I had gone without food before, and this time I had only a cup of rice or unflavored oat meal a day for a month, so when they cut off my electricity and I lost my connection to the world, it was bad. I sat staring out a window with no food or power for 5 days. I listened to an old solar powered radio and barely existed. Somehow, the cell phone that had been cut off months before, still allowed 9/11 calls, so I flipped a coin and decided to make the call instead of killing myself. They take me to a hospital, then to Chicago Read. 33 days alter, after everyone I ever knew had turned their backs on me, the Dr. gives me a piece of paper with Pacific Garden missions address on it and they shove me out the door. It's special that they had me on suicide watch for a month and carefully handed me just the pills I needed every day, but then toss me out with more than enough meds to kill myself solid. My hair and beard hadn't been cut in months, the medications made me a zombie, people on the streets got out of my way... if they had only known how flimsy I was, hell, I was a drown rat. 4 hours later, after taking every wrong turn I could, I stumbled down the yellow brick road at the PGM, a blank slate. I won't lie, it wasn't easy, I was so weak I shook the entire rack when climbing up to my bunk. I remember staring up at the ceiling asking God, 'Are you sure this is what you want of me?' The ventilation in that dorm is weak, so you sweat yourself to sleep. 60 new brothers all in the same room with me... the sounds, the smells. So, like my Dad before me, I did what had to be done. I am now stronger, I no longer need the meds, I have no desire to get high. I still am not sure exactly where I am going, but I trust that the good Lord does.
8/14/11
It's raining out, 9:30am so I'm inside where it's dark. Dang, too many people sleeping in the dorm to turn on the lights. Sunrise was awesome, blue/grey cumulus clouds with well defined top ed g e (Keep in mind, I am transcribing these notes as close as I can to what I originally wrote back then. This is where one of my pens died, lol) edges against a washed out slightly blue/ green sky. Some lower clumps, about 1000 feet up, moving very fast, getting hooked and dragged across the top of the Sears tower. they look to be the size of my outstretched fist, but in reality I know they are 600 foot blobs moving at like 100 MPH.
So much in life is diplomacy, saying things to people in ways that doesn't harden their hearts, so t h a t (DANG, another pen went dry!) so that they don't just reject it right away.
I've been working out on the deck buy lifting the ends of the heavy steel pick-nick tables they have on them. First few work outs made me sore for a few days, but I'm getting better. 16 more days till I can hit the weight room.
8/15/11
7PM, bright sunshine lighting my writing and my reading. Joseph gave me a book, 'The Shack' to read today. A good, descriptive writer, but a bit depressing in the beginning.
(Note to readers, I've skipped a lot of personal stuff in this bit. Maybe if I ever get paid to write this as a book, I might put it in, but for now... naw.)
Simple pleasures. In here, I have no real money, and the meals are healthy and good. Still, compared to my old diet, they are very limited in serving size.I am down 25 pounds since I arrived here and while I do get the occasional hunger pangs, they are nothing like going 5 days of no food at all. So, as I'm sitting on my bunk just earlier, Vincent offered me a small handful of mixed nuts. In my old life this would have been a mouthful. Instead, this time I enjoyed each nut, appreciating the flavor and crunch. In my old life, I used to eat eat so much pizza that I'd have a hard time breathing. Then I'd wait 5 minutes and have another slice.. Sad really. I pray that once I get out of here I keep to the smaller meals.
8/17/11
Last night on stage we had three pretty girls singing with us and I must say that hearing a female voice was intoxicating. After only hearing guys for the longest time, it was a really nice change. Another thing I like about stage is the open testimonial time. This is when the overnight guests (Homeless, but not in the program) get a chance to give thanks for things. It warms my heart to hear how some of them appreciate what God is giving us here. While many of the guys out in the audience are not paying attention, or are downright passed out with their heads bobbing around, some of them are genuinely here for the good word. After we sing a few hymns and one of us does a prayer, then another guy will go to the podium and ask for testimonies. Some guys are regulars, they stand up and do some pontificating, lol. Others will tell of something that befell them and how they got help. I've heard men say how they gave their life to Christ and the next day they will hear from family members they haven't seen in years. They audience it'self is split into two uneven parts. On the right is the men and on the left are the women. They strive to keep them separate and safe, but you'll always have the Romeos gazing across the isle, heh. I recall when I got up to do a testimony about how I had made it a month in the program, the applause I got was so encouraging! I hadn't realized that to them, we where something that they talked about.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Stories from the Mission... bit 16
8/13/11
I heard that Dave had a bad seizure this morning, about an hour after I went down to work. The first time he had one it scared the heck out of me. It was sometime in the middle of the night and I had no idea of what was going on. I looked down from my bunk as one of the guys more familiar with the situation ran over and held him in place as he shook. It leaves a person weak, laying where ever it happens and often wipes out much of what they had learned lately. What an incredibly frustrating disease it must be.
I have been going to a near by Best buy to get on-line and today I got a reply from an old friend. He told me he is mad at me for letting this happen. Yeah, sorry about that, but I don't think you ever really knew me then. Sure, I had money and things, but I was never really happy. I guess he never understood my frustration, my pain, how miserable my life had been. He only knew the drunk and stoned, happy go lucky guy... did he ever really listen to me? Then again, he was was of the few voices from my previous life I had even heard in the last 3 months...
