May 2009

The Lord always amazes me at the way He does things. Very often it is not in the way I would expect. Therefore today was no different. Earlier I got into a long discussion with a man who's a Muslim. He happened to see me with a copy of a popular book called, THE CASE FOR FAITH by Lee Strobel. Mr. Strobel was a former news reporter and an award winning journalist who, in his own words, went from being a "spiritual skeptic" to that of a devout Christian. He has since written a handful of books about his faith. Mr. Strobel is a Yale Law School graduate with a degree in Master of Studies in Law. Over the years he's shared his beliefs on television programs such as Larry King Live.

Lee Strobel became convinced of the truth about Jesus Christ and what the Bible has to say about Him after he painstakingly examined all the known evidence and spoke with scholars and ministers about their beliefs. Today Mr. Strobel believes in the evidence which points to both an historical Jesus as well as to His miraculous resurrection from the grave.

Interestingly this Muslim man knew about Lee Strobel. So when he inquired about the book I asked him if he would like to read it. But to my own surprise, just as I said those words, the next words out of my mouth were, "Here, you could keep it because I could get another copy from my chaplain." He too was surprised.

But before he would take the book from my hands, however, he quickly darted his eyes from side to side to see if anyone was watching us. I realized what was happening and why he was being so obviously cautious. He was fearful that another Muslim may see the transaction that was getting ready to take place. Fortunately no one was looking our way. Nevertheless, not taking any chances, he made one swift grab and snatched THE CASE FOR FAITH from my hand. He then immediately tucked it behind another book he'd been carrying and walked off in the direction of his cell.

Several years ago a similar thing happened to me. I was attending a class on substance abuse when another Muslim sat next to me. During our allotted ten minute breaks I would take out of my mesh carrying bag a copy of the book I was reading at the time. It was MORE THAN A CARPENTER by noted Christian author, Josh McDowell.

Seeing the book and somehow being familiar with it, this Muslim began to ask me some questions in reference to it. He said he had heard about the book before, but never read it. Immediately I sensed that I was to offer it to him. I did. He too was surprised, just like the Muslim I encountered today. He looked around the classroom. And seeing that almost everyone else but the two of us had left the room for a smoke, he took the book and placed it deep into his bag. He gave me a quick wink and thanked me. Then, during the next class session I privately asked if he started reading it. He nodded yes.

My mission was done. God does work among humanity in His own unique ways, and His ways are always the best.

D.B.

As a nation we are at times very naive and forgetful. We're guilty of being ignorant and forgetful about some of our history. This being that many of our founding fathers had been praying and God-fearing men. They believed the country could not be ruled effectively without divine help. Therefore prayer was a big part of their lives. Likewise, they also believed that no nation could survive and maintain its strength and integrity without making the commandments of God a part of its foundation.

Many years ago I recall reading a small religious pamphlet where a statesman was quoted as saying, "If we do not turn to God, we will be overcome by the godless." These words may indeed prove to be true.

Thus, on a regular basis, and not only on a day that's been designated for prayer, I shall continue to pray for the United States of America. I shall do the same for her leaders. But, for now, as I end this entry, I think it appropriate to quote one of Israel's foremost prophets. "Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth: for I am God, and there is none else (Isaiah 45:22)."

D.B.

It was obvious that today was a special day because of the number of men who were in attendance in church this morning. Our normal average is around fifty, but we had 63 inmates in the chapel. It was Mother's Day. So for whatever personal reasons each man may have had, they decided to make their way to the service.

Brother Philip, who's the assistant inmate pastor, and I, had to start the service because my chaplain had had some dental work done. He motioned to us that he was having trouble talking. Philip and I then teased him a bit, all in a good natured way. We often kid around with him. Yet Philip and I did what was necessary to get things underway. There were announcements to be made, opening prayer and public Scripture reading, too. Then came some testimonies and exhortations. Our choir also had a handful of songs to sing.

Afterwards our guest minister gave the sermon. Of course his topic was geared toward remembering our mothers and grandmothers. Fortunately I have good memories of both my maternal and adoptive mothers, and my grandmothers. I'm a blessed man to have had such good women in my life. I quietly gave God thanks for this.

D.B.

