny smile across Eric’s face.

Someone else says, “How do you know we won’t understand? Try us.”

The ball is in Eric’s court again. What’s he going to do? Eyes closed tight, Eric seems to be bracing against loud shouts of “NO!” from every cell in his body. Then, with his eyes still shut, he begins. “I’m an only child. My dad was in the military so we moved around a lot when I was young. I don’t remember much before he got out….”

In God’s perfect timing, Eric is underway. His eyes open. Soon he gets to that Saturday morning when he couldn’t do anything for his mother and wandered out on the porch to find his daddy’s gun. Later that day, his father asked if Eric had seen his pistol. He told him “No.” That’s the last time his dad asked about it.

Eric reflects on a time when he was eight and ran home crying after getting beat up by some older kids. His dad went ballistic when he heard Eric calling for his mom. “Get your ass back here!” The commander came through the doorway, grabbed Eric’s arm and pulled him outside like a ragdoll. “Sit down, Boy!” The most hardened lesson of Eric’s childhood was about to be taught in the backyard.

His father walked out to a tree and picked up a stick, then returned to the doorstep and sat next to Eric. While taking out his knife, the basic trainer verbally lit into his son. “Shut up! Stop crying, sissy boy! No boy of mine does that! It’s time for you to grow up.”

Eric shut down like a leaky water faucet. His father started whittling away while repeating, “Don’t ever come home crying again…Don’t ever come home crying again…”

Eric watched the branch turn into a weapon. Then the seasoned expert put the rookie in a headlock and pulled him closer. Eric imitates his father’s thick Arkansas drawl; he exaggerates it while telling us what his dad promised him twenty-five years ago, just an hour up the road. “Now I’ll show you how to be a real man and fight for yourself. If you ever come back here all baby faced again, I’ll do you the same way.” Eric’s tears dried up as he took the words in, deeper and deeper into his innocent, fertile third-grade mind.

Eric’s father pulled him up and they crunched through the snow and out into the yard. When they stopped, the commando held the real knife and handed Eric the home-made version. Guiding Eric’s hand as if teaching him how to play a sport, his father showed Eric how to hold the weapon, how to strike the target, where to sink it in, and how to follow through. From that day forward, Eric pretty much stopped crying, and no one bothered him anymore.

Eric’s anger isn’t hidden as he recalls this. It’s come and gone in various degrees since he started. This is one reason the sharing is so important — so some of the mad can come out; so healing can happen.

Eric recalls a day when his parents weren’t home. As he sometimes did when they weren’t around, he went to the shed and checked the paint can; Still there. This time he did something he never had before. He stuck the gun in his pants underneath his shirt. “I remember walking through my neighborhood to the YMCA like I owned it, thinking ‘No one better touch me.’ I felt so powerful.” The gun was back in the can when his parents got home. Eric was glad it was there; he knew he could do certain things with it if he wanted.

Dad continued verbally abusing and physically beating his mom over the next several years. Sometimes Eric found himself at the wrong end of his father’s fists. Once, after winding up in the emergency room, his father spoke down for him: “He’s always loved sports. I’ve told him these things can happen.” Even though Eric had been tempered by the steely pointed pep-talk on the back steps, he never felt tough enough to stand up to his father — until he was sixteen.

That year, Eric came home one day from baseball practice and found his dad with his mom pinned against the wall with both hands around her throat. His father released her as Eric flew at him like a derailed locomotive. Eric’s mom scrambled to the bathroom as all hell broke loose. Hand-to-hand combat ensued between soldier and son. In the end, Eric’s face was the only one bloodied and bruised with an eye swollen shut. He managed to get away from the enemy. “I ran out and hid in the park. I couldn’t sleep that night because I thought he would try finding me. He never did. Early the next morning I snuck back to the house and went….”

Eric screeches to a dead stop mid-sentence, like he’s been sprinting toward a cliff without paying attention. His spinning mind grasps for a hold, as if he’s already over the edge, free-falling to the rocks below. It takes some seconds for Eric to say another word. When he does, we can tell he’s found the solid ground of logic, “I’ve never told anyone all this before.”

This is a significant juncture; a beautiful moment. This is the “crazy” part. If Eric continues, it will be a life-changer. If he can get the weight of it off his chest, he will never be the same again. No one speaks. No one moves. It’s dead quiet, yet we are alive with hope that he’ll go on. There is no effort to do anything but love Eric with our listening; to simply be with him in his lingering hesitation about sharing his darkest secret. While sitting together the silence of God’s presence becomes part of Eric’s story instead of a distraction from it. No one is running away. Eric knows if he’s going to continue peeling off the layers for a higher purpose, there will never be a better time than now. He really has no choice. Eric is far enough down the road of his story that the exhaustion from holding everything in can no longer hold everything in. It’s time to share his “crazy.”

Eric is home again looking through the back window. “I saw him lying on the couch. I cracked the door open to see if he would move. He didn’t, so I pulled it open more and went and got my gun.” Moments later Eric was standing over his enemy, barrel pointed at his head at point blank range. He started to cry. He couldn’t do it to his dad. So he went outside, sat on those familiar steps, and stared into the yard.

Some time passed. Eric went back in the house. Again, he stood over his father, watching him snore. Again, he couldn’t bring himself to it. Eric went back outside and walked a few circles around that tree; then headed in again with Plan B and a renewed commitment. This time he stood over the one who abused him and his mother, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. Eric’s mom jolted wide awake. He heard her coming in a wail, but flew out before she saw him. Picked-up, while shooting hoops at the park later that day, Eric was taken in for questioning. He denied involvement, saying he got in a fight at school. Eric was told his mom would be charged for the murder of his father. He couldn’t let that happen.

“That’s how I got here.” These words dive into a silence that goes on and on.

Finally, someone shifts in their chair for the first time in forty-five minutes. A sweet voice full of quiet resolve says, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Eric looks up in wonder. Like an unpopular school kid who just heard “I love you” for the first time in many years, he wants to make sure he heard it right. With hopeful anticipation he asks Katy, “You don’t, really?”

She responds with a reassuring smile, “Really.”

Like soft voices in a choir, entering one by one around the circle, the rest of us join Katy’s affirmation of Eric’s sanity. As this happens, Eric’s body unwinds like a twisted rubber-band, one note at a time. After walking with barefooted trepidation along the jagged cliffs of his story, Eric relaxes as if his folding metal chair just turned into an overstuffed recliner.

Later in the program Eric writes a letter to his father. As he reads it to our group, we see further release from the shackles of shame that have bruised his bones for years. “I’m sorry. Your childhood must have been horrible. I forgive you. Please forgive me too. I didn’t know what else to do. It was wrong and I’m paying for it now. God is helping me become a better person.”

CHAPTER 5

“No matter what, I got your back.”

Davis has a design shaved into his hair on one side of his head. He is scheduled to share his story today and will be the first person at this prison to do so. He and the other twenty-five inmates in attendance have already heard my story and that of another victim-survivor. So, the stage has somewhat been set for Davis.

Victim stories and the real conversations that follow give inmates a chance to experience openness, honesty, and vulnerability. This goes far toward creating a safe and trusting space in which inmates can express themselves. We can’t expect them to authentically share unless we do the same. It doesn’t make it easy for inmates to tell their stories, only easier.

Driving through heavy snow to get here today, I wondered how things would go with Davis. What kind of precedent would he set? If he goes deep, the rest are more likely to do the same. If not, more space creating will be needed. After checking homework and reviewing our agenda, I ask if Davis is ready. Every ounce of his three-hundred-fifty pounds looks unsure, but he nods yes anyway. I continue, “Before Davis shares will any of you volunteer to tell your story next session?” This is an unpopular question. It falls on the group like a scratchy wet blanket. No one wants to touch it except to throw it off.

Two chairs move simultaneously. One is pushed back from the circle by feet that would rather run away. The other rocks back on two legs in quick withdrawal. Group body language shows retreat and resistance in other ways. Most avoid eye contact; a few look directly at me with piercing eyes that kill the invitation.

I’ve done an excellent job most of my life changing the subject at times like this to avoid the awkward silence; to relieve the tension; to bail out of potential trouble; to throw off the heavy blanket so I can breathe easy again. Doing that now would defeat the whole purpose. I stay put. To get the most out of our time together we all need to experience God’s Truth — real transformation usually has nothing to do with being comfortable.

Finally, God’s silence becomes unbearable for one of the inmates. He’s a tough eighteen-year-old named Randall who doesn’t want his son following in his gang-member footsteps. He speaks his fear by taking a don’t-mess-with-me stand, “I’ll tell you right now, I’m going last.” Randall has just declared that he’ll share his story in seven weeks. No one else utters a word. Guess we’ll have to cross this bridge with God when we get here next week.

Ninety-nine percent of these guys have never been members of a group like this, where openness, honesty, and vulnerability are the order of the day; where there is nowhere to hide and no way to sustain a fight against the deepest desires of our heart and soul. Everyone here wants to be in this circle. They want to restore peace in their lives, but they never realized it would get this wiggle-around-in-your-seat uncomfortable. Abandoning comfortable habits and routines, and venturing into unknown territory to find new life in God, is scary business. That’s why it’s always a breath of fresh air when someone like Davis is willing to take a huge risk and lead the way.

Now it’s his time to go where he has never gone before. His voice is shaky when he begins. When Davis speaks, people jump to conclusions about his sexuality. His heartfelt voice is sincere. It sounds effeminate. His eyes are soft, welcoming, and caring; he looks us in the eye when he speaks and talks a lot with his hands. This is not the case today. His hands are quiet, resting on top of his stomach, as he gazes into painful memories scattered across the floor in front of him. When Davis does look up he seems to be gauging us, wondering if it’s safe to wade into deeper water. Once assured that it is, he continues with courage. It doesn’t take Davis long to get neck-deep in his story. Re-living his past, his words paint vivid scenes that reel us in.

Davis talks of a troubled childhood on many levels. His mom and dad were alcoholics. They seemed to be forever arguing and yelling at one other. Sometimes it got physical — hitting, biting, and throwing any object within reach. Davis’s father found another woman and moved across state to another city, leaving a jobless household. While his older sister did her best to take care of Davis when his mom was passed out cold, his older brother spent most of his time in and out of juvenile detention. When Davis was home alone, his mother’s boyfriend, Carl, came to the house on a regular basis to sexually abuse him. This began at two and continued until he was eight.

Davis recounts his confusion. “Carl always told me how much he loved me. I knew he cared. He helped me with homework and taught me how to fish, work on cars, and play cards. But I didn’t understand how someone who said “I love you” could hurt me so much. I told him this, but he wouldn’t stop.” Davis also told his mom and sister, but they weren’t listening, didn’t believe him, or were unwilling to confront Carl.

The abuse continued. Davis describes how alone, helpless and afraid he felt. “When Carl came around I wanted to disappear.” I’ve never seen the group this quiet before. Nothing moves except for the wheels in our heads as they turn over the sacred ground of Davis’s story and find compassion.

Next Davis recalls the summer when he was eight. “Gramma” and other family members were coming for dinner to celebrate her release from prison for dealing drugs, selling stolen goods, and vehicular manslaughter. She was returning after ten years to live with Davis’ family and make up for lost time. After dinner, Carl took Davis for a long walk. Much later, after all the guests had gone, Davis did what he had done on countless occasions before. He complained that his bottom hurt.

Predictably, his words fell on the same deaf ears. But, little did he know, someone he barely knew was listening-in, just around the corner as she swept the kitchen floor. After years of agonizing moments, a young boy’s cry for help was finally heard by his grandmother.

Carl was arrested a few days later. The trial was traumatic. With the assistance of a doll in front of suited up strangers, Davis pointed out how he had been violated. After Carl went to prison, Davis went on feeling as confused as ever. When he got older, he didn’t know whom he liked more, girls or boys. Most of his friends were girls, but he was more attracted to boys. He realized he was different; he was bullied and beaten up all the time. Davis describes a few incidents. One day after jumping rope double-dutch style with the girls, he was tied to a tree and poked with the sharp end of a splintered broomstick. Davis struggles getting the words out, “…They did all these cruel things, just because I’m gay.”

A few in our class look at Davis. He’s staring at his feet. I can’t tell what the onlookers are thinking. The rest remain still with changeless expressions. Davis never looks up. He is too busy treading the stormy waters in the deep end of his story; scared to see if a single person has followed him beyond the breakers into open water; and terrified about what the ugly consequences might be if we aren’t swimming with him. Slowly he proceeds, taking more chances, going farther out with no life vest. “After high school I worked in a department store because I liked women’s accessories — earrings and scarves and things like that.” Still not looking up, Davis is going alone, if he must, toward new life on the far shore.

His life of crime started with stealing from the store and shoplifting from others. It escalated over the next six years with stealing large volumes to wear or to resell to support his prescription drug habit, pay off gambling debts, and keep up with payments on his Mercedes. He’d been caught stealing before, but continued the activity thinking the consequences would remain the same — a slap on the wrist with a few months here and there in jail. With his latest arrest, Davis’s chances ran out. He is doing his second of a five-year sentence.

