A Letter to an Inmate

This is a letter Pops recently sent to an inmate we've been working with for the past year and a half.  The inmate was immediately sent to the hole when he arrived at prison for possessing a tatoo gun.

Sometimes we have to find ways to say things so they'll understand where we're coming from.  We've been using this 'game analogy' for the past few months as we teach our re-entry classes, and they seem to get it each and every time.

April 22, 2013

Hey Randy,

It’s about time you got out of going to the hole. It’s not as if you don’t know how, right?  Last Christmas, Shane bought him a new PS-3 and gave it to his 12-y.o. son, Noah, for Christmas. Sneaky, huh. Yeah, he thought so too. Anyway, he also bought Call of Duty, Black Ops II. Noah asked if he could spend all the time he needed to beat the game. Shane said okay since it was Christmas vacation. Noah beat the game, 55 levels, in 8 hours.

So then Shane gets the game and is killed at level 3 repeatedly. Noah laughs at him. See, Shane knows how not to get killed, but each time he gets to certain points, he wants to outsmart the game and take the bad guys on up close and personal. He loses each time. Noah, on the other hand knows the game is programmed to be the same every time he goes through it. Instead of trying to invent new ways of killing the bad guys, he does as it is programmed and although he kills them the same way as he did before, he advances through each level and wins – he beats the game.

“Surviving Prison to Parole” is a PS-3 game Randy. It is programmed to allow you to either beat the game or get beaten at each level. Since it is programmed, it cannot be beaten by trying to outsmart it. No matter how you try to change it, it stays programmed to react only one way. You abscond and get immediate sanctions. You break a rule and get a programmed intervention. It is no different than is Call of Duty.  Moreover, you already know how to beat each level and win the game; but for some crazy reason, continue trying to beat it your way. You were smarter than this the last time I knew you up close and personal.

I bet that if I could get you out of prison and make you a deal, you would take the deal. Just playing here, suppose this was real: I offer to assign you as mentor to a kid who is on parole for his first time. The deal is – you mentor and coach the kid for one year keeping him from any sanction, never going to TVP (Technical Violators Program) for the entire year, and I reward you by cutting your flat date time in half. Would you take it? Could you do it? Of course, you would and you could. So, why aren’t you helping yourself as much as you would help the kid?

Yeah, I know…sometimes I am a cold lick. But you see Randy, I do not think we have much time left to make amends. And I’ll be damned if I allow you to miss out on restoring your life with your daughters and living a righteous life by not saying what needs to be said at the moment you need to hear it.

I mailed your letters to your girls today.  I hope you enjoy the book enclosed. You are loved.

Mike Willbanks

Mr. Willbanks, You Are Under Arrest...

Those were the words the deputy said to me this morning at my home in the driveway.  I had gone shopping for dog food and a few other household items at the local dollar store, only to realize I had left my wallet at home.  I returned to find a deputy sitting in my driveway, with a stack of papers in his hands.

"Are you Mr. Willbanks?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded.  "What's this about?"
"Michael Shane Willbanks?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, timidly.
"I have some papers here, sir. This is a Body Attachment out of Logan County for child support," he added.

I know what a Body Attachment is, having seen many of the parolees we deal with in our ministry serve jail time for non-payment of child support over the years.  I think I gulped audibly.  "Oh," I said. "I don't understand, I've been dealing with that office for the past few months trying to get them to modify my payments. They never mentioned a Body Attachment," I told him. "I'm trying to get square with them and fulfill my obligations, I'm just struggling financially right now," I said as I realized I was telling this to the wrong person.

"Well, they've issued one, and I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to take you with me," he said.
"Are you arresting me?" I asked him, still in disbelief.
"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. Mr. Willbanks, you are under arrest," the deputy replied. "Turn around and face the vehicle. Now place your hands behind your back, palms together," he commanded as he placed the hand cuffs around my wrists.  "You can just get in back here," he said as he opened the back passenger door of his white Dodge Durango.  I stepped inside.

We had a nice conversation about the recent snow storm and other pleasantries as we drove to Unit 2 and pulled into the back drive way in front of some garage doors.

"I've got one," he told the man's voice in the drive-through speaker. "Faulkner County."
The middle door opened and he pulled into the warehouse where detainees were dropped off and sent to booking.  A white van pulled up beside us and seven inmates in grey and white striped or orange jumpsuits were escorted inside behind me.  Each one was wearing shackles on his or her wrists and ankles.