I find that many Christians, myself included, don't know how to deal with pain. I'm referring to the inner kind in which the hurt is inside the heart and one's spirit is bruised. Oftentimes, when my spirit is heavy, I will try to hide the pain with endless amounts of activity, much of it in the form of "church" related busyness.

As Christians we've been taught to put a smile on our face to always give the impression that "Life is wonderful!" I don't care for this, however. I'd rather keep it real by honestly confessing my struggles whenever I have them. And I should not be made to feel guilty for asking my brothers and sisters to pray for me because I've got an occasional "heavy heart."

After all, we're living in a fallen world. Therefore, once in awhile, we're going to be hurt by someone. A trusted friend or family member may fail us. Our fellow Christians may let us down. Even our own flesh can become weak and we fall into temptation. I've failed the Lord many times, and in many ways.

So we will have our seasons of sorrow, disappointment and failure. This is true even for those who've been walking with the Lord for many years. But the Lord will see us through. He is faithful and He loves us. And Christ will if necessary carry us. Yet we should never be ashamed to confess our faults and to ask for prayer.

D.B.

Several of my friends from the outside have asked me to tell them more about Talky. I first wrote about him last month. Talky lives in a world of his own. I suppose he feels safe there. I've seen this often with those who are mentally ill. They will try to find a hiding place deep inside the recesses of their minds, and stay there. No doubt Talky feels a sense of security by having retreated into his own delusional world, although he probably doesn't know he's delusional. It may be less painful for him this way than having to deal with reality. And for a fragile soul like Talky, imaginary friends can be controlled. Neither can they hurt or betray him.

Therefore, whenever I see Talky in the yard, or when I pass him in the corridors, I make it my business to say hello to him. Sometimes he acknowledges me, and sometimes he doesn't. Yet his lips continue to move because he likes to talk to himself.

Unfortunately, however, there are prisoners, although few in number, who try to make it their business to tease Talky. They're bullies who get pleasure by tormenting the weak. No wonder Talky lives in his own world. The real world can be a cruel place. Nevertheless, most of the men don't pay Talky any mind. They neither threaten nor tease him. Some guys even feel sorry for Talky and will offer him a smoke. But when someone sees Talky for the first time, it can be a startling sight.

Sadly, the facility offers little in the way of therapy for men like Talky other than providing them with a steady diet of psychotropic medications. As with many prisons, a sizable number of their inmates receive these kinds of drugs. No doubt correctional facilities are a gold mine for pharmaceutical companies. Such medications are given mostly for the purpose of control. They are prescribed by clinical psychiatrists to help keep a prisoner calm, and to keep schizophrenic patients stable.

These medications, I believe, are a legal "high" which can do a lot of damage to a man's body and brain when they're taken over a long period of time. Of course this is merely my opinion as both a lay person and as an interested observer. Talky, for all I know, has been mentally ill for much of his life. Surely such a steady regimen of psychiatric medications have already had both short and long-term affects. He looks frail and emaciated. His prison issued clothes hang like oversized rags on his thin frame.

Fortunately there are some psychosocial services that are available here, too. The prison employs at least several mental health nurses and social workers. However, their services are geared to keep an inmate functioning at acceptable levels. I truly doubt if any of the mental health staff will tell you that they expect to see their patients being cured. In this environment, just getting one of their charges to stay reasonably balanced, mentally and emotionally, would be considered a success. Not having a man act out violently is something of a victory for the staff, and a worthy accomplishment as well.

Yet in spite of whatever mental condition Talky suffers from, or what other problems he might have, Talky somehow manages to make his way to the chapel most Sunday mornings to attend the ten o'clock service. Talky will walk in the doorway along with everyone else. Then, after getting a warm greeting from the ushers, he will do his usual and look for a seat in the rear. He apparently feels most comfortable in the last row, or at least one that's close to it. And for anyone who's not familiar with Talky or his condition, because he moves his lips incessantly, one would think he was merely engaging in an act of silent prayer. I'd watch him as his cracked brown lips would quiver throughout the service as Talky continues his non-stop conversation with his invisible friends.