Davis closes with these words: “I know right from wrong, but the drugs…I couldn’t stop, had to have them. I guess I thought I could keep getting away with everything. I’m learning the hard way. I do want to be a better person. That’s why I’m in this class. I’ve accepted my punishment because I know God is helping me get right. That’s it. That’s my story.”

Davis has reached the other side. It takes a while for him to glance up and see if anyone has come with him. He looks up for a second, but apparently can’t tell what we’re thinking. Davis looks back down at his best friend — the floor.

I thank Davis for his courage and willingness to share and go first. Sam, the other volunteer, tells him he did a good job. Davis looks up again, this time longer, appreciating the affirmation. Then he looks back down at some new ground under his feet. Sam asks the rest of the group if they have anything they’d like to say to Davis; if they can relate to anything he said; if they have any questions.

The first voice comes from the person sitting directly to my left. I push my chair back a bit to make sure I’m not obstructing Randall’s view of Davis, who sits immediately to my right. Randall’s face looks softer than before, as he speaks to Davis. “I could tell you were different. That’s why I stayed away from you. I didn’t want to get near you. I never would have talked to you if it weren’t for this class. But I do want to thank you for telling us all that stuff. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Davis responds, “It wasn’t. I was afraid…” His words trail off with his eyes. Then he regroups. As if finding rock on his new ground, he continues, “I didn’t know what y’all would think or how you’d treat me if you knew everything. I still don’t, but I had to get it out; had to do it for me.”

Randall follows “I’m glad you did. I learned that you can’t judge a book by its cover. No kid should ever have to go through what you did…know what I’m sayin’? So, as far as me and you go, you’re all right.”

As he says this, Randall leans up and reaches across me, extending his tattooed arm and closed fist toward Davis. In a sign of their new bond, they give each other a fist-bump. Then Randall gives Davis added reassurance, “No matter what, I got your back.”

Is this a message to others that they better not mess with Davis? It seems so. Will Randall’s protection be necessary? Suddenly the answer comes from all points around the circle. The same unconditional love for Davis flows forth from the bottom of touched hearts, “Me too…me too…I got your back too…same for me…”

Davis sits in stunned silence. Everyone had kept swimming and made the turbulent trip with him. At the end of class, after discussing our homework and reviewing the assignment for next week, I throw out a long-shot question over the noise of small talk and everyone gathering their things. It’s probably a waste of breath, but what the heck: “Will anyone volunteer to share your story next week?” The question is hardly out of my mouth when someone jumps off their shore of security: “I’ll go.”

I do a double-take. I have hugely underestimated the transforming power of God’s love. The enthusiastic voice is Randall’s. The rest of us just stand there smiling. It takes a second for Randall to realize why; then it hits him, and he laughs about his 180 degree turn-around from “I’m going last” a few hours ago. We laugh with him. Randall’s fear is gone, dissolved in Davis’s act of courage. Davis initiates the fist-bump this time.

Suddenly, Randall looks like he just landed in cold water. He’s standing at the edge of his own ocean, the one he must cross to get to higher ground. He seems to be asking, “What did I just say?” Apparently while listening to Davis story, Randall got ahead of himself and lost track of his fear. Now it’s back and the look on Randall’s face is funny. His eyes are as big as saucers and shouting “Oh no!” while doing the backstroke. Even so, Randall doesn’t back out of his commitment. Like everyone else in this class, he knows in the long run it won’t do him any good.

Going out the door everyone does their best to straighten up and put a lid on their laughter. We fall into single file and start moving. In addition to the sound of our footsteps, we hear whispers continue for a little while between Davis and Randall. Knowing the prison rules and the consequences if caught, they knock it off. Apparently they have more to talk about when the time is right. I’m guessing it has something to do with swimming for your life.

CHAPTER 6

“Even if some people don’t want anything to do with me, God does.”

Last week I announced that “Making God our #1 Priority” would be our topic today for three reasons: First, everyone here has expressed that finding new life in God is their greatest hope. Second, I was working on a sermon about it for a class assignment, so had some thoughts that were fresh in my mind. Third, although the sermon was intended for a different audience, it contained a story of a former inmate and homeless man and what he taught me about God. I didn’t say anything about my hidden agenda, that if we discussed this topic today, I wouldn’t have to take time preparing something else.

After I announced the plan last week, Gerard raised his hand with a question, “Why don’t you share the actual sermon with us?”

“I haven’t finished writing it yet.”

“Well…finish it then. You always tell us to finish our homework!”

Laughter fills the room. As it dies down I say, “Well, the sermon isn’t due for three weeks.”

Latrelle piles on, “Don’t make excuses!” More laughter erupts. I see the humor but can only manage a small smile; I didn’t want more work to do! My hidden agenda has backfired. In the context of God’s classroom, I shouldn’t be surprised. As I listen to the ruckus, it seems like it would be a good idea to lead by example on this one.

As the noise dies down I halfheartedly say, “OK, I’ll finish my homework for you.” This is met with enthusiastic applause. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they had just heard they were getting out of prison. In the joy of their laughter, I can see that they have been released in some way.

One week later, I have completed my homework and share the following sermon for discussion purposes.

Luke 14:25-33 (NASB)

Now large crowds were going along with Him; and He turned and said to them, “If anyone comes to Me, and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be My disciple. Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple. For which one of you, when he wants to build a tower, does not first sit down and calculate the cost to see if he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who observe it begin to ridicule him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish.’ Or what king, when he sets out to meet another king in battle, will not first sit down and consider whether he is strong enough with ten thousand men to encounter the one coming against him with twenty thousand? Or else, while the other is still far away, he sends a delegation and asks for terms of peace. So then, none of you can be My disciple who does not give up all his own possessions.”

This passage, in the translation I just read, was given to me knowing I’d be confronted by the word hate. My first thought was, “Hate? Hate your mother and father and wife and children? Hate your own life? That’s harsh. Where is the love in this? What about ‘honor your mother and father’ and ‘love your neighbor as yourself’?” After doing a word study I learned the word “hate” comes from the Greek word, miseo, meaning to “love less” or “prefer less.” So, Jesus is saying that true followers of the Way make God the #1 priority over everything else in life.

God must be the #1 priority over all personal relationships, even the most sacred ones — family; also, over every aspect of one’s life, including one’s possessions. As verse 27 states, God must be the #1 priority in such a way that disciples make BIG sacrifices for God’s purposes. First century followers of Jesus did this. They shared their possessions with those in need. If family members didn’t approve of their new way of life, it was too bad. This didn’t go over well. Family members felt hurt, angry and confused. Early followers of Jesus were seen as disturbers of the peace; they upset the status quo in society. As a result, they were subject to mob violence and punishment by Roman authorities. But the faithful remained faithful through it all — some, even unto death when they refused to worship the emperor. First century followers of Jesus surrendered their own agendas for a higher purpose in God.

It’s important to note this passage from Luke 14 falls between Luke 9:51 (when Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem), and Luke 19:41 (when he arrives outside the city, soon to be rejected, beaten, and killed). Jesus and these crowds are walking to Jerusalem. We don’t know much about the people following, but I think it’s safe to assume that some had been with him a few minutes, while others had been following the better part of three years.

Another key to this passage is that it’s bracketed by the parable of the dinner and the parable of the lost sheep. In the parable of the lost sheep, Jesus teaches the Pharisees and scribes that there is more joy in heaven when one person turns to God than there is for ninety-nine righteous people who don’t need to. In the parable of the dinner, the God figure is hosting a party. Many people have been invited. Three people decline the invitation because they have better things to do. One wants to admire their recent purchase of land; another wants to take his new oxen for a test spin around the block; a third wants to be with his newly wed wife.

In the context of the God figure’s invitation to dinner, these three blow it off. They’re wrapped up in their own agenda; their priorities are all mixed up. They’re like lost sheep. Considering how Jesus stops in his tracks to teach about discipleship, I think some of the people in the crowds are like those three men. That’s why this sermon is titled: Lost Sheep Walking with Jesus.

I’ve tried to imagine the kinds of conversations Jesus overheard. Person 1: “This is crazy, all this uphill walking!” Person 2: “I know, I’d rather be kicked-back at home buying more stuff out of those new catalogs I got.” Person 3: “I heard that; plus, it’s getting late. I’ll give it fifteen more minutes to see if this Jesus guy does anything spectacular; if not, I’m outta here.” Person 4: “It is getting late! My wife will kill me if I’m not home in time to see who gets voted off Dancing with the Stars.” Person 5: “I want to watch that too…and besides, my feet hurt. It must be these new shoes. I didn’t need them, but they look soooo gooood…look at them!” Person 6: “No! Don’t leave yet! I’ve been following Jesus for weeks and we’re headed to a big party in Jerusalem; soon it’s those Romans who will be powerless and begging for mercy!”

I think some of the people following Jesus connected a bunch of dots in their heads and created a warped fairy tale out of God’s love for all humanity. Others in the crowd seemed to be focused on my will be done while Jesus was focused on Thy will be done — being faithful to God right up to the apparent end, even if it meant being beaten up and down and hung on a cross and left to die.

Sometimes I’m guilty of being a lost sheep walking with Jesus. Are you? For me, I think it’s because I’m the product of a society that stresses individualism and materialism as indicators of value and worth. It’s easy for me to get all wrapped up in me, me, me, and my, my, my…even in church. My faith, my peace, my walk with Jesus, my relationship with Christ, my family, my friends, my small group, my parking space, my pew, my new suit, my sermon, my Sunday school class, my music, my worship style, my tradition, my church.

Oh my — Sitting in Christ’s church with a focus on ME. Sometimes we go to church to hear Jesus’s words about loving our neighbors and enemies, and end up sitting there the whole time worshiping ourselves.

That’s why, for the love of humanity, Jesus stops the crowds and teaches the cost of discipleship — God must be the #1 priority. Note that Jesus didn’t strong-arm anyone into following him. We don’t read, “Then Jesus wrestled one to the ground and twisted his arm saying, ‘Will you truly follow now!?’” Jesus didn’t do that; it runs counter to the whole message of voluntary surrender and self-sacrifice. Jesus unconditionally honors our gift of choice.

He puts following in his ways in the context of building a tower or going into battle. Here’s how the words come to life for me; Jesus is saying, “If you want to build a tower, if you want to go into battle, if you want to be a disciple, sit down and think about what you’re doing. See the big picture. Understand what you’re getting into. Whether you’re building a tower or following God, neither is a casual pursuit.” For Jesus, true followers must be as committed to Jesus’s mission as Jesus is committed to it. Why? Fulfilling God’s purposes for humanity and the world depends on it. Peace and freedom and justice for all, depends on it. That’s why God won’t leave us alone when we lose our way like lost sheep.

I learned this one bitter-cold February morning while running late to church. While giving thanks for the heater in my car I drove past a homeless man on the sidewalk. I sensed a nudge from God to pull over and ask if he needs anything. I kept driving. Like I said, I was late for church. Halfway down the next block, another nudge. I shrug it off. Not only am I running late, I want to see my friends and hear the sermon. Plus, I have an important announcement to make about the men’s spirituality group. Members of that group are counting on me for that.

The light ahead turns red. As I stop, another nudge. I ignore this one too, because, well, his name is Robert. I’ve seen him at the shelter. We’ve talked some. I’ve heard about his twelve years in prison. Every time I’ve seen him he’s been drunk, smelly, loud, demanding and mad about something. I don’t want to mess with him — not right now. The light turns green. I pull forward — another nudge.

I’m not sure what happens… I find myself making a mindless sharp-right-hand turn from the middle of the intersection to go around the block. A few minutes later Robert’s in my car with his backpack, hands on the heater vents. I ask him if he wants to go to church. He says, “No. I won’t be welcome there.” I don’t argue with him. We decide to go to a coffee shop. The whole way there he goes on and on about how unfairly he was treated the night before. He walked into a restaurant to order a cup of coffee, but the owner told him to leave or he’d call the police. While telling me his story, still thawing out his hands, I realize Robert has no coat.

He talks all the way to the coffee shop, all the way through the ordering process. When we sit he stops talking long enough for me to ask, “You don’t have a coat?”

He stutters around, “Yes…no…well…not anymore.”

“What happened to it?” I ask.

He reluctantly says, “Oh it’s nothing. God, it feels good in here.”

More demanding, I ask again, “What happened to your coat?”

He says, “It’s no big deal. Man Billy Boo (my new nickname), this coffee is really good. Thank God for coffee. I sure needed this last night. Dammit, it was so wrong what that guy did to me.”

I interrupt him for avoiding the subject. I feel like I’m talking to a child. “Robert, look at me.” He won’t. I say again, sharper this time. “Look at me.” His busy eyes meet mine. He looks offended by my persistent boldness. I ask again, “What’s going on? You’re skirting around the issue. Why won’t you tell me? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, no,” shaking his head. “OK look. Last night there was this old guy sitting near me on the sidewalk, all wrapped up in a blanket; he was so damn cold. You know how cold it was last night? The poor guy was shivering — shaking — teeth were chattering nonstop. I felt for him, so I gave him my coat.”

