November 2006

Danny has been transferred. He had been expecting it because he has a little more than five years left to do on his prison sentence before he is eligible for release. Surprisingly, though, he was transferred to another maximum security prison as opposed to the medium security facility his counselor had placed him for. Thus he will probably stay at his new maximum facility for only a handful of months before he's transferred once more, the next time to a medium.

I had written about Danny in my journal entry "Danny's Song." During the time he was here, however, Danny had become one of my best friends. And shortly before his departure, he and I would go to the outdoor recreation yard on many evenings to hang out, pray for, and encourage each other.

Danny's a young man of only twenty-four. In my previous entry about him I described his upbringing and what brought him to prison. Yet in the relatively short time he was here Danny had matured into a strong Christian. He was actively involved with our choir, and he has an abundance of musical talent, too.

Because I am more than twice his age I had become something of a father figure to him, and he respected me. Meanwhile, Danny had likewise become my spiritual son.

But now Danny's had to move on, and he will be missed. Yet I'll see him again because we believers in Christ are promised a great reunion in heaven. Danny will be there fore sure.

D.B.

This morning I was able to go outdoors for approximately 90 minutes. I spent the time with my friend Ruppert*, who like me, is doing a life sentence. He was a police officer before he too broke the law and came to prison.

Since Ruppert's a Christian we were able to spend the time having fellowship and talking about the God we both love and serve.

At 11:45, however, it was time to go back to our respective cells in order to participate in the mandatory 12 noon "Count." This is when the prison's guards, who are assigned to the various housing units (also known as cell blocks), make their rounds and account for each inmate individually to make certain none have escaped since the previous count which was held at 6:30. The same routine is also played out, more or less, in every correctional facility in New York State.

Then, after the lunch meal, at approximately 12:45, I went from my cell to the chapel in order to attend a Bible class. It ended at 2:45. We had two lay ministers from New York City come to encourage the flock.

Thus my day was well spent. I had the opportunity to spend quality time with Ruppert in the morning, and then gather with other Christians in the afternoon. And may I never take these little blessings for granted.

D.B.

I am getting ready to go overseas via the U.S. Mail in order to encourage my fellow Christians, and reach those who would perhaps be inspired by the story of what God has done for me.

My faith is something that's meant to be shared. The Lord is wonderful and His salvation is far too priceless to keep it to myself. Therefore, starting now, as the opportunities present themselves, I hope to send my testimony to at least one hundred missionary and evangelistic organizations and ministries throughout every conceivable nation.

With God's help, I plan to reach the four corners of the world, one letter and testimony tract at a time, in order to lift up the name of Jesus Christ. He is the only way for salvation, and He is the hope for every nation.

D.B.

Lately I've been inclined to pray more often for our nation's leaders. As a whole, it seems to me, America has departed from its spiritual moorings and godly ideals. Sin appears to be everywhere and churches and their pulpits are no exception. For even in our houses of worship multitudes of parishioners are living lifestyles that, for professing Christians, are not acceptable.

Of course no one wants to hear this, especially if it is coming from the pen of a prisoner. Nevertheless, God's word says that He will judge the sexually immoral and all those who practice sin. In fact, judgment must begin within the church. "For the time has come for judgment to begin at the house of God; and if it begins with us first, what will be the end of those who do not obey the gospel of God (I Peter 4:17 NKJV)?"

As I see it, with each passing day our nation is becoming more godless and pagan-like. And if we eventually turn our backs on the One who has blessed us, we're doomed. Even now many have hearts that have been overtaken by sin. Then one day, I believe, our entire nation will, correspondingly, be overrun by evil. When this happens the "American dream" will become only a fantasy. Our nation will exist only in form. America's soul, however, will be dead.

"Please have mercy on our nation, O God. May You awaken the hearts and minds of men and women who lead and guide the United States of America to submit to Your ways so that they become the political, religious and social leaders You want them to be. Likewise, may You help and humble all of America's citizens that we may learn to trust in You and walk in the path You have set before each of us. Amen."

D.B.

The Bible says that we are to pray for our leaders and for all those who are in positions of authority so that, as much as is possible, we may lead quiet and peaceable lives. And it does not say that we're to pray for our nation's leaders only if we like their policies or agree with their ways of running things. Rather we are to lift them up to God in prayer and let the Lord turn and bend their hearts in whichever direction He knows is best.