I think, too, that the choir's music has much to do with helping to quiet Talky's mind. Because, before the service actually begins, the keyboarders will start to play their instruments in order to help make the chapel's atmosphere more welcoming. No doubt, therefore, that the soothing music will cause Talky to relax. From my vantage point at the front of the chapel, and as I sit on the elevated platform which overlooks the congregation, I could observe Talky's actions. His face would get a look of peacefulness and serenity. I could see how after a few minutes of being bathed in the sweet music he'd let out a soft sigh and just sit there in contentment.

Whereas, whenever I'd run into Talky in other areas of the facility, he would appear agitated and restless. He would startle easily. In addition his face would be taut. He'd have a tense expression. While in the chapel Talky appears to be at peace.

For Talky, the chapel is like an oasis in the desert. It serves as a shelter from the storms of life. It's also a positive and affirming environment. And this is because as ordinary lay persons who have no seminary training of any kind, we rely only upon help from God as we try to encourage and strengthen the body of Christ through the Scriptures. We also seek to demonstrate brotherly love.

I believe too, that Talky understands that Jesus Christ loves him. Likewise I believe that only Christ's power is capable of penetrating the layers of Talky's illness in order to reach his heart and soul. For Talky and for everyone else, there really is hope in the Lord.

D.B.

On this bright and warm Saturday morning I left my cell to go to one of the prison's two recreational yards. During the weekends every inmate, unless he's at his work assignment or is confined to his cell for disciplinary reasons, has the choice of which yard he wants to go to. And because I like my space I chose the East Yard. The East Yard is all grass and dirt as opposed to the West Yard which is mostly heat absorbing blacktop. It consists of a ball field and a walking and running track which encircles its perimeter. The East Yard is also much larger in size, and so there's more room to roam around.

It was in the East Yard where I ran into one of my best friends, Ron (not his real name). Like me he's a Christian, and we both attend the various chapel services and Bible studies which are offered here.

Interestingly, however, before coming to prison with a life sentence, Ron was a police officer. He accepted Christ as his Savior while he was at the infamous Riker's Island jail in New York City. He was here to await his trial, and he stayed on the Island until the verdict was announced. Since then Ron has done time in Attica Prison, and he's now been incarcerated for about twelve years.

Yet if you were to talk to Ron he will honestly admit that it took coming to prison to wake him up. Today he's a strong believer.

Nevertheless, it is ironic that Ron went from cop, to convict, to Christian. Not too many people have gone this route to Calvary's cross; I often tease him about this in a good natured way.

Ron never thought when he first joined the police force that he'd end up in here with the men he once arrested. God has a sense of humor. Furthermore, the Lord has kept him safe because, like me, he lives in the general population. In all his years behind bars no inmates have ever bothered him because of what he did for a living in the past. Ron is a fortunate man.

D.B.

Once again my chaplain has earned himself another vacation. This is the second Sunday that he's been absent. Therefore both myself and Felipe (Philip) had to oversee the morning's chapel service. God was with us, however. It went well. I opened with a Scripture passage from the third chapter of the New Testament letter to Titus (Titus 3:1-7). Then I briefly expounded on the passage with my focus on the love of God toward us.

Felipe then opened in prayer, and we all joined in. This was followed by the choir to lead us in worship and praise. Afterwards several other men took turns coming to the pulpit to share their exhortations. Finally our volunteer minister from New York gave us a message titled, "Where will you spend eternity?" We then closed with an altar call followed by the standard benediction.

As much as I wish to transfer over my role of pastorship to brother Felipe, for one reason or another, I find myself getting thrust back to having to stand behind the pulpit on Sundays. For at least several years now I've been hoping for a change where I could step down from being the pastor and worship leader, and Felipe could step up and take my place.

To me, pastor and worship leader are merely titles. Of course important responsibilities come with each one. I do not mean to understate them. But I don't even like to mention having any particular title save for the fact that I have to explain things clearly so those who read this journal can better understand what is going on in my life, and what's happening with the church here.

I believe that Felipe would make an excellent pastor. He already functions in this role by the way he leads the men, and by how well he teaches and encourages the flock. Like me, he's doing a life sentence. So he may never see the "streets" again.

Felipe was saved out of a lifestyle of crime, gangs and drugs. I've shared this before in pervious journal entries. Back around 1990 he was even featured on America's Most Wanted. He was finally captured and arrested on the west coast by a police SWAT team, and was eventually extradited to New York to face his charges. But while in jail awaiting trial, Felipe accepted Christ after speaking to the jail's chaplain, who was the one who led him to the Lord. And he's been faithfully serving Christ ever since.