As he says this I watch three people hurrying across the parking lot. Their breath looks like the exhaust from the car they just exited. Robert’s words reverberate in my head, “I felt for him, so I gave him my coat.”

And I thought I was caring for a homeless man. Turns out, Robert was teaching me. God interrupted my life to sit me down with a former inmate and homeless man and teach me about what following the way of Jesus is really all about. Christ in and through and around Robert helped me see how I slip into me’s and my’s and ignore the needs of others when I do. Seeing Jesus in Robert revealed an entirely new level of selfless service. I was reminded that following the way of Jesus has nothing to do with following only when I feel like it; with me being comfortable; with having it my way; fretting over what other people think; fitting in, looking good, or being accepted by friends all the time.

God used Robert to re-orient my life with the cross in view; to release me from the prison of me focus, and the endless suffering I find there. God was rejoicing because a lost sheep had been found, while trying to get to church as fast as possible.

When’s the last time your plan was foiled, leaving you feeling inconvenienced or annoyed? Could it be that you were just like me, a lost sheep in need of learning more about following God? Could it be that in your commitment to follow in the way of Jesus, you signed up for God to interrupt your life when you wander?

After a period of reflection I ask if anyone wants to comment or share what stands out for him, what they relate to. I have no idea I’m about to hear a story I’ll add to the sermon.

Gerard says, “I relate to Robert.” I ask why. He shares what happened when he got out of prison the first time and went to live with his brother to get away from his old crowd. Gerard didn’t know anyone else in town. His brother didn’t go to church, but that wouldn’t stop him. First Sunday after his release, he woke up excited about attending a service down the street. When the service was over, Gerard was greeted by people around him. When they found out where he’d been, they politely scattered to go have lunch together without him. “I knew I wasn’t welcome. They wanted nothing to do with me.”

Not long after that, Gerard went back to where he was welcome; he started hanging with some old running buddies. Five months later, he was back in prison.

Now, six years later, Gerard tells us, “I knew it was wrong, going back to things I shouldn’t be doing.” Relating to the God-nudges I mentioned in the sermon, he adds “I see in this message that God never leaves me alone either. Even with what happened at that church, I could have kept going.”

Gerard lets us know that he is learning to make God his #1 priority, to follow and stay focused on God no matter what people around him act like when they aren’t. “Even if some people don’t want anything to do with me, God does.”

CHAPTER 7

“Will you forgive me?”

At the beginning of class, I share about my experience in the hospital after the shooting. Confined to a bed and in traction for a few months, my life went into a tailspin. I played a triple-R rated movie over and over in my head. I was the star, the Hero who caught the robber, took him to a wooded area, tied him to a tree and beat him with a baseball bat. When not in the woods, I wandered the desert of my hospital bed railing against God. “Why me?; WHY me?; WHY ME?!” Roaming around in that unanswerable question demanding answers, I became more miserable by the minute.

One day a Jewish chaplain visited. During our conversation he saw my struggle with the “Why me?!” question and shared his take on God during times like this. “God doesn’t shoot anyone. God’s doesn’t hurt us to heal us. When human brokenness causes human suffering, God is with us. God helps us through, if we’ll just give God the chance.” These words resonated in my soul. A few sleepless nights later, a more life-giving question arose. How do I find peace in the midst of this? Knowing I couldn’t pull it off myself, my prayer changed. God, help me; this is a tough deal; give me the strength to handle this with grace.

Soon I began receiving messages about forgiveness — through a story in a book, a conversation with a nurse, after she asked me where I was in the process, and thoughts that seemingly arose from nowhere. I knew I was being called to forgiveness and went on the offensive in a heated argument with God. “Forgive the robber? No way! I can’t do it, won’t do it, not after what he did to me. If I forgive the robber, I’ll be saying what he did is OK. I’ll be saying anyone can walk all over me and I won’t do a thing about it.”

As I dug in against God, I kept praying for help and strength. A strange thing it is, saying “no” to God on one hand and reaching out with the other. Looking back, I see that I was learning about the life we have in God beyond our temporal beliefs and understanding, in the space where we are created in the image of God, where our desire is God’s desire, where our entire life is a prayer.

As my praying continued, the forgiveness messages got louder, as if the volume of God’s still-voice-within was being turned up a notch at a time to get the best of me. One day I talked to a detective about the gunman, who was very young — a teenager. Since the robber said he needed the money for crack, the detective shared how addictive crack is. He told me that if I smoked crack today, I could be addicted tomorrow and likely do something criminal to get more if I didn’t have other options.

During this conversation, I remember being offered a beer when I was thirteen, from an eighteen-year-old down the street. Had I been offered crack instead, I can’t say I wouldn’t have tried it and wound up high instead of buzzed. In seeing more of myself, in the shooter, God’s message of forgiveness took on new meaning: forgive the robber for being human, just like me.

The next time I entered the first scene of “my movie” a few days later, something was different; something had changed. I was in the woods; the robber was tied to a tree; he was begging for mercy; the baseball bat was in my hands…

However, I couldn’t swing it. The juice was gone. It was as if I was trying to be mad at someone; trying to be a maniac. I restarted the movie but it wouldn’t play; it was as if the film broke. At that moment, I didn’t experience this as the miracle of God giving me new life. Rather, it was a subtle happening that naturally led to looking around for something else to do with my time. As I did so, the four walls of the hospital room came into view.

They were covered with cards and banners from friends and loved ones. Suddenly I experienced the same hospital room in a completely different way. Before that moment, the walls represented those of a prison cell that confined me and took my freedom. In seeing and appreciating the cards and banners, I no longer saw the walls they were taped to. Seeing with new eyes, the walls fell away. I was released through the realization that everything I needed for strength had been with me all along, from day one. God’s love had been coming to me through the cards and banners people sent. Through this revelation a sense of gratitude arose for my family and friends, who I had been taking for granted. Looking through this lens of gratitude, more and more things to be grateful for came into view, including the person who called 911; the doctors and nurses caring for me; medical advancements that saved my leg; and the gift of life, that I was still alive. Through gratitude, I experienced God lifting me out of the dark places inside that haunted me for months.

My experience of God’s renewal continued unfolding. I reconnected with family and friends and started making friends with nurses. During time spent alone, I started reading and learning and growing. I met other patients, especially after the final surgery when I was able to travel up and down the hall in a wheelchair. Many of the people I met were far less fortunate than me. One lady had thrown herself off the overpass of an interstate into oncoming traffic to try to commit suicide. I met a man who slipped on an icy sidewalk months before and was paralyzed from the waist down. He had recently awakened from a deep sleep at home and moved his big toe. Back in the hospital, the experts were pouring on the therapy. With tear-filled eyes of hope he said to me, “Bill, man; maybe I will get to walk again.” These kinds of encounters awakened compassion in me; they changed the way I saw things.

So many friends had sent flower arrangements that they had to be rotated from the window sill to the counter to under my bed. A new rotation was added — going out the door to other patients, who didn’t have that kind of cheer in their room, for whatever reason. I was profoundly touched by the smiles of those who received them. My days brightened with meaning. Time passed much more quickly. Flower recipients often stopped to check on me and their timing was always perfect. I was uplifted every time, seeing evidence of the caring and encouraging world that I had become convinced didn’t exist after the shooting.

By the grace of God, there I was, confined to the same bed, surrounded by the same four walls, on the same hall, in the same hospital, surrounded by all the same people. My physical environment hadn’t changed one iota, but everything was new because a livid young man opened to God’s invitation to live in love. God did all the rest to release me from my self-made prison.

After I share this, a balding middle-aged inmate named Jerry shifts around in his seat. Head tilted back, he stares at the water-stained ceiling and takes a deep breath to get up his nerve. Jerry’s words are directed to me even though his eyes pass mine on the way to the floor. “I’m in here for eight armed robberies across five states…” Clearing his throat, he sheepishly continues, and slowly, “…I shot one person…. So, well…I’m just like the guy who shot you.” His words are halting, as if his revelation is still sinking in. Jerry adds, “Before now, I never thought much about the people I hurt, only of myself; all wrapped up in my own little world.”

Jerry raises his head and his eyes meet mine. “After hearing your story, I bet some people would love to beat me with a bat like you wanted to do with the guy who shot you.”

I take a second, “You’re probably right.”

Jerry swallows hard, “I just want you to know…I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

This completely takes me back. Jerry’s words land in a place within that I didn’t know existed. The moment is pregnant, but I can’t see how full and meaningful it is, not yet anyway. I tell Jerry, “I’m not mad at you.”

He continues looking at me for an answer to the question. As I look at him, his eyes keep asking, “Will you forgive me?” I hear words come out of my mouth that seem to have a life all their own, “Yes, I forgive you.”

But I’m not mad at Jerry. I’m confused about what’s happening. My words make no sense to me, but I sense somehow they are right. In God’s love they make perfect sense to Jerry. I sense this in the way he says “thank you,” with tears welling up in his eyes. I can’t stop my own tears now; it is as if they flow from the same reservoir. Suddenly there we are, tears and all, locked in, unwavering, connected, fixed on each other. Something profound is happening. I’m looking into the eyes of someone I didn’t think I knew well and suddenly seeing beyond that illusion into the stillness of God’s love where I actually do.

Here there is no separation; no walls; no bars or prison. There is no one and nothing to fear; no worries or concerns; no regret or guilt; no personal agendas or need for power; nothing to withhold or protect; no need to be accepted or seen in a certain light; nothing to fix or change; nowhere to go; no better place to be. Here, there is nothing missing. God’s presence is more than enough. We are locked up in the love of God.

Others in the group seem to sense the unfolding mystery — the freedom of a space where the labels of “victim” and “offender” fall away in God’s love. We’ve all been hurt and we have all hurt others in some way, shape, or form. Inner walls are falling down, unconditional love is coming through, outer walls are disappearing, and none of us saw this coming.

Later, while maneuvering through the maze to return to the parking lot after class ends, four words haunt my limited understanding — “Will you forgive me? Will you forgive me?” This question will dominate my reflection on the quiet drive home. “Are there people I haven’t personally hurt, but to ask their forgiveness might be healing in ways I can’t imagine? Is there someone I’ve hurt and could ask, but my justifications have prevented me from doing so? Have I inadvertently hurt someone and not had enough awareness to ask it? Who may want to ask it of me, but can’t for some reason? Have I written anyone off for never asking me? Could I humble myself and ask them instead? Have I been carrying around resentment? If so, how big a toll has that taken on my life?”

“Will you forgive me?” For many inmates, that is their number one question and it will remain so after release. In words and deeds, I pray they will hear “yes” more often than “no.” I hope they will experience God’s unconditional love that comes in second and third and fourteenth chances. My hope for these inmates comes in part from an experience I had after sharing my story at a convention in Sacramento, CA.

After everyone left, a waiter named Thomas approached me. He said, “I listened to your whole message.” I told him that I had noticed him standing at the back of the room after dessert was served. I didn’t tell him about the inner tension I experienced, feeling drawn to pay attention to him during the speech. This ran counter to my belief about customer service. If I’m paying attention to a waiter, I can’t be present with the people who’ve arranged for me to speak. As I learned more about Thomas, it made perfect sense why my logic didn’t win this battle.

Thomas tells me, “I have lots of anger inside and see how my reactions cause problems.”

I tell him how great it is that he sees the cost so he can express his anger in healthier ways. Then I ask, “What’s going on?”

With heartfelt emotion, “This is only my third day of work here.” He tells me. “I was so thankful to get the job to support my kids better, but the first day I got here, this guy shows up! If I had known he worked here too, I never would have taken this job.”

“Who is he?”

Thomas answers, “The same guy who hit my wife a few years ago and killed her.”

I feel awful for him. “I’m so sorry.”

Thomas stares at the floor. “It’s really been hard. I’ve cried so much. I still do, but I have to move forward.”

“What happened?”

“It’s such a long story.”

Seeing he doesn’t want to talk about it, I shift course slightly. “How have you been dealing with this?”

“Some days are better than others. I used to beat myself up about not going with her that day, but it doesn’t do any good. I know it’s not my fault.”

I agree; then ask, “Does this guy know you were her husband?”

He nods “yes.”

“So what’s he acting like around you?”

Thomas tells me the other waiter stays as far away as he can; won’t come near; avoids Thomas at all costs.

I ask, “What about you? What are you doing?”

“I do the same, stay as far away from him as possible. It’s not easy because we’re both waiters. I keep thinking about what I might do to him.” He pauses, “You know how you talked about beating that guy with a bat? I feel like that a lot. If it’s just him and me in the parking lot, coming to work or leaving, I’ve been afraid of what I might do to him. Some friends think I should give him what he deserves.”

Thomas needs support before this thing explodes and someone else gets hurt or killed. “OK, here’s the deal. You have choices you can make right now.” (While saying this I’m thinking we’ll talk about options and come up with a plan so the worst doesn’t happen).