Back in 1987 I was driving my Mustang north on Highway 53 on a bright fall day. It was an '86 Mustang LX with the GT options. I had pulled the GT emblems off the sides to disguise, being an LX, not may people knew just how quick for it's time it was. I used to practice my driving out in Busse woods, heading into a grove early in the morning, going all the way to the back to see if there was no one else on that road yet. If it was empty, I'd go to the entrance again, turn around, and know I now had my own private race track, well hidden by the trees from any police. Besides the square curbs that would have no mercy on my rims if I hit them, and well, the trees that would no mercy on me, I knew there was no one else I could hurt. When lunch time came at work, I'd drive behind the huge Walgreens warehouse where I was a mechanic, and practice my launches off the line. Any drive on a highway was a chance to test these skills. So there I was, heading to a buddies house to party on rote 53, the weather was clear and so was my ind for the next half hour. I was looking at the cars ahead of me, judging which cars would be going faster or slower, slicing and dicing the traffic, popping gears, feet switching from clutch to brake, the hood bouncing up to speed, down to slow, each of my limbs knowing it's duty. My eyes darting from mini van (slow) to BMW (Faster, possible challenge) to oncoming traffic and rear view mirror (possible police), how is this traffic flowing, where can I get past it? Then I come across a fellow dogfighter, an 1982 Camero, that was as skilled and crazy as I. For a few minutes after I caught up to him he led the way, predicting and finding where the traffic would open. Normally, I hate Cameros. They are the natural enemy of Mustangs, they weigh more, have less stock power and anyone that would choose one had to be questioned about his sanity. I had to give this guy his due though, a regular Camero, taking advantage of the heavy traffic, was doing every bit as good as me right now. Then we hit an open patch between the herds, a clear sky between clouds. I pull up along side him and look over to see him grinning, enjoying the sport as much as me. He was good, but his car didn't have the raw power to take me, so I show him some respect. I salute him, grab down to second gear, screech the tires at 65, and leave him behind.
That was an '86 Mustang and now they have the new Boss 302 with well over twice the Horse power, which could be fun. There is a window at the end of one hall that looks down onto 14th Place where I go to look at cars driving by. At times other guys will join me, we talk about cars and life. I tell them of the finer points of the sports cars going by... they normally point out the luxury cars. Sigh... not many Mustangs down here on the south side of Chicago.
I heard that Dave had a bad seizure this morning, about an hour after I went down to work. The first time he had one it scared the heck out of me. It was sometime in the middle of the night and I had no idea of what was going on. I looked down from my bunk as one of the guys more familiar with the situation ran over and held him in place as he shook. It leaves a person weak, laying where ever it happens and often wipes out much of what they had learned lately. What an incredibly frustrating disease it must be.
I have been going to a near by Best buy to get on-line and today I got a reply from an old friend. He told me he is mad at me for letting this happen. Yeah, sorry about that, but I don't think you ever really knew me then. Sure, I had money and things, but I was never really happy. I guess he never understood my frustration, my pain, how miserable my life had been. He only knew the drunk and stoned, happy go lucky guy... did he ever really listen to me? Then again, he was was of the few voices from my previous life I had even heard in the last 3 months...
Back in 1987 I was driving my Mustang north on Highway 53 on a bright fall day. It was an '86 Mustang LX with the GT options. I had pulled the GT emblems off the sides to disguise, being an LX, not may people knew just how quick for it's time it was. I used to practice my driving out in Busse woods, heading into a grove early in the morning, going all the way to the back to see if there was no one else on that road yet. If it was empty, I'd go to the entrance again, turn around, and know I now had my own private race track, well hidden by the trees from any police. Besides the square curbs that would have no mercy on my rims if I hit them, and well, the trees that would no mercy on me, I knew there was no one else I could hurt. When lunch time came at work, I'd drive behind the huge Walgreens warehouse where I was a mechanic, and practice my launches off the line. Any drive on a highway was a chance to test these skills. So there I was, heading to a buddies house to party on rote 53, the weather was clear and so was my ind for the next half hour. I was looking at the cars ahead of me, judging which cars would be going faster or slower, slicing and dicing the traffic, popping gears, feet switching from clutch to brake, the hood bouncing up to speed, down to slow, each of my limbs knowing it's duty. My eyes darting from mini van (slow) to BMW (Faster, possible challenge) to oncoming traffic and rear view mirror (possible police), how is this traffic flowing, where can I get past it? Then I come across a fellow dogfighter, an 1982 Camero, that was as skilled and crazy as I. For a few minutes after I caught up to him he led the way, predicting and finding where the traffic would open. Normally, I hate Cameros. They are the natural enemy of Mustangs, they weigh more, have less stock power and anyone that would choose one had to be questioned about his sanity. I had to give this guy his due though, a regular Camero, taking advantage of the heavy traffic, was doing every bit as good as me right now. Then we hit an open patch between the herds, a clear sky between clouds. I pull up along side him and look over to see him grinning, enjoying the sport as much as me. He was good, but his car didn't have the raw power to take me, so I show him some respect. I salute him, grab down to second gear, screech the tires at 65, and leave him behind.
That was an '86 Mustang and now they have the new Boss 302 with well over twice the Horse power, which could be fun. There is a window at the end of one hall that looks down onto 14th Place where I go to look at cars driving by. At times other guys will join me, we talk about cars and life. I tell them of the finer points of the sports cars going by... they normally point out the luxury cars. Sigh... not many Mustangs down here on the south side of Chicago.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Stories from the Mission... bit 15
God is the ultimate artist. A sunrise is a subtle work of light, haze, pastel colors and being awake enough to even see it. Sunset's are brash, bright colors, and loud, I wonder if science can explain the difference? I mean, both are the same basic thing, just at different ends of our perception. I look forward to asking God why, but realize that it's prolly just how he rolls.
8/8/11
Just got back from my first meeting with Pastor Green and I told him about my ideas for refrigeration. The fridge I had back at my condo in Schaumburg had gone bad, so during the winter I'd put my perishables near the front windows where it was cold. It occurred to me that we could save a lot of energy if we pulled in cold air to our refrigerators when the weather permitted. The opposite could be done during the summer, venting the heat from the back of the fridge outside, making it so your air conditioner doesn't have to work as hard. A computer with temperature sensors could easily control the vents. In a climate such as Chicago's, you might not even have to run the fridge for 2 or 3 months! He smiled, said he would talk with Mr. Fuller, who is in charge of the buildings mechanical end. I have a feeling he had no idea of what I was talking about.
8/11/11
Well, three days alter and nothing has come of my talk with him. Lord, please don't let this be a repeat of my old life. I have hundreds of ideas for new products and I dream of getting people back to work through them... it's a deep frustration.