A very nice female detention officer met me at the door and began the process of taking me in.  She removed my cuffs and asked me to remove my cap, my hoodie sweatshirt, my shoes, and the contents of my pockets.  She then placed my right wrist in a red cuff chained to the wall and began to inventory my belongings.  Once I answered her medical questions and assured her there were no drugs or drug paraphernalia or anything that might stick her on my person, she placed some latex gloves on her hands and searched me from head to toe.  She ran her hands through my hair, checked the collar of my t-shirt, then felt my armpits, my chest and waist, then my back.  Down my legs, groin and rear end she ran her gloves, then searched my socks and felt between each of my toes.  She then gave me a pair of jail-issued flip-flops and put my belongings in a bag with my name and case number printed on the side.  I was taken to the booking desk where I was allowed to make one three minute phone call to my father, who assured me that my bond had been posted with the Office of Child Support Enforcement in Logan County, and we would have to await a fax from their office to the Faulkner County Sheriff's Office before I would be released.

As I awaited her filling out some paperwork, a young woman in an orange jumpsuit was brought in wearing shackles.  She had just returned from court and she was crying.  "Where are they going to take my baby?" she asked a detention officer in a loud, crying voice.
"Calm down," he told her.  "Your child has been taken into State custody."
The young woman wailed and fell to the ground as she screamed, "NO! NO! Please! Take her to my mom! Please!"
The officers took her away to a holding cell as they attempted to calm her down.

An old, grey-haired man, probably in his seventies, looked at me through a glass window in another holding cell.  He was yelling something, but his voice was inaudible.  Seven inmates stood behind me in shackles, awaiting their turns to be taken to another van and transported to a state prison.  "I got 18 months in ADC!" a young man yelled to another young man in a holding cell.  "Eighteen f***ing months!" he yelled again.  The other six inmates looked stoically straight ahead as they awaited their destinies.  They appeared as if they had no life in their eyes.  I can only imagine what was running through their heads as they came to the realization that they were headed to prison for months or years.

I was escorted to a holding cell, issued a blanket, and was told to sit on a concrete bench.  The cell was about eight feet by eight feet, with yellow concrete cinder block walls and a grey concrete floor.  There was a stainless steel sink with a toilet attached to the left side near the floor.  The toilet was still full of the cell's last resident's bowel movement.  There was an opened and used bar of soap on the lip of a sink, and a small toothbrush wrapped in a cellophane wrapper next to it.  There was a roll of toilet paper in a small cubby hole in the front of the sink.  Overhead there was a three-foot incandescent bulb blaring its light through a steel light housing.

I stared intently through the window, which had been scratched by some sharp object and still had wet droplets of spit on it, watching the fax machine on the desk to see if it had any papers in its incoming tray.  It had a stack in it about an inch thick.  No one was paying it any attention as more papers filled the tray.

A young woman in another cell looked out her window at me.  She was chewing her lips and tongue and swaying frantically back and forth.  She was undoubtedly still "tweaking" on meth, as her stringy hair, sunken face and pock-marked skin indicated.

I stood at the door and watched as the inmates came in and out of the booking center.  There was a boy, no older than nineteen, who had been "showered in" and covered in delousing powder.  He was carrying a plastic covered mattress and a blanket into his cell.  He had no emotion whatsoever on his face.  There were several men and women--black, white, Hispanic, and oriental--moving about the detention center.  Most were covered in "prison ink or tats," which is easy to spot since it is always black and blurry.  Nearly half of them had a black tear drop tattooed near one eye or the other.  Most were smiling a devious or down-right-evil smile, holding their heads up and cocked to one side.  In all my years experience in dealing with inmates and parolees, that is their "go-to" stance when they are standing in line.  "Don't f*** with me!" their demeanor screams out to all those around them.

I thought about all the mothers and fathers, husbands and wives and children who were out there, missing their incarcerated loved one, wondering where things had gone wrong, wondering when Daddy or Mommy will be coming home, or perhaps having given up long ago any notion that their no-good child or spouse or parent would ever come home, or ever change.  I thought about the men and women I teach each week in prison, who desperately want to get out and do the right thing this time, and I thought about the ones who had no intentions of ever changing.  I thought about my own life, and the mistakes I had made.  I thought about my divorces, and how my infidelity and alcoholism drove my wives away, which resulted in this whole child support debacle.  I closed my eyes and repented again, begging God to forgive me all over again.  I thought about my children, and how they might feel when some kid at school tells them that their parents saw their dead-beat dad in the paper.  I thought about a lot in that short time, and I resolved in the end that I would not let this get me down.  I know God has blessed my efforts in the past several years and allowed me to be in this ministry, and I chose instead to look at this experience as yet another way I can relate to the inmates and parolees I minister to.