And I also believe we are never to lose sight of the fact that our leaders are only human. We're not to put so much confidence in those who have positions in government to the point that we expect near perfection. Mere men can fail, and they often do.

Unfortunately, however, many of our leaders may not know God in an intimate and personal way. While some have become too proud, I think, and see no need to seek heavenly counsel to help with their decisions. In addition, I believe that, for our nation as a whole, God is no longer our foundation. Instead we pay Him mere lip service and do not genuinely seek His face or rely on His guidance. As a result, our government may now be resting upon sand; and sand shifts.

Therefore my prayer is twofold. I pray that our leaders would learn to trust in the One who rules all nations, and that America will have a spiritual awakening which results in multitudes of people coming to know Jesus as their Savior and Lord.

D.B.

I don't know how it happened or what caused it to happen, but yesterday morning when I tried to get out of bed, I could not. I awoke to find myself in excruciating pain which was radiating from within my right kneecap. The surrounding area was noticeably swollen, too.

It was shortly before dawn when I had to use the toilet. But in order to get to it I had to first figure out a way to get off my bunk. So I turned sideways to try to propel myself off of it. And in one quick motion I had to spin myself around and reach for my desk at the same time. Then I had to boost myself upright and lean against the wall with my left hand. From here I was able to hobble the four steps needed to reach the toilet. And when I was done using the toilet and sink, I did a quick about-face and traveled in the opposite direction to return to the bed.

Later, when my cell door opened for breakfast, I had to limp across the floor of the gallery to reach the officer's desk. I was required to explain my situation to him because prison rules mandate that any inmate who is injured must report himself to correction officer. The guard then called the nurse's office in the Infirmary, who in turn asked him to allow me to walk across the facility to the Infirmary so that I could be examined.

And once the nurse finished his examination he then issued me a bandage to wrap around my kneecap to provide added support. He handed me some pills for the pain, and he also issued a twenty-four hour "medical restriction" which meant confinement to my cell for the day. I was not going to make it to church.

Afterwards I returned to my cell and sent short notes to several of my friends who live in the cell block with me that I would not be coming to chapel because of my medical restriction. Thankfully, my chaplain had another man to take my place and lead in the worship. Later I received word that the service went well.

Frankly I was happy to get the day off. It was relaxing and refreshing to have a day for myself. I spent the morning listening to Christian worship music on my radio. And even though I was supposed to stay in bed, I am too hyperactive to sit still for any length of time. So I instead spent several hours composing a journal entry on the need for Christians to pray for our nation's leaders.

D.B.

With the exception of my hurting knee, yesterday would have been a good day. It changed for me, however, when I was standing on the chow line at five o'clock to get my supper. The man behind me tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I had heard the news about my friend, Walter. I told him, "No." So he quickly said, "Dave, Walter died this afternoon. They found his body in his cell."

For a few seconds I didn't believe him. Walter? Dead? He was only forty-two years old. And when I pressed him for more information, he was only able to tell me that, shortly after yesterday's lunch meal, which was around 12 noon, Walter returned to his cell to take a nap. At approximately 1:30, however, a civilian employee attempted to wake him up. Walter, I learned, was found lying across his bunk, unresponsive. So a "Code Blue" was sounded, but the prison's medical staff was not able to revive him through cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). Apparently he died in his sleep.

Then, today, I was able to get more details so as to put all the pieces together. Walter, I'm certain, smoked himself to death. He actually smoked his way to the morgue.

My friend, Walter, lived at the prison's Intermediate Care Program (E-North). This is where I work on weekday afternoons and where I could spend time with him. He was doing a sentence of 25-years to life for a senseless and unspeakable crime. But I believe he was mentally ill when it happened. What transpired more than fifteen years ago occurred because Walter was emotionally unbalanced; he was delusional too.

Walter's life was off its course. In prison he lived under a load of loneliness. He was, as far as I knew, estranged from his family. He was a forgotten man. Maybe it was because of his crime, or perhaps he never had much of a family to begin with?

And I don't think I've ever met very many men who smoked more than Walter. Whenever I stopped by his cell to talk or check up on him, I'd oftentimes see Walter sitting quietly on his bunk surrounded by plumes of gray tobacco smoke. The noxious fumes would cause me to step back from the front of his cell as far as I could, which was only a distance of a few feet because of the tier's iron railing. And sometimes the secondhand smoke would be so irritating that I'd have to excuse myself by telling Walter that I would come back and talk to him later.