Thomas’s next words scare me, “I’ve already made a choice. It’s done.”

With dread I ask, “What do you mean? What did you do?”

Thomas: “As soon as you finished your story I went down the hall. I knew he was down there setting up another ballroom for an event tonight. I found him and said what I had to say.”

“What did you say?”

“I was nervous, but I told him: ‘What happened has happened; it’s in the past. There’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing I do will ever bring her back. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again, but we work together now and I don’t want to be miserable anymore. So I just want you to know…I’m cool with you.”

Floored, I ask, “What did he say?”

Thomas sighs deeply, the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders. “He didn’t say anything. He just broke down.”

CHAPTER 8

“Family don’t have to be blood.”

I’m with the chaplain and an officer inside a guard station in the yard. The Native American worship space is fifty feet away. Small rocks outline a tidy circle of dirt cut out of the grass. Soon it will hold ten to fifteen people. Members of the group are arriving to sign in and get needed supplies. These include a small towel, turtle shell, peace pipe, zip-locked bag of special tobacco, a few handfuls of sage, eagle feather for smudging (when smoke from burning herbs is waved around each member from feet to head as an act of purification), and eight wooden matches. Used or unused, the matches must be returned with the other items or officers will get involved.

Observing this ceremony is new for me. The members interact and pass the pipe. Each takes a turn with it. Most appear humble and devoted as they move around the circle’s edge, stopping at four specific points to face north, south, east, and west. A cool November breeze carries the smoke in our direction. It smells good. The scene reminds me of living in New Orleans, smelling food or hearing music on the street and being captivated, pulled in by it. Some inmates stop, look and listen to the drumming from afar; others gather around closer at a respectful distance. A few want a whiff of second-hand smoke. Others have an innocent curiosity about what’s going on; they seem to be drawn for deeper reasons.

Suddenly I jump to cracks of gunfire. I wonder if I should hit the ground. The ceremony continues. No one misses a beat; same with the hundreds of inmates in the yard all around. The officer and chaplain see my alarm. My face must look funny as I try to figure out what’s happening. They smile and assure me everything’s OK. This is routine. A firing range sits on the other side of the far fence through the trees. Target practice is a subtle reminder of what happens to inmates if they step out of line or make a break for the fence and don’t stop short with the warning shots.

As the ceremony continues with rifle cracks popping in the distance, I notice an inmate with long white hair. He looks lost as he wanders among a group lifting weights. A giant young black man gently turns the old man around and walks him out of the way. The same thing happens moments later when he wanders into the middle of a basketball game.

I’m told he is the longest-term inmate in the state; killed two state troopers in 1948. His daughter calls the chaplain every week to check on him. She worries about her dad living in prison with Alzheimer’s. Each week she is assured that her dad is being cared for as much as possible in a prison. While we discuss this, a group of inmates of all ages pass by on the sidewalk in wheelchairs. As I later learn, some are veterans; some were wheelchair bound before their arrest, a few were injured during arrest; some sustained their injury in prison; and others simply have worn-out bodies. No matter the case, all are pushed by other inmates. Observing this I realize I’ve never thought much before about inmates who will die in prison. Interesting what God brings into our awareness at certain times.

A month later in the hospital of the same facility, I visit an inmate on his deathbed. According to Sandra, a nurse whose father was incarcerated most of her childhood, Joe doesn’t have long. During our visit I learn of his final desire — to see his daughter before he dies. Her name is Mary and she’s on her way from another state. One of the things we pray for is her safe trip and that she makes it in time.

Jermaine has stood in the doorway the entire time. He distributes cards to inmates so they can write home for birthdays, Christmas, and other special occasions. Mother’s Day is always a big one. As we leave Joe’s room, Jermaine is choked up. I ask him “You OK?”

“Yeah,” he says wiping his eyes. “It’s hard to watch; a lot of guys will die in here. I think about the ones with no family, and how lucky I am to have one that supports me. Seeing Joe in his situation brings up lots of stuff. Any of us could die without family around. I hope his daughter makes it in time.”

We go downstairs and walk back to the chaplain’s office. Along the way I tell Jermaine I was thinking about death in prison a few weeks ago. As we talk, Jermaine says he feels fortunate to be able to say certain things to family members sooner, rather than later. Strolling along, we talk of how none of us know when our time will come and how reflecting on death is a good way to reflect on life. We appreciate how these kinds of conversations can motivate new choices and actions. While discussing this, Jermaine asks, “Is there anything you need to say to someone you love?”

His timing is perfect. There is someone. I’ve been thinking about her the last few minutes. The last conversation I had with my dear friend ended in a heated disagreement. It didn’t blow up the relationship, but the fuse was still burning when we hung up the phone. We haven’t talked since. If she or I dropped dead, the other would prefer to have a different memory of the last time we spent together.

So many conversations I have behind bars end up having more to do with me than I could ever imagine when they begin. I thank Jermaine for helping me see this. Later on, I talk to my friend for over an hour. We talk about the God moments I experienced in prison today — the time with Joe, learning about Mary, walking with Jermaine, being reminded of our friendship, and the urge God gave to call. We catch up on life. We discuss our prior issue, although that lasts all of about two minutes. It’s such a small thing in the context of life and death and God and friendship.

The theme of family and death comes up a few months later, this time in our circle at a different facility. I have just finished sharing my story and we’re in a conversation about how I sabotaged relationships with family and friends when I got wrapped up in my anger and negativity. The main point of our conversation is to acknowledge that we never know what will happen to us or anyone else. We remind each other that this class provides an opportunity to reconcile and restore peace with loved ones we’ve hurt.

Mark shares the harsh words exchanged on the phone between him and his sister. “She hung up on me.” He says this hitting the side of his chair with his fist. After a second he continues. We hear his anger: “Most of my family has disowned me.” Then mostly with sadness he tells us, “Me and my sister are like this (Mark holds up his hand and crosses his fingers like he’s afraid they’ll come apart). She’s always been there for me. Of all my family, she’s the one who’s stuck with me the longest; the only one I got left.” Mark looks down considering the possibility that his sister is done with him like the rest of his family.

Listening to Mark, Gene gets stirred up. “At least you’ve talked to your sister; I can’t talk to my family. None of them know where I am and I don’t know where any of them are. My biggest fear is something will happen to me or to one of them. One of us could die and the other would never know.” The room goes quiet. No one speaks. Some look surprised. It is the first time in five weeks that Gene has spoken more than a sentence. In a side conversation a few weeks ago, I reminded him of the importance of engaging in discussions; he shared how hard it is to open up since he has never trusted anyone.

It is obvious today that something significant has shifted in him. His raw nerve flares back up. “I can’t believe the talk I hear with your families on the phone; arguments over stupid stuff, treating family like dirt. I hate hearing it, people taking family for granted when I don’t even know where mine is.” His words are penetrating. Once again, the rest of us have nothing to say. His taking family for granted comment hit us hard. Seems all of us have been convicted to some degree.

Charles pipes up; his words are for Gene, “Family don’t have to be blood.” Gene looks inquisitive; Charles continues, “I have friends who are more like family than my own. I see it happening in this class too. Most of us didn’t know each other when we started. Now look at us, we’re all different — different races, backgrounds, interests, religion and even a few of us with different sexuality — but we’re bonding like brothers.” This time it’s Gene who has nothing to say; perhaps he has received an unexpected gift — the idea of extended family.

Manny, the oldest in our group by a few decades, quietly enters the conversation. It’s great when this happens, when someone old enough to be everyone’s father makes a point. He says matter-of-factly: “My whole family gave up on me. I can’t blame them. Every time I got out I told ‘em I’d do better. Never did. They all got sick of hearing it. I’d go right back to my old ways. I never did any good.” Mark, already four-times in and out of prison, is all ears.

Manny continues, “But, there’s something I realized a few years back. I can do good right where I am. Something happened to me before I came back this time…” He looks unsure about going on.

I encourage him to continue, “What do you mean?”

Manny says God did something in him the last time he was arrested, but he’ll talk about it when he shares his story.

I hesitate. It’s good to maintain the order of things, but sometimes it’s good to throw plans out the window. This seems like such a time.

“Will you share this part now and the rest later?” I ask.

Before we know it, we’re at the scene of the bank Manny robbed. The money was in hand and he was speeding away in a stolen car, police sirens closing in all around. Manny had always taken them on high-speed chases before, but this time he couldn’t. “I pulled over and waited for them; gave myself up.” Some in our circle look at Manny like, “Are you insane?” Seeing their amazement, he adds, “I know it sounds crazy, but I was so tired of running. It never worked out. Something told me it was the right thing to do, to give myself up. I was relieved when I did it.”

“Do you still feel that way?” I ask.

“I know it was right. That’s when I realized I can do good right where I am. I’ve done wrong for so long, but never accepted responsibility like I am now.” Manny describes how good it feels. For the first time in his life he accepts being here, “Since coming back this time I realize how big the world is, with all its distractions. I can pay attention to God in here better than I can out there. I’m changing too; done more good in here than I ever did out there.”

Charles looks bummed out. “I’ve gotten closer to God in here too. I’m thankful for that, but it also bothers me. I know I could do good on the outside, as a result of how I’ve grown in here, but I still got lots of time.”

Manny responds, “Well, you better learn to accept it. This is where God has you and God’s work in the world includes this place. We gotta do what we can right here, Brother.”

Charles looks like he needs more time to digest this, like maybe months.

Several weeks pass. At the beginning of class I ask how everyone is. We call this “checking in.” It’s good to do this. Prison is like the free world. We carry our burdens, hurts, struggles, worries, and joys with us wherever we go. If we don’t talk them out or have some kind of discipline that releases them, we can’t be present right where we are. There’s no way to listen to one another if we’re off somewhere else in our head. So, we check in after praying; take time to clear the air so we can make the most of our time together.

In response to “How have you been?” we hear, “OK…Good… Alright…Not too bad…” All this sounds good but some of the body language isn’t matching up. I know how good I can be at covering up deeper issues, and most of these guys are far better at it than me.

Charles is failing miserably in his attempt. Bless him. He’s so full of God nothing else is possible. I ask, “How about you Charles?” He looks dejected again; says nothing. I gently press, “What’s going on?” More silence. It’s important to be careful here. Go in too strong and forget about it. Like the rest of us, these guys seal up like Tupperware when questions sound demanding. I inch ahead by looking at Charles without saying anything. After a few seconds Charles makes his way fully into our circle, “My job is hard sometimes.”

“What’s your job?” I ask.

“I’m a Janitor.” He pauses. “I was in the hospital today. There’s a guy I haven’t seen before. He’s really sick. I think he’s dying. Lost control of his body and can’t hold anything in. It smelled really bad in his room. When it hit me, I almost left, but he saw me so I didn’t.” He tells us he began sweeping the floor holding his breath, going as fast as possible without being obvious. “I didn’t want to make a face because I didn’t want him to feel bad.”

Charles tells us he kept his mouth shut the entire time. The patient did the same. When he finished cleaning, Charles gathered his supplies to go clean another room, but he was struggling. “The nurse was busy with someone else, so I knew it might be awhile before she could help. I wouldn’t want to lie in my own waste, but I also didn’t want to get in trouble.” He explains what happens if he touches a patient. “I’ll be punished and lose my job. Then I won’t have money for the canteen and stamps to write home to my mom.”

As Charles’s story continues, we learn he can’t ignore the Holy Spirit. He risks it all and starts changing the sheets. “I couldn’t do it all the way right. I told him I wish I could do more. He told me thanks; that I had done enough. Then he told me I better go before I get in trouble.” Charles describes how he rolled up the soiled sheets and threw them in a bin before leaving. “I’m worried I’ll get in trouble.”

Charles has finished checking in. However, the rest of us can’t check out and move on to other things. I don’t know what everyone is thinking about, but it has nothing to do with what they brought in here at the start of class.

Wise-old-bank-robber Manny breaks the silence with a sniffle. “You did good right where you are. That’s what I’m talkin’ bout. And you never saw that man before. Some people wouldn’t do that for their own mother.”

CHAPTER 9

“If I had learned this growing up, I wouldn’t be in prison!”

I’ve just finished sharing my story and the long term effects of being robbed and shot, including: the horrible nightmares; intense feelings of vulnerability; constant looks over my shoulder in public places to ensure my safety; fear of walking outside after dark, wondering who’s hiding and ready to pounce; hurrying from the car to the safety of my home, unable to bolt the door behind me fast enough; the anxiety of being in a well-lit room with uncovered windows, unable to see out when someone might be peering in with malicious intentions; and how God freed me from my prison of paranoia.

After a minute or so, James raises his hand. We’ve had a few one-on-one conversations outside class before, but I didn’t know this about him. “I shot a guy, but never thought about what he went through.”

“What are you thinking now?” I ask.

“After hearing your story I wonder how he’s doing. I know he spent some time in the hospital. He was at my trial in a cast and very happy when I was sentenced.” James shakes his head in apparent disapproval.

