Going into the prison's Intermediate Care Program (ICP Unit) during the weekdays is a good experience. I enjoy talking with the guys and, if I could be of help to any of them, it is a pleasure. It's also my job...
I was happy, therefore, to be able to return to E-North today after a three-day weekend. Yesterday was the observance of Columbus Day, and I was off from work.
When I'm at the ICP Unit I try to convey to these men, as the opportunities present themselves, that God has not written them off as worthless failures. He can take anyone's life, if they're willing, and make it better. I've seen this happen many times.
In fact, it was only a couple of weeks ago that I said this very same thing to a tall and slim black man in his mid-thirties who was getting ready to go home; he's since been released. I said, "Anthony, God can make your life into a sparkling diamond." He's been in and out of prison many times already because of an addiction to drugs. And he did tell me on a few occasions that he would "maybe" find his way to a church one day.
Unfortunately, however, Anthony's never made any attempts to go to church while he was here. Realistically I would say it is doubtful he'd make a serious effort to do so once he got out. But I believe, too, that God has not given up on him. Interestingly, during some of our conversations, Anthony confessed to me that there were times when he'd "stumble" into a few storefront congregations during his days of addiction and thievery.
Frankly, even a homeless Harlem-hardened street survivor needs a place to rest his bones and his burdens, and a simple storefront church is just the spot. Anthony told me that in these little houses of worship, which seem to dot the inner City's landscape, he would be greeted with a warm welcome, and sometimes with a warm meal as well.
I could picture a cocaine-numbed emaciated Anthony, lost and forlorn, being met at the door by a handful of elderly ladies. Their weary worn faces beaming with golden-toothed smiles, welcoming him into their little oasis, taking turns patting him on the head while hurriedly ushering him into a wooden chair while a few of these church mothers would head to a tiny in-the-rear-of-the-store kitchen to fetch him some fried chicken and mashed potatoes along with a cup of steaming sweet tea. A touch of kindness in a cold city. And no one ever knows. Perhaps with such tender treatment by a gaggle of grandmothers, Anthony's heart would melt and he'd bow his soul to his Creator?
I hope so.
D.B.
When I'm at the ICP Unit I try to convey to these men, as the opportunities present themselves, that God has not written them off as worthless failures. He can take anyone's life, if they're willing, and make it better. I've seen this happen many times.
In fact, it was only a couple of weeks ago that I said this very same thing to a tall and slim black man in his mid-thirties who was getting ready to go home; he's since been released. I said, "Anthony, God can make your life into a sparkling diamond." He's been in and out of prison many times already because of an addiction to drugs. And he did tell me on a few occasions that he would "maybe" find his way to a church one day.
Unfortunately, however, Anthony's never made any attempts to go to church while he was here. Realistically I would say it is doubtful he'd make a serious effort to do so once he got out. But I believe, too, that God has not given up on him. Interestingly, during some of our conversations, Anthony confessed to me that there were times when he'd "stumble" into a few storefront congregations during his days of addiction and thievery.
Frankly, even a homeless Harlem-hardened street survivor needs a place to rest his bones and his burdens, and a simple storefront church is just the spot. Anthony told me that in these little houses of worship, which seem to dot the inner City's landscape, he would be greeted with a warm welcome, and sometimes with a warm meal as well.
I could picture a cocaine-numbed emaciated Anthony, lost and forlorn, being met at the door by a handful of elderly ladies. Their weary worn faces beaming with golden-toothed smiles, welcoming him into their little oasis, taking turns patting him on the head while hurriedly ushering him into a wooden chair while a few of these church mothers would head to a tiny in-the-rear-of-the-store kitchen to fetch him some fried chicken and mashed potatoes along with a cup of steaming sweet tea. A touch of kindness in a cold city. And no one ever knows. Perhaps with such tender treatment by a gaggle of grandmothers, Anthony's heart would melt and he'd bow his soul to his Creator?
I hope so.
D.B.
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