Pastor Green is imposing. He stands over 6'5". From what I've heard, he used to be an enforcer for gangs and arrived here with two broken hands as he was trying to get out of town. I saw a door open once, but it really looked like it hadn't because Pastor Green was filling it. I went to shake his hand once and it was like grabbing the tail of a full gown Muskie while other guys have described it like a bear paw. He is the one guy that everyone respects and holds him in awe like a Pope. He teaches the second half of morning class and has told stories of how he is recognized anywhere he goes, even all the way to Africa.
On the other hand, pastor Bower, the man that teaches the first half of morning class, is like a kindly grandfather. One day, Wilbur, a pasty round faced boy from Nashville that asks way too many random questions, asked yet another of Pastor Bower. "What does condemnation mean?" Pastor Bower answered back rather quickly, "Go to hell!", which got everyone laughing. Pastor also has this bright, lime green plastic cup for water that he puts a kind of saran wrap over that he brings out when teaching the class. Somehow he makes it POP very loudly when he takes his first sip, which often wakes a few guys up. I kind of wonder how he does it, but will never ask, you have to have a little magic in life.
8/12/11
I don't know where I am going, but I have full faith the Lord does.
On the third floor, where the program men stay, there are dorms, staff private rooms and the Weight/TV room. you have to be there a month before you can use the weights or play any games. I stayed away from the Tv for a long time, it had no draw. Today I watched some football, and even it didn't do much for me anymore. It had been a month and a half I hadn't watched TV, the longest stretch since I was 5 I bet.
I'm sitting on my bunk writing, out the East window I can see the southern Chicago skyline about even with Soldier field.There are some beautiful new buildings there and I'm always surprised at how few windows have any lights on in them. One slender red building of around 50 stories only has 8 lights on. Are they that empty? They are expensive, what do they do to afford them?
Curtis just came by my bunk, with his big ol grin, asking how he looked in his suit. I tell him he is looking good, just get the bunching out of his tie at the top. He is a good kid of about 19 that I have taken under my wing. He tells me he is glad he came to the PGM and likes everyone he has met so far.
8/8/11
Just got back from my first meeting with Pastor Green and I told him about my ideas for refrigeration. The fridge I had back at my condo in Schaumburg had gone bad, so during the winter I'd put my perishables near the front windows where it was cold. It occurred to me that we could save a lot of energy if we pulled in cold air to our refrigerators when the weather permitted. The opposite could be done during the summer, venting the heat from the back of the fridge outside, making it so your air conditioner doesn't have to work as hard. A computer with temperature sensors could easily control the vents. In a climate such as Chicago's, you might not even have to run the fridge for 2 or 3 months! He smiled, said he would talk with Mr. Fuller, who is in charge of the buildings mechanical end. I have a feeling he had no idea of what I was talking about.
8/11/11
Well, three days alter and nothing has come of my talk with him. Lord, please don't let this be a repeat of my old life. I have hundreds of ideas for new products and I dream of getting people back to work through them... it's a deep frustration.
Pastor Green is imposing. He stands over 6'5". From what I've heard, he used to be an enforcer for gangs and arrived here with two broken hands as he was trying to get out of town. I saw a door open once, but it really looked like it hadn't because Pastor Green was filling it. I went to shake his hand once and it was like grabbing the tail of a full gown Muskie while other guys have described it like a bear paw. He is the one guy that everyone respects and holds him in awe like a Pope. He teaches the second half of morning class and has told stories of how he is recognized anywhere he goes, even all the way to Africa.
On the other hand, pastor Bower, the man that teaches the first half of morning class, is like a kindly grandfather. One day, Wilbur, a pasty round faced boy from Nashville that asks way too many random questions, asked yet another of Pastor Bower. "What does condemnation mean?" Pastor Bower answered back rather quickly, "Go to hell!", which got everyone laughing. Pastor also has this bright, lime green plastic cup for water that he puts a kind of saran wrap over that he brings out when teaching the class. Somehow he makes it POP very loudly when he takes his first sip, which often wakes a few guys up. I kind of wonder how he does it, but will never ask, you have to have a little magic in life.
8/12/11
I don't know where I am going, but I have full faith the Lord does.
On the third floor, where the program men stay, there are dorms, staff private rooms and the Weight/TV room. you have to be there a month before you can use the weights or play any games. I stayed away from the Tv for a long time, it had no draw. Today I watched some football, and even it didn't do much for me anymore. It had been a month and a half I hadn't watched TV, the longest stretch since I was 5 I bet.
I'm sitting on my bunk writing, out the East window I can see the southern Chicago skyline about even with Soldier field.There are some beautiful new buildings there and I'm always surprised at how few windows have any lights on in them. One slender red building of around 50 stories only has 8 lights on. Are they that empty? They are expensive, what do they do to afford them?
Curtis just came by my bunk, with his big ol grin, asking how he looked in his suit. I tell him he is looking good, just get the bunching out of his tie at the top. He is a good kid of about 19 that I have taken under my wing. He tells me he is glad he came to the PGM and likes everyone he has met so far.
Stories from the Mission... bit 14
FOUND OUT THIS MORNING THAT STRONG COFFEE DOES NOT HELP YOU IN BEING HUMBLE. LOL, I haven't had any caffeine in quite a while as it costs money, so this morning I asked Scott for some of his. Well, I may have gotten a few people mad at me since. maybe I should run my engine stock. I was thinking about apologizing to them later on, but then it occurred to me that maybe it didn't happen and by me asking them, I'd make it a reality. It's a shame that often when you admit to a failing, people jump on you instead of praising you in your growth. No wonder so few seek forgiveness.
8/5/11
I've been getting to know a lot of the guys here now. I just talked with Cleveland about cars, Ralph always has something profound to say, I had a short conversation with Ciantee about suicide, tired out a lower bunk and had a talk with the new guys, Phil and Curtis. Then I told Chris, a guy who started the same day as me, that I wasn't going to move to a lower bunk. Everyone, no matter what, starts on an upper bunk, then after a month you can move to a lower one. I like how I have mine set up, it has a good view and I like my neighbors. The lower bunks have less light, less air and you have to look at mens butts in underwear, LOL.