The prisoners respect Felipe a lot. Most importantly, it's because of his sincere walk with the Lord, but also because of his reputation as a "stand up" man. In prison, a reputation, either good or bad, translates into how you're going to be treated by both guards and inmates. Fortunately for Felipe, his "rep" is a good one.

Felipe was also an amateur boxer who may have gone semi-professional if not for his incarceration. He's considered to be "good with his hands." And while this is of little value to the Lord, since Jesus has not called us to fight with our fists, but rather to fight a "good fight of faith," the boxing skills Felipe has helps to keep him in good standing with the entire population. No man wants to fight another man, and lose. Besides, most of the men love boxing. So anyone who could hold his own in a fight, and who has the reputation for doing so, gets his respect. In this environment having such a status is of great worth.

D.B.

I grew up in New York City's borough of the Bronx where for me life was an adventure. I loved riding my 3-speed English racer almost everywhere. And when I was a teenager one could often find me zipping around on it, going up and down the streets traveling to what many would consider to be far distant places for a kid my age. After my mother died in 1967, and with my dad having to leave for work very early in the morning, on Saturdays I would leave the apartment that we lived in on Stratford Avenue. Shortly after a breakfast that I'd make for myself, I would take my bicycle and ride until the evening.

One particular place I loved to peddle to, even in the middle of the winter, was Ferry Point Park. Back in the 1960s and up until the 1970s, Ferry Point Park was a poorly kept swath of land which New York City's Department of Parks and Recreation must have forgotten about. Even in the summer months the park was sparsely populated. Many benches were broken. The water fountains were always off and the rest rooms were often closed. There were lots of water rats running around, too.

The Park's boundaries went from the far end of Brush Avenue to the Long Island Sound. On one side was the mouth of the Westchester Creek while on the opposite side was the Hutchinson River Parkway and the Whitestone Bridge's toll plaza. Small winding blacktopped trails allowed me to breeze along a usually deserted park at a fast pace. Across the Sound I could see the borough of Queens.

And of course there was no swimming permitted at Ferry Point Park or along this section of the Long Island Sound. Local Fishermen would sit along the rocks hoping for a catch of eels, crabs or small fish. Here the murky East River mixed with the Sound, and with the mouth of what was and still is know as Westchester Creek. The Creek was a filthy body of water which ran parallel to Zerega Avenue on one side, and desolate Brush Avenue on the other. Junk yards, a line of oil tanks and greasy looking barges made for nasty run offs into the Creek which washed out passed Ferry Point Park. In addition, the New York City Department of Sanitation's huge garbage burning incinerator, which was located at the intersection of Lafayette and Zerega Avenues, likewise helped to give the Creek its unique selection of pungent smells and odd oders. None of this bothered me, however. For me the Park and its neighboring industrial area proved to be an oasis for bicycle riding.

While in Ferry Point Park I would ride my bike back and forth along the road which looped under the Whitestone Bridge itself. I would then speed down Brush Avenue until I got to Bruckner Boulevard. From here I would peddle my bike across the small drawbridge which allowed motorists and pedestrians to cross the Creek. And from the sidewalk of the drawbridge I could see the spectacular Whitestone Bridge now about half a mile in the distance.

Finally, when it began to get dark, and after I crossed the drawbridge to Zerega Avenue, from here I would peddle on either Story or Watson Avenues for another mile or so to my home. This is one of many good memories I have of growing up in the Bronx.

D.B.

It's been said that New York City is a changing scene. Business establishments come and go, and so do buildings of all kinds. But one's memories can live on long after the old landmarks are gone. In fact one of my best memories of growing up in the Bronx is that of the old Whitestone Drive-In. This was a large outdoor drive-in movie theater which was located near the intersection of Bruckner Boulevard and Brush Avenue. Every evening at sundown people could drive their cars into the open lot, pull up by one of the many poles which had a speaker attached to it, take the speaker from its mount and place it inside the vehicle. You could also mount it on the driver's door after you roll down your window. This was how you could hear the movie.