After just over two hours, an officer came to the door of my cell and unlocked it.  "Step back!" he yelled. "Sit on your hands while I open this door!" he demanded.

"Now, stand up, take your blanket over there and drop it in that grey bin," he said to me as he stood over me in the cell.  "Then go stand on the red line in front of that desk and wait for them to finish your paperwork.

As I awaited having my mug shot taken and my exiting paperwork to be completed, I smiled as I knew I would be going home today, and that I had a new reason to provide comfort and aid to the men and women incarcerated or on parole in the state of Arkansas.  There is a lot of pain out there, and I got to see first-hand today where much of it begins.

As I look down at the red marks the hand cuffs left on my wrists and type this blog, I realize that life is precious, and forgiveness and grace are divine.  The life of a felon is not a fun one, but no one ever said this life would be easy.  I vow to continue to work for something other than myself, and I thank God I have the freedom and the desire to do so.

The Bridge

A man came to a chasm in the road he traveled, and looked down into the oblivion. He knew that in order to continue his journey, he must somehow traverse the chasm and make it to the other side. He saw in the distance a bridge. The bridge was massive, and many people made their way across it to the other side. He stood in line so that he, too, could use the bridge to take him to his destination.

"Do you have your papers?" the bridge keeper asked him as he approached.

"Papers? What papers do I need?" the man asked.

"Everyone who uses this bridge must show their papers," the bridge keeper demanded. "If you do not have your papers, you cannot use the bridge."

"I have no papers," the man stated. "What must these papers prove of me?"

"These papers merely show that you have the basic requirements to use this bridge," the bridge keeper told him. "Do you have any such papers?" he asked again.

"And what are these basic requirements?" the man asked, already afraid he could not produce the proof needed to cross the bridge.

"It's very simple," the bridge keeper replied as he sighed and rolled his eyes. "You must have been born in this land to use this bridge."

"I was," the man responded.

"You must be of the correct age to use this bridge; that is you must be mature enough to understand the dangers of crossing over such a height."

"I am, and I do understand," the man responded.

"You must have the ability to cross this bridge," the bridge keeper continued.

"I have the ability," the man said.

"You must have the mental capacity to understand the benefits and risks of crossing this bridge," the bridge keeper added.

"I am mentally capable of understanding both the benefits and risks of crossing this bridge," the man again responded.

"And finally, you must pay the toll to the ones who own the bridge, and to help support those who use the bridge," the bridge keeper concluded.

"I can pay the toll," the man said, relieved that he quite possibly had passed the necessary requirements to cross the bridge. He opened his jacket to reach inside and get his wallet.

The bridge keeper noticed the man's shirt, and shifted uncomfortably as he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, you cannot cross this bridge," the bridge keeper said sternly.

"But why not, I have passed all your requirements!" the man exclaimed.

"You cannot cross the bridge because of that label you wear on your shirt," the bridge keeper explained. "You must have received that label for breaking one of the laws of this land, and despite having all the other qualifications, you are not allowed to cross this bridge because you wear that label."

The man left the bridge keeper, dejected, and somehow not surprised. He was told when he was given his label that it would be difficult to move across this great land as he was once allowed to do.

"Wait just one moment!" the bridge keeper yelled.

The man turned around, hopeful that the bridge keeper had made an exception. "You must still pay the toll, even though you cannot use this bridge!" Other people surrounded the man, as one of them stepped forward and took his wallet, emptying it of its contents and handing it back to the man.

The man stood there in utter disbelief as the people walked away from him. But instead of giving up, the man walked back to his original path, and stared across the chasm. "I will build my own bridge, one that anyone wearing my label can use, as long as they show that they are willing to step out from behind their label and once again contribute to the greater good of this land."

The man spent all his resources to build a bridge across the chasm. He faced many pitfalls and hurdles along the way. He exhausted all that he had, but he finally built his bridge.

Upon its completion, he began to let those who wore his same label on their shirts use his bridge. The people were thankful, and were able to get to the other side of the chasm and continue their journeys.

