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My Wayback Machine

11/16/2019

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​One of the many cartoons I watched as a kid (probably would again if it were on) involved a Mr. Wizard and his young protege', Tooter, the turtle. Their adventures involved Mr. Wizard sending Tooter into the past to meet various persons and become involved in many a misadventure.  Once in the throes of such a catastrophe, Tooter would yell out, "Help Mr. Wizard!  I don't want to be a 'whatever' anymore!" Tooter would become enamored of some dering do he'd read about and ask Mr. Wizard to enable him to be such (cowboy, pilot, pirate, whatever) to fulfill his idea of life in whatever hero he wanted to become.  Invariably, Tooter would discover his dreams of being whatever would run afoul of reality resulting in his calling out for rescue.

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​There is ample evidence of comparison between young Tooter and myself when I recall my adventures (and misadventures) as a youngster acting out many so-called heroic encounters with all manner of imaginary beings.  From Flash Gordon to Sgt. Rock, as well as a myriad of other heroes, I would be a hero saving humanity from whatever scourge or enemy my vivid imagination could conjure up.  These imaginary adventures were mostly harmless, and it amazed me, looking back, how much time I spent doing such things.  One time some friends and my two brothers built a raft (ala Huckleberry Finn) out of some pallets, two discarded fuel tanks from an aircraft junkyard at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry Point, NC.  We journeyed in our raft up and down Slocum Creek, which bordered the housing development where we lived.  Such trips usually were an all-day affair; there was something about lazing away a hot summer day doing nothing but poling our raft up and down this one section of Slocum Creek, imagining all manner of brave exploits.  Again, mostly harmless until one day, we allowed the current to capture our raft and take us to a point where the poles we had could no longer reach the bottom.  At that point, we were out of control and drifting slowly and inexorably toward the Neuse River.
We thought it just another neat way to further our experiences as young heroes, little realizing that once out of Slocum Creek and into the current of the Neuse River, our next stop could have been the Atlantic Ocean.  To say that our craft was not seaworthy is an understatement, ignorance being bliss we were enjoying ourselves.

​There is ample evidence of comparison between young Tooter and myself when I recall my adventures (and misadventures) as a youngster acting out many so-called heroic encounters with all manner of imaginary beings.  From Flash Gordon to Sgt. Rock, as well as a myriad of other heroes, I would be a hero saving humanity from whatever scourge or enemy my vivid imagination could conjure up.  These imaginary adventures were mostly harmless, and it amazed me, looking back, how much time I spent doing such things.  One time some friends and my two brothers built a raft (ala Huckleberry Finn) out of some pallets, two discarded fuel tanks from an aircraft junkyard at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry Point, NC.  We journeyed in our raft up and down Slocum Creek, which bordered the housing development where we lived.  Such trips usually were an all-day affair; there was something about lazing away a hot summer day doing nothing but poling our raft up and down this one section of Slocum Creek, imagining all manner of brave exploits.  Again, mostly harmless until one day, we allowed the current to capture our raft and take us to a point where the poles we had could no longer reach the bottom.  At that point, we were out of control and drifting slowly and inexorably toward the Neuse River.
We thought it just another neat way to further our experiences as young heroes, little realizing that once out of Slocum Creek and into the current of the Neuse River, our next stop could have been the Atlantic Ocean.  To say that our craft was not seaworthy is an understatement, ignorance being bliss we were enjoying ourselves.
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​The rest of my life up until March 6, 1988, remained the same as I blithely sailed along down the river of life, not realizing I needed rescuing most urgently.  When I left the Navy at the behest of my first wife, I initially went to NC State University in the Nuclear Engineering program there.  I discovered through interviewing at various power plants located in Virginia, North, and South Carolina that these plants were NOT built or run to the standards that I'd been used to while a nuclear-trained electrician in submarines.  As I had been enjoying my volunteer activity as an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician), the choice made was to change majors and schools, transferring to UNC and working on a major in nursing instead.  Concurrent with that, I also earned my paramedic license, something which, together with working as an RN in emergency departments, fed into my desire to be heroic.  As it turned out, my talent to remain calm in stressful situations and to assess and treat patients, did much to advance me in the eyes of superiors wherever I worked.  I was excellent at my job; the trouble was that I knew it.