I do not recall the drive-in as having any special features other than a no frills snack stand. The snack stand didn't offer much in the way of food. All I remember is the popcorn. My dad would bring back a bucket full of popcorn but it was dry and bland and butterless. Nowadays, however, except for maybe in small Midwestern towns or down south, drive-in movie theaters are probably a thing of the past.

Anyhow, I recall how, as a kid, maybe twice each summer, my parents would take me to the drive-in to see a movie. We'd exit Bruckner Boulevard and enter the lot. It would be filling up with cars. My dad would hook up a speaker and set it along his door after he rolled down his window. Then we had to wait for it to get dark enough for the film to start.

The drive-in's screen was huge. And if anyone remembers, when you would travel along the southbound lanes of the Hutchinson River Parkway in the direction of the Whitestone Bridge, for a brief minute you could turn your head to the right and see the movie screen off in the distance. Motorists and their passengers could actually see a tiny portion of what was playing. It was a lot of fun as well to go to the drive-in and watch a movie in the privacy of your car. For me and my parents, as it was for many folks back then, going to the Whitestone Drive-In was a tradition. It was a landmark that's now gone.

In addition, after the movie was over, it was always a special treat to go to the Howard Johnson's restaurant which was directly across Bruckner Boulevard from the drive-in. I understand that the Howard Johnson's restaurant is also long gone. But back in the early 1960s my mom and dad would take me there for a late night ice cream sundae. My favorite was a couple of scoops of chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup covered in whipped cream with a cherry on top. My parents, however, almost always opted for a New York classic: Pie Alamode. This was simply a hefty wedge of fresh apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Howard Johnson's was famous for their ice cream, and their pies were considered top of the line.

Then, when it was time to return to our apartment, my parents and I hoped that our modest lone Fedder's air conditioner that was wedged in one of our windows, was able to cool off the apartment enough so that sleep was possible.

As with many New York City residents who lived in tenements, surviving the heat and humidity of summer was a big undertaking. Fans, cold showers and glasses of ice water helped. This would also include slow walks on sweltering evening to the local Carvel ice cream store or to the neighborhood soda fountain. And if you were fortunate, like I was, your family owned at least one small to medium size air conditioner. This was life in my New York.

D.B.

The Lord allowed a wonderful miracle to take place today. Inside the prison's visiting room I was reunited with a dear cousin whom I had been estranged from. I hadn't seen her in more than thirty years. But today she and I had a terrific time together. There was no tension between us whatsoever. We reminisced about the past and caught up on things. She told me about other members of the family, all of whom I have lost contact with. The hours flew by and I could tell that the old wounds between us were healed. This was truly a new beginning for us. It was a joyous day.

Unknown to most people, many years ago, when I first came to prison, I "burned the bridge" between myself and my family. The only ones who refused to be pushed away were my father and a now deceased uncle. In what I would call my typical self-destructive behavior patterns which dominated my life back then - probably as a means of self-punishment - I lashed out at those who cared about me, and they left. These days, however, I have gained much in the way of understanding what these self-destructive behaviors were all about. I now realize that, because I felt guilty about the crimes I committed, I did not deserve to be shown love or receive love from others. Therefore I unconsciously tried to chase my family away, and for the most part I did. Obviously I was attempting to bring lots of emotional pain upon myself. It was self-sabotage.

Furthermore, and without realizing it until many years later, I also tried to bring emotional pain upon myself as a means of atoning for my crimes and sins. But today I would say that such attempts at self-atonement were stupid and unnecessary. It was a waste of time and I caused myself much needless grief. Because as a Christian, I now understand that Jesus Christ made full atonement for me when He died and shed His blood on the cross at Calvary.

Thirty years ago my mind was a mess. I was arrested at the age of twenty-four, and I was sentenced to life in prison almost one year later. I then arrived at the infamous Attica Correctional Facility as a confused, troubled and tormented man who thought he had no future. I saw no hope for myself. I was both frightened and overwhelmed. I was also struggling to cope with my incarceration and to make sense of everything. In addition, I had to fit into the prison culture, which, at that time, was an alien world to me. But by the grace of God, I survived.

Now, thankfully, Christ has begun to repair some of the damage I caused. He has already restored a once broken relationship with my cousin. I also believe that the best is still to come for me. And I want to thank all my friends who've been praying for this reunion. Your prayers have now been answered!

D.B.