I ask, “Can you blame him?”

He replies, “No, but…”

Something is off. “Why didn’t he finish?” The tone of James’s voice and the look on his face doesn’t match his words. I wonder, “Has he been blaming the guy he shot?” It seems possible, the way he stopped mid-sentence and quit looking at me. Maybe he knows he can’t go there without dealing with the boomerang effect. James already knows if he throws his thinking out there, the ensuing conversation may come back around on unpredictable winds and nail him pretty hard. He’s seen that happen to others. He knows it’s not fun, but he also knows new life comes forth for those willing to play the game and take some hits.

James sits still, head hanging, both hands running through his hair from front to back. He does it a second time stopping half-way, holding his head in his hands as he grapples with what’s going on up there. I imagine he is trying to figure out what to do; what to say; what not to say.

James is like the rest of us. He has belief systems that are like jigsaw puzzles made of thousands of pieces of experience that create an identity which mostly operates in its best interest. Generally, we don’t like our puzzles to be questioned and challenged. So, we cover them with layers of justifying lacquer to hold them in place and keep them sturdy. When something threatens our beliefs about “the way things should be” we go into puzzle protection mode. We defend the territory of our comfort zone by fighting or withdrawing. To keep our puzzle safe and secure, we align with people who see the world like we do; who help us tell our favorite stories; who like defending the same territory without more exploring.

From the look on James’s face, I sense that something about my story collided with his puzzle and messed it up. James wants to keep it in place but the job of this class is to punch some holes in it, sling it against the wall, throw it on the floor, and kick it around. That’s why James is scrambling around in defense mode not saying anything. If he wants to keep the puzzle about his crime in place, he’ll have to drop out of class. If he stays the course though, he’ll find new pieces, put them together, and discover new meaning that can help him stay out of prison.

Talking things out is the only way to get there. That means James will have to open his mouth and go where he didn’t want to before. The question is still out there. Can James blame his victim for being happy during sentencing? We need to explore the other side of his “No, but….”

I ask, “You say you can’t blame the guy you shot, but you seem upset with him. Is that true?”

“I have been.” After a pause, “After hearing your story, I guess it’s messed up.”

“It’s ok; it is what it is. Why have you felt that way?” I ask.

James hesitates. He looks anxious, like he’d rather be somewhere else. When James opens his mouth we see the trump card to his nervousness — his desire to change. His voice is shaky at the start but it plows through the weeds and steadies out, plunging deeper into his story. Once there he speaks like he’s eating a piece of humble pie, real slow, the whole way through. There’s a lot of openness, lots of space for God to get in there and do things with James and the rest of us.

When the robbery went down just after closing time the pawn shop owner wouldn’t obey. In James’s words, “He refused…he refused to stay on the floor…you know…and be quiet. I kept yelling at him…I was stomping on his back to keep him down.” After a pause, “I was so mad and freaked out; Time was running out. If he had just stayed…” James skips to when the guns were ready to be hauled out, “I screamed at him to stay put…not to move until our car left. We were…we were in the parking lot…on the way to the car. I heard this yelling and looked up. The owner was running out the store after us.” Shaking his head, “I couldn’t believe it. Next thing I knew…” He pauses like he’s lost, “…I dropped him….then jumped in the car and we got gone.”

“Was anyone else around?”

James shakes his head no.

I continue, “He probably felt like I did; thought he might die.”

James looks at me like he didn’t need to hear that; I look back like he did. I continue, “Do you know how long it took for someone to help him?” James has no idea. I find myself re-living the time I spent in the street after being shot. I come out of the trance and look at James. He looks away.

Then I ask, “So, you’ve been upset because the owner didn’t obey you?”

James, “Yeah; I was thinking what he did wasn’t necessary. No one had to get hurt.”

I shake my head in wonder. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been blaming the guy you shot for your being in prison?”

“I never wanted to shoot the guy,” James answers. After pausing he continues, “I think the same is true for the guy who robbed you. I don’t think he wanted to shoot you, but when you went after him…”

His voice trails off. There’s no need to state the obvious.

I say, “I’ve thought about that too and think you’re right. I wouldn’t have been shot if I hadn’t gone after him. That’s why I had to accept responsibility for snapping, for the violence in me that exploded. The snap factor in me that could have killed the robber can also kill my health, happiness, close relationships, career — you name it — on a daily basis.” This leads to discussing why it’s important to open to God for healing. We conclude that if we don’t, all of us will pay the price. Our reactive, angry, self-serving ways will rule the day. We’ll devalue, hurt, write off, judge, and crucify each other in all ways possible for being different, and we’ll do it without taking any time getting to know one another as children of God.

James is quiet the whole time, but I can tell he’s seeing a bigger picture. I ask, “You said my story left you wondering how the store owner is doing. Do you see similarities between me and him?”

James looks on the floor for new puzzle pieces. He finds one, “He snapped like you did, and like I did too.”

I ask him to say more.

James continues, “I’m sure the store owner felt the same way you did; working hard to support his family and then someone like me comes and wrecks it. He also suffered in the hospital like you did.”

I respond, “That’s good insight. Have you tried putting yourself in his shoes and imagine how he felt?”

“I’m starting to do that. Your story made me think of him in the hospital. If I were him, I’d be mad too. I’d be happy to see me put away.” The first piece of James’s new puzzle is on the table; it’s called Empathy. This is a big moment.

I want to be sure I heard something correctly. “A little while ago did you say you snapped too?”

James responds, “Yeah. When you said you didn’t know who you became when you chased after the guy who robbed you, I relate. I lost it when I saw the owner run out of the store. The person you see in this chair is not the same person who snapped and shot him. I was so high.”

“So are you willing to accept responsibility for your rage, for the violence in you that shot that man?”

James isn’t expecting this question. He stumbles around before answering “Yes.” He can’t say no because his desire to change is too deep; but his yes sounds like it came out of left field and isn’t really his own. James continues, “I can’t blame that guy.” This is a big moment too.

I ask, “How does that feel — accepting responsibility for your violence?”

James is hesitant. “I’m not sure.”

Johnson breaks into the conversation, “I need to accept responsibility too. I’ve always thought if I didn’t stand up to people I was being weak; a pushover; I wasn’t being a man. Now I see it differently.”

I ask, “How so?”

Johnson explains, “Self-control takes inner strength and we can develop that for God. But we need God’s help too because this stuff isn’t easy. Going off on someone? That’s easy.”

I agree, “Snapping is easy. The worst part is when we take that easy road out we let other people control us.”

James looks bothered. “What do you mean we let other people control us?” He clearly despises this idea.

I can’t help but be facetious, “Do you enjoy being controlled?”

“Hell no.” As soon as the words are out, James covers his mouth, “Sorry.”

I extend the question to the whole group, “Do any of you like being controlled?”

It’s a unanimous NO.

“OK. So follow this — if that’s the case, how many of you have ever said, ‘That makes me mad!’?”

One-hundred percent of hands go up.

“When you hear that statement, “makes me mad”, does it sound controlling?”

“Yes” answers come from everyone.

“When someone makes you mad do you ever snap and do things you regret?”

Around the circle we go again — yes, yes, yes, yes…all the way around.

“There we go. We don’t like being controlled, but we give away our power. We allow people to make us mad and then do stuff we regret.”

Everyone sees how twisted this is. To drive the point home I review my reactions when I allowed the shooter to make me mad. I snapped and chased him; in the hospital I got lost in anger, hatred and resentment and obsessed about beating him with a bat. I allowed the gunman to control the quality of my life and sabotaged everything. The gunman pulled my strings like I was a drunken cowboy puppet, stumbling around my life shooting up the place and making a mess of things.

In the time left, we discuss the importance of responding to affronts and challenges when we notice that opportunity, instead of knee-jerk reacting to them.

I say, “There is no wrong way to feel. Anger, by itself, is not a problem. Our job is to understand ourselves enough to know where it’s headed if left unchecked. We can go hit a punching bag or take it out on another human being. Either way, it’s the same anger coming out. The key isn’t to control how we feel, but to accept responsibility for how we feel and then express it in healthy ways that consider the well-being of ourselves and other people.”

In the time left, we have a great conversation about practicing self-control and how we can express our anger in healthy ways — by talking it out, working it out, running it out, journaling, praying, engaging in other spiritual practices, and finding a safe place to yell and scream, or have a good cry when we get to the bottom of it on a particular issue.

During this discussion James shares that he has never accepted responsibility for anything before today. Earlier he didn’t know how he felt about accepting responsibility for his violence, but now he has a new report. James’s “Yes”, the one that came out of left field, has since landed and filled a meaningful space in his new puzzle. He responds with more enthusiasm than we’ve ever heard him before, sharing his realization about accepting responsibility for his anger. “If I had learned this growing up, I wouldn’t be in prison!”

CHAPTER 10

“You’re bigger than that.”

The first thing I notice on the approach is all the ink; it covers most of his shaved head. It’s not possible to know what’s beneath the brown sleeves, but the designs that begin on both wrists extend all the way up under them. My arms are a blank canvas compared to the hours of work covering every square inch of his. Getting closer I see three teardrops tattooed under one eye, then notice block letters that spell “Hustler” on the side of his neck, surrounded by a cobweb. All this fades to the background as wide wanting eyes grab my full attention when we shake hands.

I ask his name. He goes by Skrad, Skid, something like that. I ask, “What name did your mom give you?”

“Andre.”

“Can I call you that?” I ask.

“Sure.” He replies.

Yesterday, he sent a request to the chaplain’s office indicating that he wanted to talk to someone one-on-one. His request was passed along to me, so here we are.

I ask him what’s up and he jumps right in. He overheard a former member of our class talking about the program. Apparently the recent graduate was telling others how his relationship with his son had changed. For the first time in three years, that father told his son he was locked up. Before this, there was only dishonest dancing around the issue; made up tales about where Daddy was and why he couldn’t come home. Since this breakthrough of being honest, the former student was writing letters home for his mom to read to the boy; urgent messages about staying away from bad influences and not following his dad’s criminal lifestyle.

Andre’s heartstrings were struck by this story. He wanted to know what led to the change, and for good reason. The last time Andre saw his son, they were at home. Andre was getting ready to hit the streets. When saying goodbye, his son wouldn’t look at him.

“I asked why he wouldn’t look at me, but he just kept looking down. I asked again but he still wouldn’t look up. I kept asking and then he said, ‘Because you always leave me.’” As Andre says this, the words are still cutting like a knife. The depth of the wound is exposed in his next words, “That’s the last time I saw my son. I left home and got arrested later that day.”

Junior had called it right. Andre continues, “I can’t sleep; can’t get that picture out of my head, my son looking away, hearing him say that.” The name on Andre’s neck doesn’t match the watery eyes looking at me. Haunted by the memory, he seems to know he can’t hustle his way out of what God is revealing.

“It sounds like God is getting your attention,” I tell him.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but something’s going on. Something is changing,” he replies.

As we talk about how God comes to us, inviting us into new life, Andre’s attention flitters around the room, like he’s trying to keep up with invisible bees flying all around. I ask what’s wrong. He looks around with uneasiness, then leans forward and almost whispers “Can we talk somewhere else?”

I get up and walk to the officer’s station to ask if there’s a more private place. The officer glances over the scene. Swatting the air with his hand Andre signals other inmates to leave him alone. The officer gestures for Andre to come over. From there we are led to a door in the corner of the pod. He unlocks it to reveal a small room, longer than it is wide, with just enough room for two people to sit facing each another. The officer says the door must remain open. I am to sit closest to the opening, not against the wall. Nothing is said about this directive, but all of us know it’s so I’m not cornered in.

We sit. The officer returns to his post. Andre looks calmer. We talk about God’s love, what his little boy means to him, what he means to his son, and how it’s all related. Halfway through our one-hour visit, Andre’s eyes get busy again. They dart back and forth between me and what he sees going on behind me through the doorway. I turn around a couple of times to see the source of his distraction. No hint of anything. I turn back and ask, “What’s up?”

“Members of my crew keep flashing signs at me. They know you’re a chaplain.” He is clearly not pleased. He gives another “leave me alone” wave to someone else I can’t see.

“Are they flashing gang signs?”

He nods “yes.” After a few more glances between me and the secret messages from his crew, Andre leans forward, bringing his full attention as he looks directly into my eyes. “I wish they’d stop. I’m trying to focus on this now.”

“Me too.” I pause. “Am I safe here? Should we end this?”

“No. It’s OK. I’m a leader; pretty high up. Nothing goes down in here unless I say.”

My anxiety rises like a rocket leaving a launch pad. “What am I doing? How did I get in the middle of this? Am I stupid?”

By God’s grace I realize I can’t be present if I’m carried away by the story propelled by these thoughts. As a way to stay grounded, I silently acknowledge God’s love for all of us. Looking into Andre’s eyes is helpful. There, it’s easy to trust what he said — that all is well right where I am.

We settle in again, refocused, and continue talking about how his lifestyle is no match for a loving relationship with his son. I tell Andre, “The only way anything will change is if you do.”