The years passed, and my pride in my efforts continued to build; me, myself and I are as unholy as any three things can be.  One day, that pride led me to a decision that would forever change my life, ending my career as an RN and paramedic and sending me to prison for almost 24 years (23 years, seven months, and 25 days to be exact).  As when on the raft floating down the Slocum Creek, my life was floating downstream (like any dead fish), headed for destruction.  To many, that destruction was my going to prison; most of my so-called friends abandoned me when this happened, and I found myself at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC, without hope of ever getting out.

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​In such an environment, I came to realize that this was the place for me. Pride had led me to believe my dreams were real and that all that "I" had accomplished was because of my abilities.  Silly, but no less stupid than my fantasies as a youngster.  In this dark, dangerous place where hope was dead, and existence was more survive than thrive, I had nowhere to turn to for help.  An invitation to attend the weekly worship service in the chapel was welcomed, not for any recognition on my part of my need, but to get out of the crowding for a time.  The next week I attended the service again (same reason, the overcrowding in the processing dormitory was beyond imagining), but something unexpected happened to me.  That "...still, small voice..." whispered my name, and I surrendered to His call.

​My journey of faith has been like the screen of an oscilloscope, no straight line, but a confusing multi-directional squiggle that lacked definition.  Even today, with the areas in which struggle goes on, failure is a companion that, while I may not embrace, I am all too familiar.  Thankfully, God does not leave me there.  To lose my career that was satisfying and rewarding for a life of unemployment (were it not for my wife remaining with me and welcoming me into her home when I was released, I would be homeless), but I can go on because of Whose I am.  One book I read while in prison impacted me greatly, and the words from the author continue to reverberate in my heart.
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​Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: "Bless You, Prison!""Solzhenitsyn in the 1950s at the Kazakh prison camp that inspired 'A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.'"
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: It was granted to me to carry away from my prison years on my bent back, which nearly broke beneath its load, this essential experience: how a human being becomes evil and how good.
In the intoxication of youthful successes, I had felt myself to be infallible, and I was, therefore, cruel.
In the surfeit of power, I was a murderer and an oppressor.
In my most evil moments, I was convinced that I was doing good, and I was well supplied with systematic arguments.
It was only when I lay there on rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good.
Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts. . . .
That is why I turn back to the years of my imprisonment and say, sometimes to the astonishment of those about me:
"Bless you, prison!"
I . . . have served enough time there.
I nourished my soul there, and I say without hesitation: "Bless you, prison, for having been in my life!"
—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago: 1918-1956, Volume 2, pp. 615-617.



The time in prison and the loss of career and respect is a paltry price to pay for an eternity with my King.  I'm not Home yet, and I continue to fail my King, but one thing I do...I press on.

The journey continues...
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Who Me,  Jonah?

5/30/2019

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There are times when no matter how mature we think we are in our walk with Christ, words spoken that cause harm and grief to another happen and we are left to wonder from where such had come.  Words that were not expressed in anger or overt discrimination, but did in hindsight, convey a message that is all too common in society throughout the history of the world where one culture or ethnicity considers another less than itself.  Racism is an ugly word and one that has been bandied about recently for political gain by far too many; it is something that all who are human struggle against, yes even those in Christ.


Jonah was a man called as a prophet of God and that gives me hope.  Why him, you may wonder?  Pastor Swindoll of Insight for Living has been teaching through that book in the Old Testament and has not pulled any punches about this less than charming and likeable Jew.  Jonah was a man who was called to go and preach a message to a people he HATED and he went in the reverse direction in direct disobedience of God’s command!  God said to go East to Ninevah and Jonah went West, going down to Joppa to find a ship bound as far as he could get from there as he could get by going further West to Tarshish (modern day Spain).  Finding himself such a ship, he goes on board and goes down into the hold and goes to sleep, figuring his troubles are over.
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Jonah continues his downward spiral, finally landing within the belly of a great fish that God prepared for his racist prophet who stewed in this fishes juices (and his own) for three days before repenting.  At this point the fish apparently had all of Jonah he could stomach and landed this racist prophet on the beach where he received the same command from God a second time.  This time he obeyed…sort of.  It was a message of destruction for his hated enemies after all; one he must have loved to deliver.  So Jonah delivers the message then camps out to the east of the city to await the promised destruction…


You all know the story; from the king to the lowliest peasant a fear of the judgement of God leads to repentance and a turning away from the evil that characterized this people.  Jonah was livid!  The most successful evangelist and prophet in history and he was upset because although he had obeyed God, his heart just wasn’t in it.  He still was a racist; he still hated the Ninevites. 