I got two compliments today; Mike, who used to have a hotrodded Cutlass, said he saw me sweeping the yellow brick road and said, "Man, you where intent, you didn't miss a single dust bunny!" Then, later on, Fadi Yassime stopped me on the stairs and said,"You better not let me down!" I was like, Eh? What? He came back with, "I have money on you coming to work in the mail room, we need a good guy like you down there!" He is a graduate and has a Blackberry and he told me he spent an hour look at my artwork and likes it.
Just came from the 6:00 Friday class and got to see one of the best Preaching tag teams ever, the Hammer and Nail. They come from pastor Greens church and are fun to experience.Loud and Fast, jumping form book to book, verse to verse, amazing animation and memory! At one point he was describing hell with a great gnashing of teeth, tilting his head to one side, flashing the clenched pearly whites and making an anguished sound for a long time. It was such an unusaly loud noise that Pastor Phil stuck his head in to see what was going on, heh.
8/6/11
Took a walk today and it started raining, but being warm, it didn't bother me much. It reminded me of Florida and the time I spent with my parents down there. It got me to thinking of some lyrics...
I spread
my arms
a mile
wide
and pray
the Lord
to come
inside.
There must be a reason
Gods hands are everywhere
and some day we'll see
the meanings clear
there must be a reason
Might be a test, might be a trial
it'll bring out our best
We'll see in a while.
To help us grow, to help us shine
soon we'll know, and we'll be fine.
there must be a reason.
8/7/11
My Dad was in the Navy back in WW2, he was on a ship that transported aviation fuel into Midway. He told me how when they went to Midway, they had all kinds of air support and stuff, but once they had unloaded, they weren't that important and where on their own. Seems he got some shrapnel in his side, got a purple heart and got sent back state side. After he had been back for a while, he got a letter in the mail. MY Dad had been drafted, back into the war... again! My Dad didn't try to run away, he did what he had to do. While in boot came, the drill sergeant got mad at him early on, saying that he acted like he knew it all. My Dad told him flat out, he had been through it already. Well, once they had confirmed his story, they made my Dad a drill sergeant. My dad has always been my hero, and doing what had to be done is something I've always tried to live up to.
What led me to being here at the mission isn't nearly as noble. I worked myself into a hospital and basically quit playing the game society said we had to. Over the next 9 months, I tossed any mail that wasn't money into a pile next to the door without opening it. I never went back to my job to get my tools and box and spent over 15 hours a day on my computer doing artwork and trying to sell it on Facebook. I had lots of people saying they would buy some of it, but they never kept the promise. I Covered my windows so no one could tell if I was home, I had become a modern day hermit in the middle of happy suburbia. physically, I had withered away as I never moved more than my hands on the mouse and keyboard. My laptop was straight in front of me and I had positioned the TV so it was visible right over that. Being that my head never had to turn, my neck muscles atrophied... when in a car on that rare occasion, I had a hard time turning my neck to talk with the driver. When I get carried away with a vision, it can be severe.
8/5/11
I've been getting to know a lot of the guys here now. I just talked with Cleveland about cars, Ralph always has something profound to say, I had a short conversation with Ciantee about suicide, tired out a lower bunk and had a talk with the new guys, Phil and Curtis. Then I told Chris, a guy who started the same day as me, that I wasn't going to move to a lower bunk. Everyone, no matter what, starts on an upper bunk, then after a month you can move to a lower one. I like how I have mine set up, it has a good view and I like my neighbors. The lower bunks have less light, less air and you have to look at mens butts in underwear, LOL.
I got two compliments today; Mike, who used to have a hotrodded Cutlass, said he saw me sweeping the yellow brick road and said, "Man, you where intent, you didn't miss a single dust bunny!" Then, later on, Fadi Yassime stopped me on the stairs and said,"You better not let me down!" I was like, Eh? What? He came back with, "I have money on you coming to work in the mail room, we need a good guy like you down there!" He is a graduate and has a Blackberry and he told me he spent an hour look at my artwork and likes it.
Just came from the 6:00 Friday class and got to see one of the best Preaching tag teams ever, the Hammer and Nail. They come from pastor Greens church and are fun to experience.Loud and Fast, jumping form book to book, verse to verse, amazing animation and memory! At one point he was describing hell with a great gnashing of teeth, tilting his head to one side, flashing the clenched pearly whites and making an anguished sound for a long time. It was such an unusaly loud noise that Pastor Phil stuck his head in to see what was going on, heh.
8/6/11
Took a walk today and it started raining, but being warm, it didn't bother me much. It reminded me of Florida and the time I spent with my parents down there. It got me to thinking of some lyrics...
I spread
my arms
a mile
wide
and pray
the Lord
to come
inside.
There must be a reason
Gods hands are everywhere
and some day we'll see
the meanings clear
there must be a reason
Might be a test, might be a trial
it'll bring out our best
We'll see in a while.
To help us grow, to help us shine
soon we'll know, and we'll be fine.
there must be a reason.
8/7/11
My Dad was in the Navy back in WW2, he was on a ship that transported aviation fuel into Midway. He told me how when they went to Midway, they had all kinds of air support and stuff, but once they had unloaded, they weren't that important and where on their own. Seems he got some shrapnel in his side, got a purple heart and got sent back state side. After he had been back for a while, he got a letter in the mail. MY Dad had been drafted, back into the war... again! My Dad didn't try to run away, he did what he had to do. While in boot came, the drill sergeant got mad at him early on, saying that he acted like he knew it all. My Dad told him flat out, he had been through it already. Well, once they had confirmed his story, they made my Dad a drill sergeant. My dad has always been my hero, and doing what had to be done is something I've always tried to live up to.