The people on the larger bridge mocked at this smaller bridge, and said that it would never last. They said it was not strong enough, and would eventually fall under the pressure placed upon it. But the man continued to fortify it, despite its many weaknesses and lack of support. Others saw the value in the man's bridge, and did what they could to help him support it as best they could.

A few years later, after hundreds of people had crossed the bridge and continued their journeys, the bridge began to falter; and despite all the man's efforts, it fell into the chasm. Just before it did, the man was able to get all those who were on it across to the other side safely, and stop those who were about to cross it before it fell.

The bridge keeper and several of the people using the larger bridge walked over to see all the commotion. "I knew it wouldn't last!" some yelled mockingly. "Such a bridge should never have been built!" they laughed.

A few others quietly consoled the man, "It was never meant to be, at least not here. We saw the value in this bridge, and we applaud you for your efforts. Perhaps someday you can build a bigger, better bridge."

The man got down on his knees and prayed. "Dear God, thank you for the strength to build that bridge, and give me the strength to build another, stronger bridge. Amen."

Then, in a loud, unified cheer from across the chasm came this: "Thank you!"

The man shed a tear as he looked upon the remains of his bridge. "This bridge served its purpose," he said quietly. Then he wandered up and down the edge of the chasm, looking for a place to begin building another, stronger bridge.

Teeth, Meet Boot

Yep, it happened, once again. The past, or at least one of its representatives, kicked me in the teeth today. I knew a long time ago that the consequences of my crime would hang around forever. Today was just another reminder of that. I'd like to go into a bit more detail about my crime than I have before, so you'll understand just how ugly it was.

I had been a high school teacher at ASMSA in Hot Springs for nearly six years when my despicable acts were discovered. I was the Science Department Chair at the time, and had taught over 1,000 students, many of whom had regarded me as their favorite teacher, their friend, their confidant, or at least a person they enjoyed talking to. I was in the perfect position to do so much good. I started there in my mid-twenties, not even a decade older than them. We listened to the same music, had the same interests, and in many respects were more like buddies than teacher/students. I could have had such a powerful ministry and impact on so many people if I had just done what I was supposed to do. Instead, I took advantage of my position and ignored my responsibilities as a teacher, father, husband, man...you name it. In February of 2002 I was arrested for having an affair with a female student. A year later I was convicted of sexual assault in the 1st degree and sentenced to 6 years probation and a $15,000 fine. You know the rest (or perhaps you don't, just go back and read any number of my ramblings on the subject).

I hurt so many people. I knew then as I do now that some of the damage I had done was irreparable. But today I was reminded that ten years later that is still true. A former student reached out on our business' Facebook page and reiterated to me the sobering truth that my actions will forever have consequences. Even if I do nothing but good things for the rest of my days, that fact will never change.

I never had the forum to offer an apology to those I hurt. And I suppose this isn't much of one, with all of my six followers and handful of readers. But it's worth a shot.

To you that I hurt: I'm so very sorry. I'm so sorry I blamed anyone but myself for what I had done. I'm so sorry I let you down. I'm so sorry I ever entered the halls of that institution. I'm so sorry for who I was, and that I will forever where his face.

I pray for your forgiveness, but don't expect it. I wish I could undo it, but I cannot. I can only promise you this: I will continue to make every effort to be a positive influence in people's lives, and try to demonstrate that someone who caused the pain I did, on such a widespread scale, can do something right.

God's grace is the only reason I'm alive today, and I'll be damned if I don't do something useful with that fact. I have, and will, make a positive difference, because God saw fit, despite my efforts to end it all, to keep me around for some reason. And I will not take that for granted.

It's About Time

That's right, it's about time. It's about time I quit hearing, seeing, and ignoring the invitations that come at me everyday. In fact, ever since I was created in my mother's womb with that Y chromosome, I was invited, invited to be a man. When I was allowed to date that girl at the age of 13, and all the ones after, I was invited to be a man. When I was offered my first beer as a teenager, unknowingly opening up 20 plus years of alcohol abuse, I was invited to be a man. When I played give and take with something too precious to ever get back, I was invited to be a man. When I said my vows two separate times, taking the wheel of two train wrecks I called marriages, I was invited to be a man. When I watched my two beautiful children being born, I was invited to be a man. When I traded doing the right thing for selfishness, I was invited, and once again ignored the opportunity to be a man.