Because Walter rolled his own filterless cigarettes and puffed on each one to its very end, over time the tips of his fingers became a hideous charcoal black. His burned finger tips were made even more visible because the rest of his skin was pale white. Likewise his teeth were a stained mix of yellow and brown, while his clothes always retained a strong smoke stench that never went away, not even after they came out of the wash.

Walter, it seemed to me, had given up on life. He never exercised. He'd quit every educational or vocational program the facility's counselors or the mental health staff tried to get him involved in. So rather than seeking to make any improvements in his life, I believe he instead acquiesced to his inner pain and despair by passively lying on his bunk as often as he could, while trying to hide himself behind a self-created cloud of smoke. He would also drink cup after cup of strong black coffee.

And earlier today, a neighbor of Walter's told me that there were many nights when he'd hear him coughing a lot, and sometimes throwing up, too. I know Walter was being treated for high blood pressure. He was a sickly man.

But Walter was also very polite and soft-spoken. He was a gentleman. Yet I recall the times when his illness set in and he would become verbally agitated. He'd talk to himself out loud, sometimes well into the night, disturbing the other men. On these occasions Walter would be sent to the Observation Unit for a few days, and until he calmed down. Otherwise, he was mostly quiet and pensive, usually keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.

Walter and I did talk a lot about God, however. He liked this, and he had his opinions. He could read and write well. Maybe he even had a high school diploma? I don't know. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway because Walter was doing a life sentence. In addition, with his history of mental illness and his lack of family ties, Walter was facing a lifetime of institutionalization. He had nothing going for him. He had no future.

Concerning Walter, I am not kidding when I stated that he smoked himself to death. I'm not doctor, or course, but with all the poison that must have been in his system from inhaling the fumes from thousands upon thousands of hand rolled cigarettes, I believe that his skinny body could not keep cleansing itself. His lungs, liver and heart could only take so much.

Therefore, sometime during the early afternoon of Monday, November 13, 2006, Walter's weak heart stopped working. His soul sailed away. Walter's prison sentence was cut short, as was his life.

D.B.

Although Walter died only a few days ago, a thick pall of sadness remains in the atmosphere. I felt it as soon as I walked through the doors of the E-North cell block. I could see the sadness in the faces of the men. Prison is a close-knit community. It's a lot like living in a small town where everyone knows each other.

Walter was also a resident of E-North for many years. So he's missed. Furthermore his death came as a shock because he was only in his early forties. No one was expecting him to die.

As part of my job description, however, I have to walk along the tiers and peek in at the men to see how they're doing. This is a regular routine for me. But now, especially with so many of them mourning for Walter, I have to be very careful to look for any who may seem to be unusually depressed.

And then I came upon Walter's former cell. It was empty. As per the procedures, shortly after Walter's demise, one or two correction officers went into the cell and gathered all his belongings. They were required to put everything into what's known in the New York State prison system as "pack-up bags." These are merely large plastic sacks that are light-weight, but strong. They're about the same size as common burlap sacks used for hauling potatoes. And each pack-up bag gets stuffed with as much of an inmate's property as would fit. It then gets tied at the top with a piece of string, and a deceased man's property gets taken to the processing area of the facility to be inventoried and then stored to await the claiming of it by a man's family, if he has family. Walter, though, was poor. So he didn't own very many things.

Nevertheless, whatever personal property Walter had went into those bags. In, therefore, went his tobacco, writing materials, books, soap and shampoo, a partially used roll of toilet paper, a small AM/FM portable radio, and all his smoke-scented clothing. And I don't believe the total weight of his belongings was more than ten pounds. Into the bags was everything Walter owned at the time of his death.

Now, however, the cell which once held Walter was vacant. Yet I felt compelled to stand in front of it for several minutes to quietly reflect on the dozens of conversations he and I had over the years. I thought about the times Walter and I walked together in the recreation yard, and the times I told him about a Savior who loved him.

But at this moment, as I peered into what was once his living space, all that remained were a few plastic storage containers which were left behind, a state issued laundry bag that an inmate uses to store his dirty clothing in until it gets washed, and a lot of loose tobacco that was clearly visible all across the floor. Walter, you see, bought the cheaper "roll you own" cigarettes from the prison's commissary. The fancier brands like Marlboro and Newport were not his style, nor were they in his price range.

And I definitely felt the loss as I stared into the stark cell. I asked God to have mercy upon him, and I said goodbye. It was a somber moment indeed. But within a short time another man will be going into Walter's cell. Then every reminder of him will be gone.