What is the take away from a study of this book of the Old Testament?  How are we to apply to our lives such a story?  Thinking about this after listening to Pastor Swindoll and that “…still, small voice…” there are several things that come to mind:
 
  1. Jonah tried to run away from God, to avoid the plan that God had for him to do.  He who holds the universe in his hands…impossible, yet this prophet tried to flee from God!  Ridiculous, yet how often have we done the same?  How often have I run from the one who has called to me over and over as he sent his hound on my trail throughout my life?  Even once I had surrendered, time and again I have sought to turn away to my own way…just like Jonah.
  2. Jonah surrenders (sort of?) in the belly of the fish.  He does recognize his plight, that there is no one that can save him from death.  In 1987 I was indicted and subsequently convicted for murder, sentenced to life in prison and thus entering my own ‘great fish’ wherein I expected to spend the rest of my life.  Raised in the Catholic church I had little to no exposure to Scripture other than a brief time when I went to the Chapel Hill Bible Church while attending UNC.  Still, my heart was dark and I remember looking up at the outside wall of Central Prison that cold, sleeting February night when I arrived and thought, “This is where I belong.”
  3. God’s word or call comes a second time to Jonah and this time he obeys…sort of.  It is a word of judgement against Ninevah and that suits this racist prophet very much;“Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!”   (Jonah 3:4 ESV)  In my case my being within prison walls was as if Jonah had suddenly been transformed into becoming an Ninevite.  All my life I had been one of the ‘good’ guys; this had been reinforced when working as a paramedic; the old line from the TV series Beretta came back to haunt me over and over, “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”  Here I was, in Ninevah though a Jew (as it were).  The first weeks are now a blur; it wasn’t until someone invited me to the weekly worship service in the chapel that anything really changed (honestly I went to escape the crowding in the dormitory…picture the Chicago stock yard).  The first week, nothing much happened; the second Sunday, Chaplain Eugene Wigelsworth was preaching (to this day I have no idea what he said, only that a ‘feeling’ that at the end of his sermon it was ‘now or never.’ 
  4. So, Jonah obeys and preaches the sermon (gleefully no doubt), then sets up outside the eastern part of the city to await the destruction to come.  BUT GOD…. His plan was very different from what Jonah was hoping for; instead of death, there came life to the Ninevites.  Jonah’s self-pity and anger at God reflects how his heart was NOT changed, but what about my heart?
We all must set a watch over our lips (as Scripture enjoins us), especially in these turbulent times.  Offense, even when not intended, is difficult to overcome and impossible to forget.  It will taint a relationship and can harm or destroy fellowship within a church community.   Please, let our words bring healing and not hurt. 

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”   
Philippians 4:8 ESV            

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What now?

5/11/2017

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So…
Last year while attending a business meeting I had asked someone what the possibility of that company having a position with them for me.  Honestly, it was more a proforma kind of request; after almost five years of either being ignored or told my services were not needed, I’d all but given up hope of ever finding meaningful work with any business or company.  That this was an organization that did much to demonstrate a willingness to reach unreached populations with health care gave me a small amount of hope.
So, I asked.
Amazingly, the person I spoke with responded in a positive manner.  For a moment I did not know how to respond.  Over 450 times I’d either heard nothing or a polite dismissal;  to have someone in a position of authority tell me that there would be a position for me bordered on the miraculous.  It would put me in a position to help those who, like me, were struggling to find a way to live a purposeful life after getting out of prison.  Those in the room with me who overheard my conversation were exultant at my finding this possibility; it felt as though my long, the night could be coming to an end.
So, we began plans to look into moving to the Wilmington area to take advantage of this.  Over the next few days, it seemed as though one door after another opened and connections made all seemed to confirm that this was happening.  In late January of this year, we did move, putting our townhome in Durham on the market.  When an offer well above asking price was made less than  24 hours after listing, it seemed yet one more confirmation that we were where we needed to be. 
I followed the website for this company daily, checking to see when the position that I had asked about was listed; within an hour of it’s being listed on the website, I had sent in an email to the appropriate person with my resume, cover letter and other material attached.  As the weeks went by I continued to hope, but then I learned that interviews had been ongoing for some time, but I had not called.  Then, one day when I checked I found the position was no longer there.
So…
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Wonder-full!