I can count on one hand the moments in my life where I truly accepted the invitation, the invitation from God, not the one the world spits at me every second of every day, to be a man. The times I ignored that same invitation are innumerable. The times I accepted the world's invitation are immeasurable.

A dear friend of mine mentioned today that one of his biggest regrets was not finishing his Eagle Scout status in high school. Praise be to God that there are men out there whose biggest regret is that. I truly have more regrets than I have moments of which I'm proud, yet I am still invited. That same dear friend extended to me, along with fifty or so other men, God's invitation to be a man today, an authentic man. I've been invited to be a man in the lives of my children, in the lives of those around me, in my actions, my words, my thoughts, my behavior, and my life.

It's no coincidence that invitation was extended to me today. I was convicted a month ago at a discipleship conference that I had ignored it for too long. It's no coincidence I finally made it to a men's breakfast at 8:00 am on a Saturday with two children in my care and a whole list of reasons not to go. I kicked it aside and made time, instead of performing a cowardly search for time that I know I don't have. It's no coincidence, it's my duty.

I will not sit idly by and watch my duties as a father and man get handed off to others because I won't step up and take them on myself. That's right, it's about time...

...to be a man. Straining, striving, pressing towards the goal. Forgetting what is behind. Being what I was created to be.

I accept.

God's Wisdom In a Small Package

As a former science researcher and teacher and general science geek, I often find myself reviewing the latest scientific journal articles on various subjects. Although I am no longer involved in science as a career, I feel the need to keep my brain "exercised" by keeping up with the latest information, especially in the area of molecular biology, which was my area of expertise.

A while back, I read an article on how scientists at MIT and Harvard Medical School saw regression in mice tumors when they reconstituted the expression of an endogenous tumor suppressor protein called p53. In English, p53 is a protein that comes from the expression of a gene called TP53. The presence of p53 is crucial in preventing tumor development and growth in our cells. If the TP53 gene is mutated and production of p53 is altered or halted, then cells can grow out of control and become tumors. These scientists found that if they could get the tumor cells to start producing p53 again, then the tumors regressed (stopped getting bigger and began to shrink).

Now, table that information, set it aside in one of your brain compartments, or if there's no room left for it, just know that you can scroll back up to the top of this post and remind yourself of it later. I want to jump subjects and take you to a conversation I had with my son this morning on the way to school. But first, let me give you a bit of history behind today's topic of discussion.

As you may know, eight years ago I was arrested and convicted of a felony, after which I systematically lost my family, career, friends, money, home, belongings, and self-respect. At the time, my son was two years old. One of my greatest fears back then was the notion of having to explain to him what I had done, and what the consequences were. I honestly figured that conversation would occur when he was twelve or older. I certainly didn't plan on it happening when it did, which was four years ago on a ride to school (he goes to school in Little Rock, I live in Conway, with traffic it's about an hour drive) when he was the ripe old age of five.

A few days before that conversation had occurred, I was studying the book of James intensely, a study that actually transformed my life. From beginning to end, each verse of that book has meaning to me. In fact, it was as a result of reading the first few verses of the first chapter that my perspective began to change after I had lost so much and placed so much blame on others.

When I first stumbled upon James back in those dark days of searching for the rightful target of my blame and anger, I scoffed at his insolence. "How DARE you suggest that I rejoice in this crap!" I yelled. "Consider it pure joy..." I remember muttering. "How did you even let this idiot's writings IN the Bible?" I mocked at God. I was angry, blind, and incomplete. In fact, I was lost. I could not find it in me to forgive myself, much less accept the forgiveness Christ bought for me on the cross. I had wandered so far from the truth over the past decade that although I had turned back to God, I had not fat clue one what all this stuff meant. And of course, God with his completely bizarre sense of humor, had an answer for me in the very next verse. I could almost audibly hear him challenge me--"If you don't understand it, then read verse 5...NOW." So I did. James 1:5 says If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. Ohh, that's funny stuff, God. Okay, fine, give me some wisdom here! Because I don't know what the heck you want me to do with this hell you call a trial!

"Uh, uh, uhh. Read verse 6 first." He said.

Fine.

James 1:6: But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.

Oh, this is rich. Pure joy...trials...perseverance...wisdom...FAITH. Okay, God. Forgive my sarcasm. I do believe you can give me wisdom. I have faith in your wisdom, and I seek it.

I remember feeling an unusual sense of calm after having that little spat with my Maker, but no thunderbolt of wisdom hit me, so I shrugged and went on with my day, confident that I would soon begin to see things in a different perspective.