“I want to.”

“You can. It won’t be easy, but with God’s help you can.” I’m talking to myself as much as to him, considering how I almost rode my reaction right out of this meeting. I’m reminded of how much we need God to resist temptation. For Andre, he must resist the pull of his gang’s mentality that it’s crazy for him to be talking to me. For me it’s the same; I must resist the pull of groupthink that it’s insane for me to be talking to him. For each of us to stay the course with God, constant surrender will be required.

Two weeks after our initial meeting, as a result of our conversation and learning more about what is available in God’s classroom, Andre has joined our group. God’s confronting love continues having its way with him, and me. God’s call to peace gets in our face. A few weeks before it happens, Andre shares what he wants out of the class. “I want a better relationship with my son.”

John speaks next, “I want to understand why I do what I do. It’s crazy, like there’s something wrong with me.”

Cam, our volunteer facilitator asks, “Why do you say that?”

“There’s something about fighting. Whenever I see a fight I want in. Something happens in me.” John looks embarrassed but continues, “I know it sounds sick, but I get off on it.” He explains how he has never been to a club without getting kicked out for fighting; how he looks for any excuse to go at it. If someone looks at him the wrong way, game on. John says he doesn’t want to be that way anymore.

As we go around the circle many of the guys make statements like: “I want to be able to deal with my anger,” Andre is no exception. We discuss anger like it is air in a beach ball deep inside us. When we get mad and stuff our feelings, we blow air into the ball. Over years of holding emotions in, the beach ball fills up tight as a drum. Then the smallest upsetting thing happens and the event is like a pin-prick. The ball explodes; a bomb goes off inside and we wreck everything around us, everything we care about.

We review how this class — with the conversations we have and the journaling we do — opens a valve on our beach ball. By talking and writing things out, we release steam that prevents us from going ballistic and paying a dear price later. Spring-boarding off this, I share my story at the ATM and what I learned about the cost of exploding.

After I finish sharing, John the fighter speaks up. “You ran after the robber because your beach ball exploded.”

I nod my head yes. John continues,

“That’s why I’m in here,” John tells us. After a pause he continues, “I got a speeding ticket and nearly killed the cop.”

The room goes quiet.

John quietly adds, “I’ll tell more when I share my story.”

Suddenly, a piercing noise invades the room. As I look around confused, a loud voice manages to get through to me. John shouts, “It’s the fire alarm!” Simultaneously, an officer opens the door instructing inmates where to go in single file with their mouths shut. After all inmates are out of the room, the officer instructs me and Cam to follow her. We walk toward the front office and pass our classmates in the hall. They are standing with another group of inmates from a different class. Separated by a group of officers, all are waiting for a door to open.

We continue walking. After rounding a corner, all hell breaks loose in the hall behind us. We turn but can’t see anything, though we can hear a burst of aggressive yelling. By the time we exit the hallway to pass back through the security doors and out the front of the building, whatever went down is under control.

Cam and I stand outside in the parking lot with officers and other prison staff, food service people, a few attorneys, and family members or friends who were visiting inmates. Two fire trucks arrive. Firemen jump out and get suited to the max with gas masks before lumbering around the corner of the building. It doesn’t look like a drill. All we can do is wait and wonder about the cause for alarm, the incident in the hallway, and if class will resume. Forty minutes pass. A gas leak is found and fixed, and we’re allowed back in.

Once again seated together, the group looks different than before. Andre can’t sit still. His toes are balanced on the floor as his legs bounce up and down like pistons in a stock car. Before we can discuss anything an officer barges through the door behind me with a handful of pink slips and starts handing them out. He gets to Andre, who looks at the slip and then at the officer, who sees something he doesn’t like.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Andre looks away, seething. Then reads the punishment detailed on the slip. The officer storms out and slams the door armed with more slips for another class.

Andre jumps up. He walks through our circle on a warpath toward me and the door. I don’t know what to do; don’t want to get in his way with body or words. And, yet, we have a history. Our previous conversations have not been forgotten. I think of telling him to stop, but the words don’t come out. Looking up at him, I momentarily want to disappear. But, God’s confronting love is in my face.

“Where are you going?”

Andre stops. As he glares down at me from a few feet away, I realize he could destroy me in seconds.

Gently, I proceed: “I thought you wanted a better relationship with your son. What you’re about to do won’t create that.”

Andre’s face changes as it all comes back to him. The tables are now turned. God’s confronting love is in his face now.

He walks back through the circle, stepping over his chair, all alone in a fight. He paces back and forth outside the circle on the other side. The tension is extreme — God vs. gang. It looks like every cell in his body craves revenge while God’s still voice within, whispers to him to stay put. He keeps pacing behind the chairs, back and forth, to and fro, over and over and over again. All eyes are on him, though some are looking side-ways, like they don’t want Andre to know they’re watching.

“Sit down!” God’s confronting love comes at Andre again, this time through John.

Andre stops and stares at him. Neither one’s eyes waiver; looks like a standoff. John speaks again, still demanding, but this time more supportive.

“Sit down.”

Their eyes remain locked; Andre’s break away first. After a few more paces behind the chair, he slides back into our circle and does what he’s told. His piston legs are back at it. John stops looking at him. The only sound we hear is Andre’s breathing.

A few more seconds pass. Cam speaks up, “What went on in the hall during the alarm?” No one says a word. Only one person knows the whole story, so it seems best to wait for his engines to slow down. After a bit, Andre fills us in. “A guy in the other class from a different gang started talking shit. This was his chance — to get me in the hall since we don’t stay in the same pod.” As Andre continues, we learn that the other gang member rushed Andre but was subdued before making it over. The pink slip was for Andre’s exchange of words with the other guy before the charge. Andre’s demerit, on top of the adrenaline of the near-fight, is what had Andre redlining and wanting revenge. By the time he finishes his account, the pistons, still pumping, have slowed.

The next voice into the space is John’s. He speaks to Andre: “I would have wanted to go after him, too. The way you stayed in here helps me see what I need to do when I’m about to go off on someone. I learned a good lesson.”

We wait for John to continue. He doesn’t, so I ask, “What’s lesson did you learn?”

John continues, “That I can change too.”

Andre looks surprised at the feedback. He had no idea he helped someone today. He tells John, “Thanks for saying that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And thanks for telling me to sit down too.”

I am grateful for their appreciation of one another. “You both set a good example today.” I turn to Andre, “You handled your anger well today. If you did it in here, you can do it out there — for your son.”

Andre looks encouraged. “It’s hard.”

“You’re right,” I tell him. “It’s not easy; not at the beginning anyway. Like anything, the more you do it, the easier it gets.”

We finish up by reviewing what the day taught us, including why it’s important to hang with people going in our same direction. We affirm that we can be a good example for one another, that we can help each other, and hold one another accountable to be peacemakers.

At the end of class, John closes us with a nice prayer: “God, help us stick together. Amen.”

Weeks later during check-in, John can’t wait to tell us what happened over the weekend. He was watching TV when a new guy passed behind him and said something about John’s mother. “I got up to get a shoe out of my room that has a better heel on it. I was gonna come back with it and wear him out. As soon as I stood up, Andre said to me, ‘You’re bigger than that.’” John pauses to appreciate Andre.

As John smiles at Andre, someone else in our group can’t wait, just has to know. “So what happened?”

John shakes his head like it’s a dumb question; as if the story’s ending should be obvious. “I sat back down.”

CHAPTER 11

“I can’t believe someone like you, cares about someone like me.”

The TV was on in the living room. Don, Cindy’s husband of eighteen years had just come in from splitting wood down by the lake. Now he was getting ready to watch his alma mater play for the conference championship. The TV tables were set, and Cindy was in the kitchen getting soup together for dinner. Her mom always made it for her dad, and now she liked making it for Don when the weather turned colder. It was his favorite.

The back door crashed open. Cindy turned just in time to see the ski mask before its hands grabbed her from behind. Kramer, the family member who was rescued seven years ago, never barked. He never made a sound. By the time Don made it to the kitchen Cindy had a gloved hand over her mouth and a knife to her throat. Don made it halfway across the room before a second mask stepped in and stabbed him. There was a struggle but only for a short time. Don went to his knees as Cindy watched in horror. After more thrusts of the knife, Cindy’s muffled cries were the last thing Don heard.

Through tears, Cindy describes what happened next. “They took me to the bedroom and tied me to the bed. Each one raped me while the other watched. I was so scared…” Cindy can’t continue through her tears. Inmate Samuel gets up and leaves the room. I wonder why. Maybe Cindy’s story is hitting close to home. The sound of her quiet crying rises and falls, in and out of the silence. After a minute she picks up the story again. “After they finished, they closed the door. I heard them going from room to room. They were cleaning out the house…” As Cindy shares this, Samuel returns with wet eyes and carrying a roll of toilet paper. Quietly he moves to where she is seated, then crouches down and hands her the roll. Cindy acknowledges his gesture, pulls off some tissue and wipes her eyes without missing a beat. “I also heard a car pull up. I thought it might be help but it was one of their friends. They took everything they thought was valuable — jewelry, silver, pictures, and all the presents under the tree. They left in the car.”

Samuel takes his seat again, and Cindy takes several minutes telling the rest of her story. Turns out Rick, a neighbor, saw an unfamiliar car racing down the dirt drive toward the highway and knew something was wrong. He found Kramer about fifteen minutes later. Then went inside and found Don and Cindy. The murderer and rapists were caught a few days later with the help of Rick’s description of the car. One is on death row; one is doing a life sentence; and the third will be gray when he gets out. Although it’s been ten years, Cindy relives her ordeal through nightmares on a regular basis.

Among many other occasions, Christmas will never be easy. Cindy is reduced to tears every time she sees a snow globe. It can happen at a party or the mall or while visiting a friend over eggnog. The killers stole a snow globe that Don gave Cindy for Christmas in ’86. It was the first gift she ever received from him, and it was never recovered.

Cindy smiles through her tears as she shares the significance. “We met two weeks before that. The ice skating couple in the globe was perfect for us; it was a funny reminder of the night we met.” She smiles like a newlywed. “Oh my gosh! We were ice skating at this park, but neither one of us looked like them! We were just trying to stay on our feet. I was out of control and Don looked like a windmill when we ran into each other. We both fell flat, sprawled on the ice! When we looked at each other, we started to laugh. Then we couldn’t stop, the way we were floundering around trying to get up. Finally we gave up and just lay there on our backs laughing together. We were inseparable after that.”

Cindy breaks down again. It takes more than one fist-full of toilet paper and a lengthy pause before she is ready to speak again. She shares more about their life, their kids, and the grandbaby Don never held. Sometimes Cindy feels like she’s forgiven the men, other times not so much. Meditating has helped a lot. When she started including the perpetrators in her prayers, it was really hard. She’d stop and start and stop and start again. At some point it got easier. She continues with this practice and senses God doing something good in her. Her angry spells, when she feels like she could kill somebody, don’t last as long.

When Cindy finishes, no one can speak. Several seconds pass. The room is as quiet as the ocean depths. The silence seems to cry out loud. Looking around, I see lots of broken hearts about what human beings do to one another. Samuel is the first person who gives voice to the pain he feels. He can hardly get started. “My…my sister…my sister was raped and murdered.” That’s all he gets out before crying. I think of how beautiful this is, the way we’ve been created; how natural and simple the healing process is when we come together for that purpose and open to God and share our hurts. Cindy and Samuel are showing us that the only way out of our pain is to go through it by sharing it. As Samuel sleeves his eyes dry, Cindy hands something to the inmate sitting next to her. He passes it along. Slowly but surely, the toilet paper turned Kleenex makes its way back around to Samuel.

Samuel shares much about his sister, including some of the times they shared and where they rode their bikes together as kids. He talks about what he knows about the afternoon she was taken from school; the torment his family went through for two months before her body was found in an abandoned rock quarry; how her rape and murder tore the family apart; and how much he’d like to be in the same prison as the rapist and what he’d like to do to him if he were.

Several weeks later, Samuel comes clean about why he’s in prison. He got in trouble with drugs but that’s not what got him locked up the first time, many years ago. He was a cat burglar, always entering during broad daylight when no one was home. Samuel’s system worked well for three years. Before the days of alarm systems, he’d drive into prominent neighborhoods and look for homes where it appeared the residents were gone. Sometimes it would take weeks to find one, at other times only a few days. The regularity of his hits also depended on what he stole and how much he got for the items.

“I focused on neighborhoods with older people since a lot of them take trips and stuff. When I found a house that seemed good, I wrote down the address, looked up the phone number, and drove to a pay-phone. If someone answered I hung up. If no one answered, I left the phone off the hook and went back to the house. I dressed nice and had a good story about being a salesman if any neighbors asked.” Samuel describes how he’d go around back and put his ear against windows to see if he could hear the phone ringing. If so, he knew the coast was clear. He’d go in, fill up a trash bag, leave it on the curb and return home or wherever else he was staying. Later that night, Samuel drove back into the neighborhood and picked up the bags.