Walter's dead. It's hard for me to believe it, but he is.

D.B.

The Lord has again been merciful to me and has allowed me to once more know His healing touch.

This past Monday I wrote about the knee problem which developed on Sunday. I awoke Sunday morning only to discover that my right kneecap had swelled up. I also found myself in terrible pain and I could not get up from my bunk. I had to actually turn sideways and propel myself off of it. Then, with my left hand stretched out to brace myself against the wall, I was able to hobble to my toilet and sink which are located about four short steps away from the bed itself.

Afterwards, when my cell door opened for breakfast, I reported myself to the officer's desk in the cell block to explain my situation. I was required to do this. Inmates, according to the rules, must report all accidents or injuries to a staff member as soon as possible. And because I could barely walk, my condition fell under this category.

Therefore, I was sent to the Prison's Infirmary with and "Emergency Sick Call" pass. The nurse on duty, Mr. Darton*, after examining me, ordered that I be placed on cell restriction, and given one full day of bed rest, too. The pain, however, continued throughout the week. So I had to limp along in agony to my work assignments and to the chapel. The nurse, who was very kind, also gave me an "Ace" bandage to wrap around the kneecap for added support. But other than giving me the bandage to wear and administering the standard doses of Ibuprofen as a pain reliever, I was left to ride this out on my own.

Yesterday, however, at approximately 1:30 in the afternoon, while I was at work, I received a notice that I had a visitor. This came as a surprise. But as a result of the call I had to return to my own cell, change clothes, and then limp the distance to the prison's visiting room.

It turned out that my friends, Tony and Tom, were here. Tony goes into many prisons and even travels to other countries because he's been called to be an evangelist. Tom, however, pastor's a church in Sparta, New Jersey. In addition, he has the gift of healing. So a big part of his own ministry involves praying for those who are sick or injured.

Of no surprise, therefore, when Tony and Tom saw me hobbling across the visiting room floor, my forehead damp with sweat from the pain, Tom immediately offered to pray. He then moved his chair along side mine so as to place both his hands over my swollen kneecap. And as Tom prayed I could actually feel heat coming from his hands. It was as if had spread liniment or warm oil on the hurting area.

Frankly, though, I didn't feel anything more after Tom was finished. He prayed out loud for about five minutes, and Tony joined in too, but nothing happened. At least not yet.

Tom, however, said these kinds of divine healings don't always happen immediately. He told me to simply have faith in God and not to doubt.

And when I awoke this morning this first thing I noticed was that the pain was gone. The hideous swelling was gone too. I could also bend my knee easily, and I knew I had indeed been healed. Likewise I am absolutely certain that Jesus touched me through Tom's hands.

Then, later on, when I went to the chapel to attend this evening's worship service, I was able to give a brief testimony before the congregation about what had happened.

Furthermore, to add to the miracles, when Tony and Tom came here to visit me, they had no idea about my condition. They simply felt the prompting of the Holy Spirit to drop by, and it turned out that I had a great need. Jesus in turn graciously allowed them to meet this need, and I am very thankful.

D.B.

Today was one of the most enjoyable and memorable days I've had in awhile. There was a baptismal service that was held inside the prison's chapel and three men, one at a time, had been fully immersed in water. Their baptism was a symbol of each man's death, burial and resurrection in Christ. It was also an outward showing that each one had indeed received Jesus Christ as his Savior, and is now a member of the body of Christ.

My chaplain, Carl Stiglich, and the men who are assigned as workers and custodians of the chapel, had to move our full-size baptismal tank from a storage area where it's kept when not in use. They then hooked up a garden-type hose from a utility sink that's in the hallway of the building and extended the hose into the chapel in order to fill the tank. I had to do this when I was the chaplain's assistant and clerk.

And after a time of singing and worship, followed by a sermon from my chaplain, the baptisms were ready to begin. So the three men who were to be baptized each took his turn to step onto a small platform, and then step into the tank where my chaplain would dunk him into the water. The chaplain then baptized each man in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Meanwhile, however, those of us who were watching this take place continually broke out into loud and spontaneous applause with lots of cheers and shouts of "Hallelujah!" And each brother who came out of the water had a big smile on his face, too. The room, it seemed to me, was filled with joyful exuberance.

Furthermore, our baptismal service, I might add, was no religious exercise. Nor was it carried out by any kind of superficial tradition. Instead it was a deeply sacred and spiritual event which, I believe, was taken notice of in heaven. And I am grateful to have been a part of it.