Fast forward to the ride to school that fall morning with my five year old son:

"Daddy, why did you and Mommy get a divorce?"

I knew something was different about this question than the one's he'd asked before regarding the divorce. He had a curious inflection, one that seemed to suggest deep contemplation.

"I hurt your Mommy's feelings very badly, son. I had an affair with someone I was teaching. I broke the law."

There was no turning back at that point. The questions that flowed from my little boy's mouth might as well have been crafted by an investigative reporter. They were concise, intelligent, and down right scary. The clarity with which my son articulated his thoughts and absorbed my responses was frightening, yet somehow uplifting. After I described my crime to him and the subsequent fallout, and satisfactorily answered his queries, he sat in silence for about five minutes. Finally I asked him, "Son, do you understand all that I've told you today?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that this was my fault and that I take full responsibility for messing up our family?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand why your Mommy divorced me?"

Silence.

"Do you have any questions? Things you want to talk about?"

"No, lemme think about it. I might have some questions after school."

I dropped him off at school, hugged his neck, he reassured me that he loved me and forgave me and thanked me for being a good daddy to him.

Then it dawned on me--he goes home to his mother's today after school. He knew that. His questions won't be for me, they'll be for her.

Oh crap! I thought as I dialed her cell. When she answered I explained to her that I had just had "The Talk" with our son. She and I had discussed the prospect of having this conversation with him, but as I said before we didn't count on it coming for many, many more years. After some protests, she soon realized that one thing neither of us could do was pull the wool over our son's eyes. He was just too smart for that. Having that conversation on that morning was inevitable.

"He's going to have some questions tonight, I'm sure. Just answer them as best you can and call me later to let me know what he asked," I told her.

The next day she called me from work. I asked her if our boy had had any questions for her the night before. "Just one," she said, coldly. I asked what it was.

"These were his exact words:" she began. "'Mommy, you remember when I broke the lamp in the living room?' Yes, I said. 'You remember you told me that you forgave me because I said I was sorry?' Yes, I said. 'Then how come you won't forgive Daddy?' "

She went on to explain how she told him this kind of forgiveness was different, and how he told her it shouldn't be. She admitted she had been at a loss for words to him, and that it was true that she hadn't fully forgiven me.

As I hung up the phone, I realized that five years before I had prayed to God for wisdom in my trial, he had delivered it to me in the form of my son. I wept. My son, in his childlike innocence, had identified my biggest issue. I hadn't forgiven myself, and therefore was angry and bitter, and unwilling or unable to receive God's grace. I had hated myself because of the cancer I had become. I had choked out and damaged so many people around me, so much so that I had forgotten what it was like to be "normal," and so much so that I could not get past the damage I'd caused.

You guessed it, this is where that first bit about p53 and tumors comes in. Scientists showed that if a much needed protein could be reconstituted in cancerous cells, the tumor growth could be reversed, and normal tissue could recover.

God had shown me, through my son and His, that if a much needed sacrifice could be received, my sinful bitterness and pride could be replaced with forgiveness and love.

So here I am, eight years later, with patience and wisdom I never thought I'd possess. No, my trials aren't over, but God's wisdom is seeing me through them. And when I forget, or get side-tracked, he inspires my son to speak to me, and I smile all over again as I realize that the answer to my prayer is in the back seat, headed to school.

So what was the conversation I had with my now nine-year-old son this morning, you ask? Well, we were talking about the businesses my partners and I have started recently in conjunction with our prison ministry, when he said, "It's cool that you guys give people a second chance. Do you ever have to tell them to give themselves a second chance?"

Where he came up with that question, I have no idea (smile). But it inspired me to write this, because I had been recently wondering how to best explain to a felon how to forgive himself.

With childlike innocence...that's how.

A Felon on Fellowship

Eight years ago I made some choices that led to a felony conviction. At that point in time, society as I knew it shunned me, and I responded in kind by removing myself from it. After that, the multitude of "friends" that I once had was reduced to a number that could be counted on one hand with a few fingers to spare. Well, after this weekend at the Men's Muster sponsored by Fellowship Bible Church in Conway, I think I will have to break out the other hand, and perhaps a few toes to tally up my new friends.

For years I've avoided going to this event, because in the end I knew that it meant one thing: I would have to once again become transparent in front of a group of men whom I didn't know, who didn't know me, and would perhaps reject me as so many had done before. Oh, how wrong I was!