As he shares his story, Cindy asks Samuel what he stole.

“Jewelry and silverware and other small stuff.” While looking at Cindy, Samuel gets visibly uncomfortable. Before her question, he was clipping along like anyone talks about a routine day at work. Now the routine is over. It ends as quickly as Cindy began sobbing after telling us about the snow globe. Samuel can’t skate past whatever it is that’s coming up for him. They have shared too many tears. Looking at Cindy, Samuel shifts to a more confessional tone. “When you talked about the snow globe, I thought about what happened after my arrest.”

Cindy waits for him to go on.

He explains that he was sitting in the back of a police car outside Kansas City, cooperating with police. Driving through a neighborhood Samuel asked the officer to slow down. “I think I did this house up here on the left a few years ago.” The cop slowed the car and stopped in front of a home. A grandmotherly looking woman was sweeping the driveway. The policeman rolled down the window, and the woman walked over to the car.

Samuel goes on. “I was looking up at her through the back window. She was pretty close; only a few feet away. The policeman asked if she lived in the house. She said no, this is my daughter’s home.” From there the cop asked if she knew whether or not the house had ever been burglarized. The older woman’s eyes filled with tears.

Recalling this, Samuel takes his time telling his story.

“She said there had been a break-in. One of the things taken was a locket. It had been passed down through the family for four generations. It started with her grandmother. The year it was stolen her granddaughter was supposed to receive it for graduation.” Samuel takes a deep breath. He looks miserable, thinking of the sentimental value, as he sits with someone who misses her snow globe.

After making sure he’s finished, Cindy speaks up. “I’m glad you saw her cry.”

“I’ve never forgotten the look on her face. It woke me up. It was the first time I realized I was hurting people. Before that I always thought, ‘These people are rich; they have insurance; they can replace stuff.’”

Cindy keeps on. “Don’t ever forget her; the way she looked standing in the driveway.”

Samuel quietly responds, “I won’t. You reminded me of her when you told us about your snow globe. I hurt that woman like you’ve been hurt.” Samuel looks away shaking his head; then looks back at Cindy, “You’ve been through so much but you’re still trying to help us.”

“I don’t want anyone else to endure, what me and my family and Don’s family and friends have. You need to understand how the smallest things can be huge, depending on where someone is in their life and what they’ve been through.”

Samuel and the others reflect on that. Then Samuel continues, “I’ve done so many people wrong. I hate myself. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done but I pray for forgiveness all the time. I’ve been thinking about that Bible story we discussed a few weeks ago; the one about the guy everyone hated.”

Jarod speaks up, “You mean the story in Luke about the tax collector Zacchaeus?”

“Yeah; that’s the one. Everyone hated him but he wanted to change. I related to him since he ripped people off. I’m glad Jesus forgave him and gave him another chance. I can’t give back the things I took and sold, but I have thought about going to schools and talking to kids when I get out. Maybe I can help them avoid the path I took.”

Cindy becomes more affirming, “Samuel that’s wonderful. Zacchaeus’s story is your story.” Then, looking around at the rest of our group, she adds, “That’s true for all of you. God saves us from ourselves. It happens with me every day and I know if God can do it for me, God can do it for you. That’s one reason I’m here — just hoping my story can help you somehow.”

Samuel, beholding her words, lets them sink in. Looking as if he’s been filled with new hope, “I can’t believe someone like you, cares about someone like me.”

CHAPTER 12

“I don’t pray.”

We’re beginning a new program and discussing why it’s important to share our stories with honesty, as well as to complete homework assignments and stay in the program no matter how uncomfortable things get. During this conversation the inmates are told, “If you’re not willing to commit to these requirements, be honest now so your seat can go to someone on the waiting list. If you’re not sure you want to participate, now is the time to raise your concerns and ask questions.”

“I need to know something.” Stanley’s words follow mine with zero space in between. “I signed up and then someone who took the class before said we’ll be talking about God. I decided to drop out, but he said ‘No, just go. It’s cool.’ So I came today.” After a short pause, “Thing is, I’m not sure about God stuff; I don’t pray. Sometimes I watch the Buddhists and the guys in the Native American circle, but I don’t read the Bible or anything like that; been a long time. I don’t like the way those people treat me. They come around with the pressure talk, saying I better do this or that to get straight with God.” Looking disgusted, he goes on. “I can’t stand it, people acting like they’re better than me. Like I don’t know all the messed up stuff church people do. They don’t even know me; don’t even try. Anyway, that’s why I don’t know if I should be in this class.” After saying all this to the floor, Stanley suddenly looks up, laser eyes on me. “What do you think?”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty. You need to know that we are going to talk about God. We’ll be doing that in the Christian context, too. However, this program isn’t about trying to get you to do anything or believe in a certain way. Whatever your religion, faith, practices — this class meets you exactly where you are, no questions asked. Strong faith, weak faith, no faith, it’s all perfect in here. We’ll use some stories from the Bible and you are expected to read and discuss them and reflect on your life — where you’ve been, where you are, what kind of life you’d like to live in the future.” Stanley looks like he’s processing this. After a few seconds I ask, “Does that help?”

Stanley answers, “Yeah”, I can roll with that.”

Ted, an inmate who leads a Bible study, looks to be in deep thought.

At the end of class, after more Q&A, everyone commits to the program. I ask if someone would close us in prayer. Ted leads us, thanking God for bringing us together and asking for help to be more like Jesus.

Leaving the room, Stanley looks concerned again. He pulls me aside and whispers, “I just need to make sure of something; I won’t have to pray, right?”

“No” I reassure him, “not unless you want to.”

Stanley breathes a sigh of relief that leaves him looking lighter. “OK good. Thanks. Drive safe.” Then he walks away.

Over the next several weeks, whenever God is the topic of discussion, Stanley remains as quiet as a seed growing in fertile ground. He never tunes out the conversation; never rolls his eyes about anything. We hear the most from him when he shares his story.

It starts with a lie. “I’m a mistake.” Stanley is the youngest of four children by ten years. His father went to prison when he was a baby, never to return again. Growing up, he remembers going to church with his mom. She buttoned him all the way up every Sunday, put a Bible in his hand and told him to behave for the next four hours. Stanley hated doing that, especially around his abusive Sunday school teacher. She sounds plain mean: how she’d grab his hair and turn him around and get in his face.

When Stanley quit school in the tenth grade he also quit church. He moved in with his older brother, Jimmy. There he learned all sorts of new things that would get anyone in trouble — how to drink, smoke, snort, steal and shoot. His first major stint in prison came at age twenty-something after sticking up for Jimmy when he got in a bar fight with the bouncer’s brother. The fight rolled around on broken beer bottles before surging outside. There, the bouncer got involved and one-on-one became two-on-one. Soon, Jimmy was spending all his time in the dirt, covering his head to avoid a flurry of fists from one brother and stomping boots from the other.

Stanley moved to jump in, but the bouncer pulled a gun and stuck it in his face. Stanley backed away, knowing he’d be back for his brother. He flew to Jimmy’s truck, reached under the seat and returned with equal force. A gunfight broke out. Stanley and the bouncer hit the ground. Both guns were emptied and a few more people went down. The crowd scattered. Then Stanley heard yelling: “Get in; let’s go!” Stanley reached up to grab Jimmy’s hand to pull himself into the front seat. They sped away with Stanley’s feet dangling out the door. After a quick stop to get him all the way in, there was talk of hiding out, but that was short-lived. Jimmy needed a doctor and Stanley needed a trauma team. They raced toward town to the hospital. Stanley says, “I thought it was over for me. I kept telling God, ‘Please don’t let me die like this.’ That’s one of the last times I prayed.”

Next, Stanley takes us through his story of serving twelve years; getting released; working on and off in construction; meeting Renee, the love of his life; Renee and their baby being killed by a drunk driver; and the events leading to his current sentence for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.

Before his latest arrest, Stanley’s mom moved to an assisted living home. He often visited her in the middle of the night. “The staff always let me in. I’d pull up a chair next to her bed and hold her hand. Sometimes I’d be so drunk that I’d fall asleep like that.” He chuckles at the memory, although he doesn’t look proud of it. “In the morning when they brought her breakfast, I’d get a muffin out of the machine and we’d eat together.” While reflecting, Stanley adds, “I worry about my mom. She needs me…but I’m in here. I want to do for her like she did for me growing up. She was good to me; did all she could.”

The assault happened one day after Stanley’s sister, Jamie, brought their mom home to give her a break from assisted living. Stanley describes what happened while they were sitting outside the trailer: “Two lowlifes came by trash talking about what they wanted to do to my sister. Mom told them to stop; they told her to shut up.” Stanley’s eyes are red now as he tells us, “No one disrespects my family like that.”

He asked around and learned where the men lived. Then he paid a visit, kicking their door in, carrying a shotgun. No one was home, so Stanley went berserk and broke up lots of stuff, trashed the place. While leaving, he saw one of the guys lumbering away and chased him down. “I got that weasel on his back and shoved the shotgun down his throat. I should have pulled the F#*^ing trigger.”

Stanley sits there like a pot full of regret on high boil. Seconds pass. The hot silence is interrupted by Ray, who’s doing life without parole. At sixty-something, he’s the oldest in our group. Some call him Pops. His voice carries a deep and wise reality check. “If you had pulled the trigger you wouldn’t have a release date.” More silence. Stanley looks at Ray like he never thought of that before. A few seconds pass and Ray continues, “With no release date you might never see your mom again. You still have that chance. I lost mine because I went too far.” As the moments unfold, Ray’s sadness fills his eyes, and Stanley looks thankful he didn’t pull the trigger.

Robert speaks next. “This reminds me of something I been thinking about since starting this class. When I look back on my life and all the years I’ve spent in prison, there are about five times (Robert holds his hand up, fingers spread, palm forward, and moves it back and forth emphasizing the number), five times, where if I had just stopped to think, my whole life would be different.” Speaking directly to Stanley he continues. “You not blowing that guy away, reminds me of that.” Robert continues with what he knows he needs to do to stay out of trouble. “When I’m acting stupid I need to pay attention to that voice that says “Stop.” I need to listen instead of saying ‘F#*% it’ and going ahead with what I’m doing.”

I ask if anyone can relate to Robert. Some of us can. A few give an example from their life. Others simply listen, searching themselves to make the connection. Stanley does neither. Instead, he does something I haven’t seen him do yet. He rolls his eyes as if the idea is absurd. “Oh C’mon; you get in a mode out there. You need respect. You need to maintain it and do certain things to survive the streets. You gotta do what you gotta do.” Stanley goes on and on about this, repeatedly saying, “It’s just the way it is.”

I’m getting irritated listening to him argue for his limitations. Although it would be absurd for me to question what Stanley is saying, I can’t help but barge in with a few words edge-wise for how he is saying it. When Stanley takes a breath between sentences, I barge in. “I don’t buy it.” Stanley stops cold, startled by my intrusion.

Ted jumps in to ward off my charge, “Bill wait…” Then he turns to Stanley: “How long have you been running the streets?”

“Basically my whole life, when I wasn’t in here. But this place is a lot like the street.”

Ted looks back at me and defends Stanley with a charge of his own. “There’s a lot of conditioning there; you don’t just turn that off like a switch!”

“I get that,” I say to Ted, but here’s the thing…” Turning back to Stanley, “…It sounds like you’re saying you don’t have a choice. That’s what I don’t buy.”

Stanley takes a reflective step back into deafening silence. After a few seconds he quietly says, “No, I know I have one. I know I can choose.”

I am relieved. “OK good, because if we lose sight of that…why are we here?”

Stanley answers the redundant question by saying nothing. The deep stillness in the background of this conversation makes itself known again. As God comes to us in this way, we all have the opportunity to look within, at places in our lives that aren’t working because we’re running on “automatic,” clinging to beliefs that don’t serve us, ignoring the desires of our soul, pretending we are powerless to change, missing the fact that experiencing new life in God sometimes requires making different choices.

During this pause, Robert’s words bump around in my head like a slow moving truck, working its way out of that small space. They won’t leave me alone. I back-track, saying, “Let’s return to what Robert said about paying attention to the voice that says ‘Stop’ when we’re full blown reacting and headed for trouble. Where does that voice come from? Could it have something to do with God?”

Stanley isn’t rolling his eyes anymore. They are locked-in as if this is his favorite subject. Our group discusses God’s grace in noticing; that we don’t have to do anything to earn it; how it shows up at opportune times; that it can be loud and clear, or oh so quiet and missed like a whisper at a rock concert; how God comes to us in noticing, reminding us of our ability to choose; and how we can respond to God’s invitation or blow it off and continue worshiping our self-serving agenda.

I remind everyone of things I noticed when I was laid up in the hospital — things which helped me stop reacting: the chaplain’s words, the message I received about forgiveness, the cards on the hospital room walls, and conversations with other patients. A few inmates share examples of how they relate to this conversation, how God has helped them stop, turn around, re-focus their attention, make more life-giving choices, and experience more fulfillment.