2/17/2017

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Last summer a good friend invited Kathy and I down to Emerald Isle to enjoy a stay at the beach.
  The house was located on the beach with its own boardwalk out to a gazebo with stairs down to a path to beach; for this old sailor and former surf bum, it was close to heaven.  The next few days were filled with laughter and fun with Tom and Bernadene as we lazed time away enjoying the beach and just relaxing with good friends.
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As our time to leave approached it seemed that I needed some alone time to just enjoy the sound and smell of the surf.  I awakened at 4:00 AM and got dressed (well, as dressed as any sensible person does at the beach), went downstairs to make coffee, then went out to the gazebo to sit.  It was pitch dark, some lights scattered up and down the beach from the different houses, but looking out over the ocean was without any light source.  While I could hear the waves and occasionally glimpse the froth of the surf, it was as if I was within a warm, salty cocoon. 
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As I sat there I began to think of the way that God had moved in my life to bring me to this moment.  Over and over the idea of a God who made all of what I was sensing, whose hand held the universe, but whose attention was focused so singularly upon me when I was so adamant at remaining rebellious that only grace could begin to explain what had happened in my life leading up to that moment.  An overwhelming feeling of gratitude and awe that after all that I had done and all that I’d been through, God loved me!
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​Wonder! 
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I began to sing some of the hymns I’d learned through listening to the Bible Broadcasting Network while in prison.  One hymn led to another as my eyes filled with tears and my heart overflowed with gratitude and praise.  I’m not sure how long this went on, but as the sun began to provide a glimmer of light on the horizon, my singing stopped and I sat and just reveled in the knowledge that I was not only free of the physical prison that had constrained me, but of the more insidious prison of my own making.  The freedom I obtained on release from prison was something that I had anticipated (and at times wondered if it would ever be mine), but even better was the sure knowledge that because of Christ’s work on my behalf, even while still incarcerated, I was more free than most of those outside of the walls that held me.  No more was I a slave to the old man and to experience that with my physical freedom (especially once I had satisfied the parole requirements that went with my release) was something I hope I never forget or take for granted.

As the sun showed itself, my wife and friends came out and we all sat and just enjoyed another day at the beach.  My wife kept asking me why I was smiling so much; I would just shrug.  The memory of that time still fills me with wonder and does not fail to bring a smile to my face.
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What is the worst thing that could happen to a Christian?

9/8/2016

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In the series in 2 Timothy, Pastor Jay asked a question during the lesson, “What is the worst thing that could happen to a Christian?”  I have to admit to blurting out, “Living a long life,” to which Jay replied that it wasn’t exactly the answer he expected.  Obviously, he expected someone to say that death was the worst, but I have to disagree with him respectfully.  Death has no threat to a follower of the Christ; indeed, it is a door to a forever that cannot now be imagined and that is exactly my point.

My faith journey started at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC.  Sentenced to life imprisonment and arriving there on a cold, dark, sleety February morning in 1988, I was bereft of any source of comfort or reassurance.  My last image of my wife had been as she broke down in tears watching the car I was in drive away.  That image haunted me as I was stripped of anything of my old life (I’d already given my wedding band to Kathy); all my clothes including my handkerchiefs were boxed up to send home and I was left naked before my keepers.  Dressed in my prison clothes and led to my assigned bunk in a room flooded with lights from the spotlights on the wall surrounding Central Prison, I was horrified at what I had done that brought me to this place and recognized that this is where I belonged. 