In addition, I had my job to do. I was one of the volunteer "mop men." After all, somebody has to clean up the mess, and I like doing things like this. So I and three other prisoners stood alongside the tank with mops in hand and buckets by our sides to gather up the water that spilled over its sides whenever one of the men got into it.

Then, after the service was over and most of the men left, I was allowed to stay behind with a handful of the chapel's workers to empty and clean the tank. It was a lot of work, but it was fun. We laughed and talked among ourselves. It was a very special day.

D.B.

This is usually one of the more difficult days for anyone who's incarcerated. For many prisoners there are the memories of warm family gatherings and lives that were once filled with hope and promise. But then came incarceration, a sense of failure, and much regret. It's not easy for a man who now has to live behind bars of iron to deal with what he's lost, if he was fortunate enough to have had such things in the past.

Nevertheless, at approximately 12 noon, the traditional Thanksgiving meal was served, and I was allowed the standard twenty minutes to eat it. I must confess, however, that the meal was unappetizing. And in the middle of my compartmentalized plastic tray sat a piece of oval-shaped pale meat which was supposed to be turkey. It had been commercially pressed, processed and "mechanically separated," prior to its getting plopped on my tray. Poor bird!

Yet as I sat with a few of my Christian friends who live with me in the same cell block, our hearts were filled with an "attitude of gratitude" because while the meal was bland and our slice of turkey had no taste other than salt, we were aware that we're probably eating better than half the world's population.

Then, after the meal, when I was in my cell, I heard a familiar honking sound. So I looked out my little window and up to the sky to see several flocks of geese in flight. To observe them traveling in nearly perfect formation and moving with such a degree of freedom brought joy to my heart and a smile to my face. Surely the earth is filled with the goodness of God.

D.B.

Yesterday I wrote about the tasteless Thanksgiving meal I had to eat. Yet it is through these bland prison meals that the Lord is teaching me to be thankful.

This reminds me of a story I heard about a man who always complained because he was very poor and he could not afford to buy a pair of shoes. He had to go barefoot wherever he went, and it made him bitter and resentful to see others walking with shoes on their feet while he had none.

But one day, however, while he was traveling along a dusty road, he spotted a young man sitting on the curb begging passersby for coins. Then, as he got closer, he noticed the man had no feet. And at this moment, as he gazed at the pitiful person squatting on the ground, it dawned on him that he was not as bad off as he thought. He found someone worse off than himself.

And this has gradually become my outlook, too. I could be bitter at having spent almost three decades behind bars. But Christ continually reminds me to be thankful and to always count my blessings. Having Jesus as my Lord and being content with what I have is of incomparable worth. This is true joy.

D.B.

Today I answered a letter from my friend Glenn who lives in Los Angeles, California. In his letter he told me about a meeting he had to attend which had been set up by the California Department of Corrections concerning a program he belongs to called PACT (Parole and Community Team). Glenn is a lay minister who, along with other ministers and community leaders, is participating in an innovative program in which civilian volunteers work hand-in-hand with parole, police and prison personnel in order to try to find housing, jobs, or provide job training for those who are coming out of prison to rejoin their communities.

Glenn's specialty is in trying to find housing for parolees who have no place to go. As a Christian, he said it's a good way for the churches in his area to get involved in helping men and women find Christ and develop a personal relationship with Him too.

I especially like the concept Glenn told me about which he likes to put forth whenever he attends one of the PACT meetings: "These ex-cons need the gospel, and they need a job." I agree. Both are needed.

I believe that the big challenge is not with getting men and women out of prison, but keeping them out. I also believe those who work with parolees can attest to this. The challenge is to keep these individuals focused and positive so they do not revert back to their old ways and return to a criminal lifestyle.

In addition, I say this, because, oftentimes those who are re-entering society may find themselves in a hostile and unforgiving environment. And these negative forces, to include contempt for the parolee and rejection, are real and powerful. Unfortunately they're members within a given community who will go out of their way to make the parolee feel unwelcome and unwanted.

Therefore, if not for poeple like Glenn, the world would quickly become a place of hopelessness for the ex-offender. Thankfully, though, God has raised up beacons of hope and compassion who are willing to step out in faith and take risks in behalf of those who are less fortunate than themselves.

Faith, hope, love. All three are needed. But the greatest one is love which ties them all together.

D.B.