The conversation falls off. Stanley stares at the floor in deep thought. I can’t tell what’s going on inside of him. When it seems no one has a thing left to say, words of revelation rise from the depths of God’s love having its way in Stanley, “Maybe that’s why I didn’t pull the trigger.”

God’s presence in the sound of silence takes us past our allotted time. Our instructions are to finish promptly, which would have been two or three minutes earlier. I don’t want to interrupt what the Holy Spirit is doing, but I also don’t want to get in trouble and lose the privilege of returning. This is always a tough call. None of the inmates have noticed the time, though most usually do. Everyone is still hanging on Stanley’s words, including Stanley.

With great reluctance I interrupt the eternal moment. “I’m sorry to do this, but we need to wrap it up. Who would like to close us in prayer?”

My words kick the door in on group reflection. No one volunteers to pray. Perhaps everyone is still considering if God had something to do with a shotgun trigger not being pulled when it was wedged in someone’s mouth. A few more moments pass. Still nothing; I decide to pray. As I’m about to begin, someone clears his throat. It’s a prompt for the rest of us to bow our heads. We do so with reverent surprise, as Stanley leads us. “God, some of us really do want to change. Please keep helping us do that. Amen.”

AUTHOR’S REFLECTION

Each week, in my conversations with inmates and victim-survivors (as well as with family and friends and even some strangers) I am reminded that each of us has story. You have a story. Some of our stories are easy to share; others, not so much. Sharing difficult life experiences can seem to open places deep inside — places filled with pain, anger, fear, and sorrow. When sharing our wounds, these emotions begin to flow freely. We might be left feeling ashamed, embarrassed, out-of-control, perhaps even hopeless. When our stories trigger unpleasant emotions, this is a sign that more healing is possible, and God’s truth can be realized in more fullness.

Even so, our tendency can be to go into self-protect mode to avoid discomfort. Shutting down in this way is like grabbing a handful of small nails and gripping them as tightly as possible. As long as our hand stays clenched tight, we continue to suffer and are incapable of receiving something else. When we shut down and lock ourselves in self-protect mode, holding onto unpleasant emotions from hurtful past experiences, we harm and limit ourselves in a comparable way. We are unable to fully receive all that God has to offer us. We can’t receive God’s love that heals our wounds, eases and ends our suffering, and brings Peace beyond understanding.

As I contemplate this reactive insanity in myself, I find life-giving meaning in the story of Adam and Eve. After the apple is eaten, they hide-out, feeling afraid. But that’s not the end of the story. God comes seeking, “Where are you?” This speaks to God’s desire for us, always coming to us when we hide out in self-protect mode, feeling embarrassed, ashamed, or vulnerable. When I consider how I’ve avoided unpleasant emotions that arise from past hurts, I see myself in Eve and Adam.

When I allow God’s question, “Where are you?” to penetrate the depths of my being, then authentically answer it from beyond the inner-walls I sometimes build to protect myself, my ensuing conversation with God sounds like this:

God: “Bill, where are you?”

“Lost, Alone, Afraid, Confused, Upset, Embarrassed, Ashamed…”

“Exactly,” God says.

From the silence I cry out, “How do I get out of this suffering?”

“Open yourself to what I have to offer. Follow Me.”

“Follow You?”

“Yes, follow Me.”

“But…where are we going?” I ask, as if getting in the back seat of a mysterious car driven by a stranger.

“It doesn’t matter. Do not be afraid. Follow Me.”

“But, how long are we going to be gone?”

“That doesn’t matter either. Follow Me.”

I continue, “Yeah, but…what will other people think of me?”

“It is your life in Me… they have their own. Follow Me.”

“OK, but…oh no, wait a minute. What will I have to give up?”

God responds, “Your usual strategy for feeling safe and secure. You don’t know what you’re doing. Surrender; die to your self-understanding and be released from your suffering — Follow Me.”

Follow Me. We hear Jesus say those words over and over and over again. This is significant: The road to Jerusalem and the cross was not comfortable, but “Follow Me” remained the instruction. If we are following in the way of the surrendered Jesus, our journey will not always be comfortable either.

In my experience, when I feel uncomfortable and disturbed — God’s love is up to something good, and inviting me into that goodness. God is inviting me to follow in the way of Jesus, to be who I am in Christ while living in a world that seems to be trying hard to have me believe in who I’m not — someone who (when experiencing any unpleasant feeling) needs to get defensive by building walls or going on the attack; needs to look good by stuffing certain feelings and not get emotional; or needs to find security by following the status quo — conforming to a world that mostly takes up identity in temporal experiences from the past vs. being transformed by the renewal of the mind in God’s eternal presence here-now.

Just like inmates and victim-survivors in God’s classroom, our desire for new life in God brings the willingness to surrender — to open up to God in a safe space and engage life exactly as we are; a space where we love one another with our listening, with no judgment and agenda to fix or change anything; where the self-protect mechanisms of our small selves, lose their energy to run the show; where we stop playing dodge-ball with the unpleasant stuff that comes up, and risk being ourselves and seen by others. When we do this, we enter into and participate in God’s already-underway creative transformation.

We begin seeing our shared humanity in people around us — our limitations, innocence, anger, beauty, arrogance, compassion, shortcomings, sorrow, hurts, violence, brokenness, and God-given potential. As we recognize this, judgment of ourselves and others diminishes. The less we judge, the more we appreciate who we all are in God. The more we appreciate, the more grateful we become for ourselves and others, and our lives together. We see how much we need one another for healing, revelation, and transformation. As our gratitude expands, we see God’s love in more people, places, and circumstances, and in ways we never have before. As we grow in awareness of God’s presence, we come to experience the continuous flow of God’s grace and love — in, around, and through every aspect of our lives.

This is the beauty of opening to God in surrender by sharing our painful stories: God’s everlasting love flows through and wins the day.

- When we listen and share our hard-to-tell experiences with one another (openly, honestly, and with vulnerability), God’s love enters that space, stirs us up, and has its way for healing on every level — mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

- In how the love of God changes us, we know God’s presence.

- Remaining vulnerable to the love of God, the light of God’s truth continues entering in, one unfolding moment at a time. Our stories of “I was” die, and we find new meaning on the other side of our discomfort. We experience a dying into resurrected new life, into the “I am” Truth of who we all are in God.

- We come to understand that we have shared-life in God beyond our personal story. We see that our individual stories of brokenness-healing enter other people’s lives and stories for the same purpose. As this happens and our lives express themselves in more praise, thankfulness, love, empathy, compassion, and service, we come to know that we are following in the way of Jesus. We see that our story is not the end of The Story — but rather is unfolding in God’s great love.

- Since we are participating in God’s purposes for all of us, we experience forgiveness, reconciliation, communion, and Peace — Heaven-on-earth. We have allowed our stories to become God’s Story.

I never could have imagined how God has brought my story at the ATM full-circle by way of surrender. By sharing it until there were no more tears, and continuing to do so (along with many others over the years) — God seems to have carried, led, and compelled me to share my ATM experience in prison with inmates. Each time I do this, God continues to reveal the Truth of who and Whose we all are in God, and why we need one another.

This has led to forming a non-profit, called Restored Life Journeys (RLJ). Our mission is stated at the end of this section. The stories you have read in this book are vignettes of what happens in the work we do each week. If you have found this book to be meaningful, and are considering sharing it with family or friends as a gift, know that when you do — your gift to them is also a gift that supports our mission.

The following is inspired by my ATM experience. I appreciate, beyond words, God’s healing and how it has transformed my life and story; and how God continues appreciating it (adding value) twenty-something years later.

ATM machines and signs are all around: at banks, in convenience stores, malls, hotels, grocery stores, airports, hospitals, gift shops, and amusement parks. They even stand in the middle of some parking lots. The next time you see or use one, remember that the letters ATM no longer stand for Automated Teller Machine. They represent: Appreciate This Moment.

These words mean a few different things — to be grateful for this moment that God makes possible; to honor it; to open and be present to what God is creating here and now; to give ourselves to it; to be used up by it; to increase the value of it in all these ways.

We have been created to reverence, love, and serve God. We do this when we allow God to enter, heal, transform, and use our stories for life-giving purposes greater than ourselves. There is no better time to do that than right now. All we have is this Now Moment.

How are you Doing Time with God?

When you notice the letters ATM, pause to Appreciate This Moment. Become present. Look within. Notice the story running around in your head and how you feel about it. Did something happen, twenty-years or two-minutes ago, that leaves you feeling angry, hurt, afraid, embarrassed, or defensive? Have you acted out of those feelings in ways that cause more suffering for yourself and the world?

If so, continue to Appreciate This Moment. Praise God. Give thanks for the gift of life, for the miracle it is to be able to experience anything at all. Choose to die to your self-protect mode and share your story for more healing. As the inmate and victim-survivor stories in this book reveal, beautiful things happen when two or more gather and open-up for God’s love to have its way in our story-telling and ensuing conversations. Allow your story to come out, so God can use it for transformation.

Journal your experience; share your story in a safe space with a friend or loved one. Find a person or join a group that gathers for this purpose. If you can’t find one, ask others; state your reasons. You can also create one with your vulnerability. Take a chance on trusting God. Share yourself with people you sense are open and available. Through your authenticity, openness, and honesty, God’s light will come through, and like-purposed people will move toward it like moths to a flame.

You might also write a letter to a person with whom you’ve had a falling-out. Even if you don’t send it, taking the time will still be very helpful. Perhaps call someone on the phone and share your experience in the spirit of reconciliation. Somewhere in there you might say “I’m sorry” and ask forgiveness, or say “I love you.”

Die to your pride, regret, shame, and grudges. Pray for your enemies. Open yourself to be changed, by and for Love. Allow God to get the best of your story — for yourself, your family, friends, neighbors, and humanity. There is no better way to Appreciate This Moment, especially since we are all on this journey together — Doing Time with God.

The mission of Restored Life Journeys is to create safer and more peaceful and productive communities by connecting victims of violence with inmates in ways that foster healing, rehabilitation, and reconciliation — thereby reducing the recidivism rate, number of crime victims, and taxpayer burden. The spiritual mission is to co-create a space where victims and offenders experience the transforming power of God’s love.

Thank you for taking time to read this book. As it relates to our work, thanks also for your consideration in supporting our mission — through volunteering, book purchases, donations, invitations to speak, and prayers.

Peace to you,

Bill Dyer

To make a donation, learn more about volunteering, or arrange for Bill to share his message with your group, please visit: www.RestoredLifeJourneys.org

For ordering books, please go to: www.DoingTimeWithGod.com

Restored Life Journeys

PO Box 10361

Jacksonville, FL 32247

BillDyer@RestoredLifeJourneys.org

REFLECTION AND DISCUSSION QUESTIONS FOR EACH CHAPTER

1. What grabbed my attention?

2. What was most thought provoking about this story?

3. What was most meaningful?

4. Do I see myself in this story; If so, how?

5. What are my insights about each person’s journey with God?

6. How can I apply each insight to further my own journey?

7. What does this story teach or remind me about relationships? How can I apply these insights to a family member, friend, co-worker, or stranger?

8. How does this chapter relate to my healing process?

9. Did the story move or confront me in some way? If so, which part? What emotion/s did I notice arising? Did I sense myself shutting down or opening up? Have I had an unpleasant experience/s that requires more healing? If so, when, where, how, and with whom, can I further that process?

10. How does this chapter relate to forgiveness? Can I apply this insight to myself or my relationship with someone?

11. Are there examples in this chapter about reacting vs. responding? — Have I recently reacted in ways that don’t serve me, others, and God? If so, what happened? How did I react in thought, word or deed? What was the cost? How might I respond and pause for God in the future?

12. Is surrender happening in this story? If so, how does this inform my journey? Where and how could I put more trust in God?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After earning a Master of Divinity degree from Hood Theological Seminary in 2011, Bill founded Restored Life Journeys, an organization that leads restorative justice, re-entry, and spiritual formation programs in prisons.

Bill’s work is grounded in his experience of being robbed and shot at an ATM in 1988. During a lengthy hospital stay, he was miserable — stuck in anger, resentment, and the prison of his own understanding; obsessing about getting revenge. He missed God’s life-giving presence, but eventually came to know it through forgiveness. Bill learned distinctions about his role and responsibility in having such contrasting experiences. He shares these insights and other life lessons when speaking to businesses, associations, and civic or faith-based groups.

Before attending divinity school, Bill owned Quantum Leap Resources — a professional speaking and personal-growth seminar company founded in 1994. Clients included: Johnson and Johnson, The CIA, US Postal Service, and Martin Marietta.

Born in Wichita Falls, Texas, Bill grew up in Jacksonville, Florida and graduated from Tulane University in 1983 with a degree in Geology. He worked on oil and gas wells in the Rocky Mountains before managing exploration crews along the Louisiana-Texas Gulf Coast and West Africa. Between that role and starting Quantum Leap Resources, Bill worked for DuPont, selling commercial explosives to the mining industry in upstate New York and the Carolinas.