Sleep was impossible; I fully expected to be raped and killed by the predators that prowl such places looking for fresh fish and sought comfort in a Bible Kathy had included in my belongings that they had allowed me to keep.  Someone sleeping not far from me had his watch stolen that night while he slept (what he thought he was doing bringing an expensive watch into prison I have no idea), just another introduction to my new life.  Unable to sleep, I read through the Psalms, finishing just as the lights came on for morning count.  During the next few days, I began to assimilate to my new life ‘inside’ and had made several acquaintances (a few of whom would become friends in time).  Many were familiar with my crime having watched the news and read about me in the paper; thankfully I was not bothered or threatened in the first weeks, and I did settle into a routine that kept me busy while being processed into the system.

Keep in mind that I’d always considered myself a Christian, but as they did not have any Catholic services and the Protestant service was only on Sunday morning, I went to it.  By my second Sunday at Central Prison, I’d established a routine that kept me out of the most dangerous parts of the prison at specific times.For example, after money draws on Friday, you went into the Maximum Security Building, where the library, computer lab, and barber shop were, at the risk of your life.  The third Sunday, Chaplain Eugene Wigelsworth preached and to this day I cannot recall what passage of Scripture he spoke from or any other detail of the service except for the invitation at the end.  I did go forward and spoke briefly with Pastor Wigelsworth and surrendered my life to Christ; almost immediately the darkness and gloom of Central Prison seemed a bit less, and a small seed of hope began to grow in my heart.

In the following weeks, Pastor Wigelsworth met with me to encourage me, offering study material or addresses where different ministries provided such for free to those who were in prison.  As I grew in the faith God had given me; I became excited at the prospect that all that I surrounded me with was not forever.  The richest billionaire and the most destitute beggar all have this in common; one day the life we now see will be over.  What follows for the disciple of Jesus is beyond imagining.  Within a few weeks, I’d been asked to join the choir, which I gladly did as this offered an outlet for the wonder I felt at Christ reaching out to me as He did.  We met in a classroom in the Maximum Security Building on Friday (yeah, nothing had changed externally to the threat that lay in wait on that particular day, but inside me, something dramatic had taken place). 

We always opened each rehearsal with prayer needs and I shared about a man I had met while in K-Dorm (processing) who had been a Baptist preacher but had done something (never asked, that just wasn’t done) to get a life sentence.  He rejected his belief in Christ and became a Satan worshiper ( a very active group of guys would meet in an undisclosed part of the prison for their ‘services.').  I felt that we needed to pray for him to turn to Christ and be delivered from the bitterness of heart that had led him to where he was now.  Every week, when we met, we would pray for him as I continued to do so every day.  One day I had to leave rehearsal a bit early to get to work and found myself confronted with this same man (did I mention that he was over 6’5” and weighed over 200 pounds?).  He was in a rage and screamed at me that he wanted me to stop praying for him.  When I asked, “Why?” he just said that if I refused to stop he would kill me; as he said this he brandished a long piece of rebar that he had made into a shank.  What happened next amazed even (especially?) me; I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m not afraid of your shank, why are you afraid of my prayers.  You’re just threatening me with heaven.  Go ahead; send me Home!”  At this point, he threw down the shank and stormed off, filling the air with all manner of invective.  After it was over, I sat on the floor for a few minutes trying to calm my heart rate and praying for my attacker and thanking God that today was not my day, but grateful for the peace he’d given me.

Getting back to Pastor Jay’s question; a long life is, in my humble opinion, the worst that can happen to any Christian.  Had this man killed me that day, I would have instantly been with my King. Yes, I was relieved, but also really disappointed.  Remember that I was just starting my sentence and that time stretched out before me did seem never-ending.  Through the trials that I went through (some my fault) while in prison and since this memory keeps me focused on what is really important.  This life, no matter how filled with pleasures and things that can bring comfort, is still a mud pie in place of a trip to the seashore (as C.S. Lewis once stated). I don’t know why I am still here, why He chose me and what is in store for me today.  One thing I do know;


“I know my Redeemer lives,
and at the last He will stand on the earth.”
Job 19:25

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Did I live a good life?

