Posts Tagged ‘prison’

An Immeasurable distance

January 23, 2013

I must admit that this came forth very painfully. I’m supposed to be writing for my book on prison ministry, but this came out instead.

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An Immeasurable Distance

A young black face
Male
In profile
Through the narrow cell window
Just his profile
He was leaning
His back against the wall
Standing
Less than two feet away
But the door
The cell door
The solid steel cell door
Imposed an immeasurable distance
Between us
A gulf socioeconomic, judicial, racial
A span of years, experiences, hopes, dreams
Fears
Separated us
 
He spoke softly
“It’s hard,” he said
“I know,” was my only reply
Tears
Flowed instantly
Glistening on his dark skin
Catching the light from the small window
Twelve feet away
I also wept … inside
Silently, invisibly
Carrying on my own tears
Hundreds of young men
Hidden behind those doors
For the past twelve years
I’ve stood at those doors
 
This young man facing life
Without parole
Wept
Now 25 years old
He was eighteen
The day I first knocked on his door

 © 2013 Thomas W. Cummins

This Door That Separates Us

May 14, 2012

The other day I was speaking with an offender who has been in solitary isolation in one institution or another for more than three decades. I’ve known him for 11 years. Here is my poetic reflection on the essence of a big portion of our conversation.

 
“You relate differently,
Differently from others
I mean.”
He was being serious
Observant
After many years
Many years alone
In his cell for many years
Alone.
 
I replied,
“I believe I spend
My belief is that I spend
Much time while we talk
On your side of this door
This door that separates us.”
 
(How can I explain
The door?
How the door is not as real
As one might expect
Somehow I place myself
Through the door
On the other side as we talk
Through the door
This door that separates us.)
 
“Empathy?” he asks.
“No.
More of a resonance
A willingness to enter
Your existence
Your existence is something
To feel
I am willing to consider and to feel
Your existence
Your side of the door.”
 
 © 2012 Thomas W. Cummins

Blessing and breaking bread

December 11, 2011

On Saturday, we had the annual Catholic Feast … Christmas-themed … at the prison. Seventeen offenders and eight volunteers were in attendance.

It’s a maximum security prison, and several of those present are serving either life without parole or are under a death sentence. All are serving hard time.

Beginning at 1:00 p.m. and ending at 8:00 p.m., we ate, read scripture, acted out the infancy narratives from Luke and Matthew, sang, prayed, and ate again.

Blessing and breaking bread, liturgy of the Word, prayer, Christmas hymns, preaching the gospel message (via skits), and the Divine Presence: “I was in prison and you visited me.” [Matthew 25:36]

Father Joe was unable to make it to the event, so we didn’t have Mass. Or did we?

It is a lonely place

August 20, 2011

“You have no idea what it’s like,” he said to me tearfully.

“What’s that?”

“Being sick, really sick, and all alone.”

A small row of locked rooms comprises the infirmary at the prison. There is no one in the hall, no sounds, not even the murmur of a TV through the solid steel doors.

A correctional officer will come and open a door if I would like to enter for a brief visit.

Some offenders are quarantined if they are contagious. Conversations with those men are held at the door if they can get up and come over. Nothing spreads faster than an illness in a prison, plus one never knows who within the population has a compromised immune system.

Others may be segregated from contact due to unpredictable or violent behavior. Again, those are best held at the door.

Those who are terminal have daily attention from any one of several hospice-trained prisoners, a dedicated group of grace-filled workers. I can visit them as well.

But most in the infirmary are there for a short time, are safe, and can be visited. I don’t stay long, communion may be desired. Emotions are always just below the surface, especially when I ask if I may give them a blessing.

Yes, it is a lonely place, and, yes, I have no idea what it’s like.

Prison becomes a better place

February 24, 2011

A few days ago, I participated on a panel discussing the death penalty in Missouri. I spoke about the recent execution and the transformation I had personally observed in the man who was put to death.

During the question and answer period, one of the attendees asked, “These men who are transformed during their time in prison, what do they do with this newly found conversion? Particularly those who aren’t going to be released? How can they reach out to others?”

I responded, “They minister to each other.”

Prison life is within a community, a community of men struggling to discover who they are and where they are heading. It isn’t a normal community by any measure. Freedom has been taken away; there are countless rules; interaction with the opposite sex is non-existent; the ability to express anger or affection is suppressed.

But a life of meaning can be found once an offender realizes that prison is his life, that he isn’t enduring  a “life interrupted.” Offenders eventually find it to be  unhealthy to dwell upon life-on-the-streets, either before or after incarceration. Today is really all anyone has, and that notion is particularly acute for those in prison.

After a few years, an offender’s focus often turns toward anything that takes him out of his current environment. He seeks a different kind of freedom, freedom of the spirit, a place to dwell that is more welcoming and more comforting than the bleakness and monotony of prison life.

The spiritual life offers that, and the path to conversion begins. Chapel services are attended; meditation classes are taken; prayer time becomes part of the daily routine; bible studies are pursued, and a community of believers begins to become more and more apparent.

Ministry to others becomes part of their prison existence. They begin to notice those  who are hurting, need encouragement, lose hope to the point of near-despair, are grieving over the loss of loved ones through death or through broken relationships.

Transformation does take place. A new creation begins to exist within individual prison cells. Prison becomes a better place.

“It’s a deal!”

February 1, 2011

First the freezing rain, then the freezing drizzle, and soon the snow accompanied by high winds will arrive. Anywhere from 7 to 20 inches are expected, a major storm for this part of the country.

My first trek to the driveway was to push around a few inches of ice crystals. The consistency was that of sugar. Better to keep up with it from time to time rather than wait for the storm to pass.

When I came in for a break and rest, I set the oven timer for two hours, an appropriate recovery interval before I would return for more shoveling.

A moment later there was a knock on the front door. “Would you like me to keep your driveway clean throughout the storm?” There, with smiling face, stood our neighbor’s son.

“What compensation are you looking for?” I asked.

“I will return three times for a total of 25 dollars.”

“It’s a deal!”

His family has, perhaps, the only snow blower in the immediate neighborhood. This is contrasted with the area we grew up in, Minnesota, where one is more than likely to be the only one without a snow blower in any given neighborhood.

The work is being supervised by is father, and I envision a budding business being set up for several winters coming.

But I still think I’ll purchase a snow blower. We’ll see.


In the meantime, I imagine there is an offender looking at the snow through his narrow window. He can’t see far, just as far as the adjacent wing in his housing unit.

I wonder what he is thinking as the snow swirls among the buildings. This coming weekend could be his last as he approaches his execution date on February 9.

And for the rest of us, a snow storm is coming.