What led me to being here at the mission isn't nearly as noble. I worked myself into a hospital and basically quit playing the game society said we had to. Over the next 9 months, I tossed any mail that wasn't money into a pile next to the door without opening it. I never went back to my job to get my tools and box and spent over 15 hours a day on my computer doing artwork and trying to sell it on Facebook. I had lots of people saying they would buy some of it, but they never kept the promise. I Covered my windows so no one could tell if I was home, I had become a modern day hermit in the middle of happy suburbia. physically, I had withered away as I never moved more than my hands on the mouse and keyboard. My laptop was straight in front of me and I had positioned the TV so it was visible right over that. Being that my head never had to turn, my neck muscles atrophied... when in a car on that rare occasion, I had a hard time turning my neck to talk with the driver. When I get carried away with a vision, it can be severe.
Stories from the Mission... bit 13
For the most part, the guys in the Bible program have next to nothing, yet they can be some of the most giving people I have ever encountered. Conrad, who works down in Unshackled, had walked up to a drinking fountain on the third floor at the same time as me. I told him go ahead, I'm going to drink a lot, I need to fill up like a camel. Upon his quizzical look, I explained that I didn't have a cup yet. Sticking a finger in the air, he said wait a minute, disappeared into his dorm and brought back a stainless steel travel mug for me! To a person with less than $50 to his name, that was huge. He gave it then was gone. Dave Ebbins is a goofy and affable guy that is on the bunk down and across from me. I mentioned how the pillow I had was hurting my neck, and he gave me his big one! He still has 5 other ones, but still, that was cool. Dave has epilepsy, so he needs the pillows to cushion himself. Amazing guy Dave, he has two kids and a wife that he misses terribly, but the disease drove him to the brink, so, somewhat like me, he ended up here. Above Dave's bunk is is Scott's place. Scott sleeps sitting up... Easter island comes to mind. He is a good guy that has a real problem with alcohol, it haunts him and changes him. It's a shame how good people can be derailed so much. I pray for them.
One thing I really like here and have a feeling I won't find anywhere else is the singing. The first thing we do before both classes each day is sing from the hymnal. To hear 30 men in a cement walled room singing it out is cool, but it's all the flourishes not written down in the book that get me. These are added parts handed down over the Missions 133 years and came in from small Baptist churches all over the city. One of the songs is 'Leaning on Jesus' and when the main choirs comes up, 6 or 7 of the guys will belt out 'WE ARE' and the rest of the guys will sing whats in the book, 'Leaning, leaning'. It seems each song has bits like that, claps or added lyrics, beautiful and passed on down like the legends of old.
Well, I just got back from what they call 'stage' and it was good. Stage happens 3 times a day, in the main auditorium and in the day room. It's where all the overnight guests gather to hear some songs and a sermon before breakfast, lunch and dinner. Guys from each crew, 4 to 8 total at times, join the pastor on stage to run the testimonies and lead the singing. I am not a good singer, but maybe over the next year I will get better. I recall fondly hearing my Dad sing at church when I was a kid. He wasn't a great singer, but it felt good to hear him. Tim, a rather large, ~400 pound guy, sang a hymn in his own way that was very relaxing and cool. I could picture him doing the Blues, his head cocked to one side, leaning forward, eyes closed in a soft voice. Pastor Ken Hall gave a rousing talk, and I have to admit, being behind this bombastic bulldog of a man, it was nice not being in the line of fire for a change, lol. He is a great preacher, his arms and shoulders always slightly raised or better, pushing his face upwards, at all times, jumping and pumping, moving all over the place, hardly ever looking at his notes. Wow! The man is on fire for the Lord, and he will tell you that. Heck, he will tell you all kinds of interesting street slangs and colloquialisms, he'll then bring them around to you, often ending up staring at a guy nearest to him to make sure it sank in.
8/3/11
Ask anyone in prison, they will tell you they are innocent. Ask anyone in the Bible program, and they will tell you they are guilty.
8/4/11
Today is a Thursday, my Saturday, my one day off from work a week. They still give you a structure in that I still have classes to attend, stage, devotion and most likely search. It's ok, sleeping in till noon is over rated and is more of a thing you need in the old life of drinking and drugs. I get by on a lot less sleep these days as my body is not trying to recover from all the damage from booze and smoke. Wow... saving money. I sat and figured it out that I used to spend around $12,000 a year between beer, booze, cigarettes and drugs. Giving up that junk save me money, helps me be more healthy and I'm better able to see myself for growth. I still make a lot of mistakes, but now I'm able to remember them the next day and try to not repeat them. Try is a big word to me.
One thing I really like here and have a feeling I won't find anywhere else is the singing. The first thing we do before both classes each day is sing from the hymnal. To hear 30 men in a cement walled room singing it out is cool, but it's all the flourishes not written down in the book that get me. These are added parts handed down over the Missions 133 years and came in from small Baptist churches all over the city. One of the songs is 'Leaning on Jesus' and when the main choirs comes up, 6 or 7 of the guys will belt out 'WE ARE' and the rest of the guys will sing whats in the book, 'Leaning, leaning'. It seems each song has bits like that, claps or added lyrics, beautiful and passed on down like the legends of old.
Well, I just got back from what they call 'stage' and it was good. Stage happens 3 times a day, in the main auditorium and in the day room. It's where all the overnight guests gather to hear some songs and a sermon before breakfast, lunch and dinner. Guys from each crew, 4 to 8 total at times, join the pastor on stage to run the testimonies and lead the singing. I am not a good singer, but maybe over the next year I will get better. I recall fondly hearing my Dad sing at church when I was a kid. He wasn't a great singer, but it felt good to hear him. Tim, a rather large, ~400 pound guy, sang a hymn in his own way that was very relaxing and cool. I could picture him doing the Blues, his head cocked to one side, leaning forward, eyes closed in a soft voice. Pastor Ken Hall gave a rousing talk, and I have to admit, being behind this bombastic bulldog of a man, it was nice not being in the line of fire for a change, lol. He is a great preacher, his arms and shoulders always slightly raised or better, pushing his face upwards, at all times, jumping and pumping, moving all over the place, hardly ever looking at his notes. Wow! The man is on fire for the Lord, and he will tell you that. Heck, he will tell you all kinds of interesting street slangs and colloquialisms, he'll then bring them around to you, often ending up staring at a guy nearest to him to make sure it sank in.