12/15/2014

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In a recent lesson at the Chapel Hill Bible Church, James Abrahamson while teaching on ethics used a quote from the movie, Saving Private Ryan, where the central character asks his wife this question, “Did I live a good life?” A very poignant question in light of how just previously in the movie (a flashback to events in which Ryan was rescued by a platoon led by an officer played by Tom Hanks, of whom most had been killed during the effort to find Ryan) Captain Miller (played by Tom Hanks) lay dying of his wounds, he grabs Ryan and tells him, “Earn it!” referring to the sacrifices of his men who were killed ensuring he would return home.

This hammered me as few things could; I've seen the movie and did not recall either quote, but looking back online saw that these two quotes did indeed occur, the turmoil they have caused within my own heart is beyond description.  These two brief sentences seemed to highlight a struggle I've had recently; on one part I recognize that nothing I can do can earn the grace God has given me in Christ, but how to answer the question that the older Ryan asks his wife?  Dare I ask that of anyone, even myself?

I did serve in the military; both in the Navy as a nuclear-trained electrician mainly on board a ballistic missile submarine and in the Army Reserve as a field medic while going to school at UNC.  My career as a nurse and paramedic were abbreviated by an egregious decision which led to my being incarcerated following my causing a patient’s death in ICU.  To many (most it seems considering how I have remained unemployed since my release) that one decision erases all the ‘good’ that I've ever done.  As I related this once to a friend, it seems the feeling among the vast majority of folks is “…once convicted, always condemned!” 

So, how would I answer the question Ryan asked his wife?  How would those who know me answer it?  Dare I ask it?

 


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Helping ALL the Orphans

11/19/2014

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For some time I have served with Our Children’s Place; at times I wonder at the value of that service when surrounded by so many who are successful in their own fields while all that I’ve managed to accomplish is to survive almost 24 years in prison and discover that my professional life is over.  One thing keeps me involved with these incredible folks, I have seen first-hand during those 23+years the impact of prison on a family, particularly the children that are bereft of a normal family life.

In some instances the men I met ‘inside’ sired children from several different women, being little more than sperm donors; mostly though there were men struggling with the unforeseen circumstances of how to be a father to their sons and daughters when their interaction with them is limited to the weekly visitation if they are fortunate to be housed in a prison close enough to make this possible.  Since becoming involved with Our Children’s Place, my reading on the subject has revealed factors I’d not thought about before; how these children are worse than orphans in many ways. 

Society’s response to the orphan is often automatically one of concern and support; go to any civic or religious group and ask for them to support the orphaned child and there is an outpouring of sympathy and care for those children whose parent or parents have died.  Their classmates in school, while not really understanding perhaps the loss that has impacted their friends lives, support them and continue to be friendly toward them.  It is as if all of society rushes to the side of such children; we want to comfort them, even to the point of adoption as I have seen over and over in many of those I know at the Chapel Hill Bible Church.

The response to a child of a prisoner is almost always very different.

The child whose mother or father is taken from them in such a fashion (in a few cases it may be both parents) is not the focus of society’s support and concern.  While perhaps not intending such, we look askance at the child of a prisoner; it is as if we tar them with the same brush we have painted their parent(s) and turn away from them instead of turning toward them.  The shame and stigma of having a parent in prison is very real, the cruelty of these children’s classmates toward them is also a reality that they have to deal with on a daily basis and so often those who would want to help do not understand how to do so. 

Recently Sesame Street has stepped into the picture to help us understand the plight of these children through a teaching package they have entitled, Little Children, Big Challenges: Incarceration.  In this we meet Alex whose father is in prison and seeks to avoid his friends who talk of having their dads help them with building toy cars to play with each other.  In this and the accompanying material, the writers and producers seek to educate us about the challenges that such children face daily; in the case of parents who have been sentenced to life in prison, they are orphans in all but fact as they never again will have a normal life with that parent in their lives.

What can we do to help?  I challenge you to go to your local library and ask for the Sesame Street video; watch it to begin to gain an understanding of how the child of the prisoner is an orphan and needs the same support that we provide others in crisis.  Contact Our Children’s Place and ask how to become involved in financially supporting their efforts to not only raise awareness of the plight of these orphans, but to bring community resource to bear in providing as normal a life as possible for them.  


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    Former submarine sailor, paramedic and nurse who journeys toward the horizon ever hopeful, though at times less sure, of reaching that far place.  

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