Let me give you a felon's perspective on what true fellowship and true friendship mean to me now.

The weekend started off with a scavenger hunt. I wasn't excited about it when I first heard "The Amazing Race" was part of the agenda. "Just another corny 'ice breaker' exercise," I said to myself. However, it immediately served its purpose: it took my mind off of all that is life, and sucked me into a game that got me focused on the weekend. Never before have my father and I actually turned our truck around, in the middle of the highway in a thunderstorm, to go back and snap a cell phone photo of a dead skunk, or a sign, or a graveyard, or a camel. When we finally arrived at the beautiful Shepherd of the Ozarks retreat, the mood was festive and the men were inviting. In a few short hours I played a game that allowed me to get to know complete strangers pretty well. I laughed a hearty, guttural laugh, along with 70 other men, when the game ended with Korey Stoner saying, "Never have I ever watched the movie Brokeback Mountain." Ken Wilson called the game and named Korey the champion by saying, "OK, I think that's gone about far enough!" You had to be there to understand the humor in that.

But it got even better. A godly man named Chris Kear, our new Executive Pastor, invited me and a few others to play "Jokers" with him, and that was after I had revealed to him and others that the reason I was in a prison ministry was because I was a felon. "Wow," I thought, "he's accepted me. He didn't walk away." Thank you, Chris. Later that evening, after it was made abundantly clear to us that we were "weenies" if we went to bed before midnight, I sat at a Black Jack table until 12:15 a.m. as John Lee proved to me that the dealer always wins. And Arnold Hameister reminded me of something I knew 20 years ago when I met him: he is truly a silly man.

Later that night I learned something about myself. I learned that as much as I wanted to justify it, suffocating a man quietly with my pillow because he snores, and saying it's for the greater good, is probably NOT OK with God. So, I possess a little restraint...no one died.

The next day brought more great things. I learned that a young man named Lee Strevig could lead me blindfolded through a mine field. I learned that seven learned men CANNOT tie a knot in a rope when they are indeed part of the rope (except for the Orange team, which I am convinced must have cheated.) I learned that a 55 year old man like Jim Merritt can make a bunch of young bucks envy his hustle on the football field. I learned that everything you've heard about Andy Chouinard's legendary prowess with a slingshot and a paintball is true. I learned that as "forgiving" as I try to be, I still want to harm members of Al Qaeda. I know this because even though Mark Hughey, Jr. was on my paintball team, I wanted to shoot him in his turban-wrapped head just to say I'm the one who finally got Ben Laden.

I stood beside myself almost as I watched a man like Lance Oden, whom I've never met prior to this weekend, put his hand on my shoulder and pat me on the back because we had endured a paintball war together. I witnessed first hand that just because the scrambled eggs are somewhat yellow, and that my fellow men had worked hard to prepare them, they still could be really awful. I learned that standing in the sun on a deck overlooking the Big Creek while drinking iced tea is just about as close to God as I've ever been.

I watched in sympathy (and laughter) as O'Neal Payne went from being convinced he could learn to see the hidden pictures in a stereograph, to being convinced that anyone who claims they could see the hidden pictures must be lying. I learned that Carey Allison grew up on the same street I live on. I reconnected with Brad White and found out how much we have in common. I was amazed, simply amazed, that with all of Kevin McKelvy's musical talents and instruments, the most excited I've ever seen him about music came after he learned that Bill Swartzwelder had the connector that would allow him to play his iPhone keyboard/organ app. on the amplifier.

I learned that Scotty Smittle truly has a kind heart; that Barry Bloomfield responded to God's call to speak, even though he didn't want to; that Jon Love overcame his past to help save our future; that Jake Melton has four chickens; that Wiley Barron wears cowboy boots 24/7; that Michael Clanton and Todd Floyd can jam; that Sam Reece is truly passionate about Jesus Christ; and that Todd Gerdes and his team put on a fine retreat--not to mention the new friendship I have with Brian Stewart, and the positive influence so many men like Chuck Martin and Matt Charton had on me.

I learned all these things and so much more. But most of all, I learned that just because you fry a piece of chicken doesn't mean it will taste good. No wait, that's not what I learned most of all. I learned that I have new friends...friends in Christ; men with whom I can be transparent, and who will accept me for who I am in Christ, and not reject me for what I've done in the past. Praise God.

As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another. Proverbs 27:17.