8/3/11
Ask anyone in prison, they will tell you they are innocent. Ask anyone in the Bible program, and they will tell you they are guilty.
8/4/11
Today is a Thursday, my Saturday, my one day off from work a week. They still give you a structure in that I still have classes to attend, stage, devotion and most likely search. It's ok, sleeping in till noon is over rated and is more of a thing you need in the old life of drinking and drugs. I get by on a lot less sleep these days as my body is not trying to recover from all the damage from booze and smoke. Wow... saving money. I sat and figured it out that I used to spend around $12,000 a year between beer, booze, cigarettes and drugs. Giving up that junk save me money, helps me be more healthy and I'm better able to see myself for growth. I still make a lot of mistakes, but now I'm able to remember them the next day and try to not repeat them. Try is a big word to me.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Stories from the Mission... bit 12
7-31-11
I hear a lot of guys grumbling around here and I tell them, don't complain, come pray. We often pray for the big things, but we can pray for anything. One of the strongest prayers I have found here is when I am having a difficult time with a guy, I pray the Lord to soften my heart and his... but you really have to mean the first part.
Another idea is the immense power of humility. Rain is humble, dropping softly in the mountains. It is not boastful or temporary like lighting or thunder, but gently going about it's work at a steady pace. The waters gather in small rivulets and streams into babbling brooks of soothing sounds. In time the humble waters find each other and form mighty rivers that can cut through solid rock to make huge canyons. Not always as fast as you may like, but at Godspeed.
Tonight I saw a guy I had misjudged and it made me realize something. You see, truth be told, I thought he was slow... not someone to be talked with about particle physics or black holes. He is a decent fellow, just built differently. I now see him as a good sounding board, someone that I can explain my more out there invention ideas. If I can get him to understand, maybe I'd be better at explaining them to investors, lol. We are all tools for God and we should really try to see that cutting edge God uses rather then the minutia of personality. Tonight I had seen this guy talking to another brother in a monotone, repetitive voice and his words where finding fertile ground. How wrong I had been about him, and how blessed to realize I was seeing Gods work first hand!
Tonight I am at Crawford church and I realized I want Pastor Bower to marry me and... Hmmmmm, I wonder how she is doing right now? I wonder what her name is? I know God is preparing me for her and she might be going through stuff right now too. At times when I am praying, I ask the Lord to let her know that I am sorry for taking so long.
Last night at Saturdays Praise and testimony service there was a red haired guy playing the piano like I have never heard anyone before. He comes at least once a month from the Moody Bible institute and is well known for his abilities. How cool he wants to play for a room of homeless guys. I crane my neck to better see his hands fly across the keys when I notice another gift... A wife lays her head on her husbands shoulder in the front row near the piano, and that alone would have been enough for my heart, but then I see over his other shoulder, the tiny pig tailed head of his daughter in his lap. Blessings abound! Someday.... some day.
8/1/11
We got 5 new guys in the program today, which is a lot at one time. I'd be surprised if more than 3 make it past 2 weeks, but that is how it goes around here. This is not a jail and one of the hardest parts is knowing you can just leave.
What if we are Gods thoughts? It could explain so much, like how he knows everything, is everywhere, because we are in his head so's to speak. How can a thought comprehend the mind that thinks it?
So, idle odd thought for today... Ironman is flying along one day and a Transformer grabs him in mid air, looks at him and accidentally pulls one of his arms off. Disgusted, the Transformer tosses him aside and says, "Cheap toys from China."
8/2/11
I heard a rumor form my IC Ed today, he said I might get transferred to the radio show "Unshackled"! I'm not holding my breath, but that would be a huge honor! It would be cool to work in an office (Instead of cleaning toilets) and not sweating for the first time in my life. Of all the jobs here at the mission, working on a world famous radio show sounds really interesting.
I hear a lot of guys grumbling around here and I tell them, don't complain, come pray. We often pray for the big things, but we can pray for anything. One of the strongest prayers I have found here is when I am having a difficult time with a guy, I pray the Lord to soften my heart and his... but you really have to mean the first part.
Another idea is the immense power of humility. Rain is humble, dropping softly in the mountains. It is not boastful or temporary like lighting or thunder, but gently going about it's work at a steady pace. The waters gather in small rivulets and streams into babbling brooks of soothing sounds. In time the humble waters find each other and form mighty rivers that can cut through solid rock to make huge canyons. Not always as fast as you may like, but at Godspeed.
Tonight I saw a guy I had misjudged and it made me realize something. You see, truth be told, I thought he was slow... not someone to be talked with about particle physics or black holes. He is a decent fellow, just built differently. I now see him as a good sounding board, someone that I can explain my more out there invention ideas. If I can get him to understand, maybe I'd be better at explaining them to investors, lol. We are all tools for God and we should really try to see that cutting edge God uses rather then the minutia of personality. Tonight I had seen this guy talking to another brother in a monotone, repetitive voice and his words where finding fertile ground. How wrong I had been about him, and how blessed to realize I was seeing Gods work first hand!
Tonight I am at Crawford church and I realized I want Pastor Bower to marry me and... Hmmmmm, I wonder how she is doing right now? I wonder what her name is? I know God is preparing me for her and she might be going through stuff right now too. At times when I am praying, I ask the Lord to let her know that I am sorry for taking so long.
Last night at Saturdays Praise and testimony service there was a red haired guy playing the piano like I have never heard anyone before. He comes at least once a month from the Moody Bible institute and is well known for his abilities. How cool he wants to play for a room of homeless guys. I crane my neck to better see his hands fly across the keys when I notice another gift... A wife lays her head on her husbands shoulder in the front row near the piano, and that alone would have been enough for my heart, but then I see over his other shoulder, the tiny pig tailed head of his daughter in his lap. Blessings abound! Someday.... some day.
8/1/11
We got 5 new guys in the program today, which is a lot at one time. I'd be surprised if more than 3 make it past 2 weeks, but that is how it goes around here. This is not a jail and one of the hardest parts is knowing you can just leave.
What if we are Gods thoughts? It could explain so much, like how he knows everything, is everywhere, because we are in his head so's to speak. How can a thought comprehend the mind that thinks it?
So, idle odd thought for today... Ironman is flying along one day and a Transformer grabs him in mid air, looks at him and accidentally pulls one of his arms off. Disgusted, the Transformer tosses him aside and says, "Cheap toys from China."
8/2/11
I heard a rumor form my IC Ed today, he said I might get transferred to the radio show "Unshackled"! I'm not holding my breath, but that would be a huge honor! It would be cool to work in an office (Instead of cleaning toilets) and not sweating for the first time in my life. Of all the jobs here at the mission, working on a world famous radio show sounds really interesting.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Stories from the mission... Mach 13, 2013
Two years ago I was in a bad way before I ended up at the Pacific Garden Mission. The depression that I hit after my parents died was enough for me to not want to look back after I started getting on my feet again. Well, on Monday, my trying to forget my past came back to haunt me.
The job I have here at the mission is in the transportation department, and I ride all over the city picking up donations to feed the 600 homeless folks here. We go to many chain restaurants and coffee shops, even out to O’Hare airport in our rounds. On Monday we were at the airport to pick up the bins of sandwiches, like we have for weeks, and part of that process is behind the security fence so they check everyone’s IDs. This time, they must have checked mine a bit better. I saw 6 policemen and women come out to the security shed and start talking to each other and then they approached me and asked me if that was my ID. I said, “Yes,” and they told me to empty my pockets, that I was under arrest. I had no idea what was going on and wasn’t about to argue with them as they looked serious. All they would tell me is that there was an arrest warrant out for me. I spent the rest of that day, into the next, sitting in a small blank cell at a police station in the 16th district with only gang symbols scribbled on the wall to look at. By the way, hand cuffs are no fun. Early in the morning I was herded out to a metal seated paddy wagon in 19 degree weather to enjoy a ride to . . . I didn’t know, or couldn’t see to where; freezing and banging around for an hour trying not to get the guy I was cuffed to mad. They stopped to pick up some fellow car poolers along the way, to save gas I guess, and by the end of the ride it was jammed full of people. The rest of that most miserable day of my life was spent being corralled from one over-crowded bull pen to the next. The first was big enough for 10 people and had 17. Sometimes you don’t realize how good you have it. The next bull pen was perhaps 20 by 20 and had 140 guys or so, many of whom were sprawled out on the floor, dope sick and kicking; the rest of the lucky ones were sitting along the walls. The unlucky ones had to stand for the next, well, as long as it would take; we never knew how long we would be there. For hours at times, standing, trying not to step on anyone, not able to move, and crammed in. I am amazed that no fights broke out, but after a while I understood that everyone knew that if one fist flew, it would be a terrible chain reaction with no way out, so everyone just held it in as best they could. While being processed in, they write some numbers on your arm in magic marker, tell you that you could use them to make a phone call after you registered your voice, but most of the guys couldn’t. I later found that the prisoners that had been there for a few weeks had figured out what the numbers on your arm might be and kept trying to hack it by mumbling things till one got through, all day long. The next day, when I could get through, I found that the Mission, the only number I could recall right, didn’t take the collect calls they allow from those phones, so no one really knew where I was.
Where I was, was at 26th and California on the south side of Chicago at the Cook County Jail, the largest, and from what I hear, nastiest jail in the USA. You’ve seen the movies where a prison is surrounded by deserts or are on an island with sharks all around? Well, this one was in the middle of Latin Kings territory and I’d rather face Komodo dragons wearing flippers in the sand.
The next bull pen was 15 by 30, with a small smelly bathroom in the back with as a sliding griddled door. Sixty guys were in there when I arrived, with 15 more behind me, so I moved on in, somehow, till I could find enough room for my feet. We seemed to end up in this series of pens a few times, and once I had the pleasure of being way too close to that steel toilet. Some pens had cold drafts, others had no air, but I’d rather not complain too much and end up swarmed, hand cuffed tightly and set in a cell by myself for 6 hours that way. I saw it happen to a poor guy that needed to use the washroom. I can’t really blame the CO (Correction Officers) too much. They know what works and what gets people shanked, but it is not a positive atmosphere really. If you don’t like it, just don’t come back is all. One memorable cell was right before the kangaroo court. It started with a nasty toilet area, hooked to the left, was dirty, small, had a pillar in the middle of it, and felt for all the world like I had just landed in a Turkish prison. I was able to sit down in this one and didn’t mind the dope sick guy doing flip flops next to me too much, since his glazed over eyes indicated he didn’t mean it. Oh, and let me tell you about the smells . . . or maybe not. Never mind.
The kangaroo court might have had actual kangaroos in it, but I was swept through so fast I didn’t get to look around. Five or 6 people behind a raised desk flipped papers back and forth, one rattled off either my reason for being there and bond, or where they were selling a 2010 Chevy at auction. Less than 20 seconds later I found myself back in the Turkish prison and found a place next to the pillar. The rest of the day was a miserable blur of being sworn at for not doing my finger print right, getting my DOC clothing, and realizing that the T shirt I had on underneath my hoody had a cartoon of three hotdogs dressed up like suburbanites at a cook out. How would I get into that sack cloth DOC shirt with no one seeing that T shirt?
When you have sat uncomfortably in one of 9 different bull pens on that first day, you try to just block it all out. Around me guys were yelling to each other or to guys in other cells like it was a reunion. Ninety percent of the words started with an N, F, MF, S or worse. Occasionally someone would walk by and flash a gang sign to which 6 guys in your cell would pop up yelling back with their fingers in odd formations. The Hispanic guys all seemed to know each other. During the day we were led through tunnels, past barred doors, up stair wells, and through whole body search machines. By 8:00 that night we were led outside into the freezing cold to an old building till they could find room for us on the “deck” as they called it. From 8:00 till midnight I slept, like a lot of guys, worn out on a very cold floor. We then got led back out into the cold, which I didn’t notice as much at that point, to what might be my new home, Division 2, dorm 4, Q town, lower bunk number 43. We got a quick run-down on the do’s and don’ts; my favorite being to not touch the huge exhaust fan on the wall in the bathroom or you’d get a really bad Mersa infection. I later saw a guy drying his underwear on said fan . . . now that was going to hurt. I was lucky to get a lower bunk since they had no ladders for the uppers. The guys around me were decent enough. On my right an elderly gentleman, that looked like DeNiro, spoke almost no English but was able to have us cut a deck 4 times randomly and then flip every card in perfect order . . . the whole deck! The guy above me had a long goatee and was in for stealing $100 of baby food for his infant daughter. It turned out he knew the guy that was in the bunk next to me here at the mission. He also had a small Bible he let me read, which really was a bright spot in the turmoil. I asked him if he ever read Psalm 51, so he picked it up and read it out loud while we were sitting on the floor waiting to work. “8 Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.” The guy on the bunk to my left came in at the same time as I did. His name was Lindsey and we hit it off right away. Lindsey was a slender black man about my age. I found that he was a church going man with a serious situation going on at home. He told me how his wife died a few years ago from cancer and his girlfriend he was living with now allowed her daughter to move in with her boyfriend. It turned out they got drunk and did drugs all the time. The thing that landed him in jail was a fight the two ladies were having. His girlfriend got slashed with a knife across her face and around her stomach, while the daughter got her teeth knocked out with a frying pan. Lindsey told me he was just trying to break up the fight, but I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps he was the one who did the damage at first. As they say, everyone is innocent in jail.
The hours dragged in there, so you would spend 20 minutes sleeping, 10 sitting up looking around and then go back to sleep. You knew wandering around too much was just inviting something to go wrong; so you sat back and listened, watched without looking and figured out what to ask without angering people who were already on edge. By the second day I faced up to the thing I dreaded the most. . . I needed a shower badly. Beyond the idea of no privacy was the fact I had no shower shoes and didn’t want to get a disease, so I had to borrow some. I have size 13 feet. The only guys I could borrow from were big dudes. I asked around and one guy agreed as since this must happen all the time in there. As I walked in his flip flops to the shower not only did I have to be careful not to walk into anyone or look at anyone wrong, but I also didn’t want to take a misstep and break one of those shower shoes. That would have angered the rather large owner that I had no way of repaying. The shower itself was nasty. It was just one of those things where you mind your own self and get it over with. Everything you did in those rest rooms was very public and barely useable, such as the sinks. They were 5 foot long troughs where you pushed a button and water trickled out for 20 seconds, never very hot or very cold, and you dried your hands the old fashioned way, on your shirt. They hung a couple of rolls of toilet paper on a string outside the bathroom. You just had to be sure to take enough wads in with you. If you ran out, you couldn’t just reach up and get more.
Division 2 was a working deck. My job was in the kitchen. No one was going to run around and explain everything to you, so it was good to talk with folks that had been there before. Lindsey to my left had been there before. We headed down to the staging area, and tried to get a jumpsuit that fit. Everybody wanted a bigger jumpsuit, but there were only so many. The last thing you would want as a tall guy was a tight jumpsuit that would pit your shoulders against your crotch in a tug of war. Your shoulders are bigger, they would win. Then you waited. My bunky Ben showed me how to grab a pile of jackets from a bin and make a nest on the ground to lay back on and just wait. Many of those conversations turned to why guys were in, and what they needed to do to get out. Some of these guys knew the ropes really well. Like a person who has been playing a game a long time, they knew all the strategies and possibilities. For example, which programs might be harder to deal with, but would get you a shorter stay, or which programs might ask if you had a record or not. You had to weigh the merits. In your other life you knew people for a long time, and nurtured relationships of the like-minded. You knew who to turn to for a deep conversation on those things that fascinated you and heard them agree or add to it. In prison you didn’t have that luxury. You felt out a bit, but mainly just listened to learn how to survive. Boring conversations about what might be complete lies were better than being by yourself in there.
The work in the kitchen was pretty straight forward. You stood next to a conveyor line of food trays, scooped up some mixed vegetables, threw them in the veggie square and just kept up. For the next 5 hours this was my life with almost not a second to even look up. I’ve had worse jobs, I think.
Going back to the dorm it seemed louder than before. They had two TV’s on a few bunks down and guys were gathered all around to watch BET and a basketball game. I thank God I was not on that first row, right in the crowd. I looked around and saw some guys sitting and talking on a bunk. One was chopping food with a piece of plastic in a plate on his lap. Being a working dorm, they earned like a dollar a day and could buy stuff at the commissary, so these guys were getting all gourmet. I heard a voice calling in a childish way, “Mr. Man, oh Mr. Man . . . Man, oh Mr. Man” and saw a dude stooping low enough to see under a top bunk. He stepped a few times and repeated the words to his sleeping buddy who woke up and they both got a laugh. Laughter. How amazing is Man that here, in the midst of misery, we had laughter. There was a lot of it really. Maybe it was mainly nervous laughing, like, “I don’t find this funny but don’t want you mad at me”. Guys made comments at the TV and an eruption of laughter broke out. Sometimes from a group of guys who were just talking 4 rows over you could hear it. This was a lousy, lousy place to be, and yet they found glimmers of joy. I lay back, trying to pass time, thinking about what I did wrong and how I needed to take care of some things. Thinking that maybe that was not the only reason I was here. Maybe it was a higher calling. I recalled about a year ago Pastor Green telling us how he was on vacation with his family and had been pulled over in the farthest southern point of Illinois, Cairo. Some ticket he had from years ago had caught up with him and he ended up in jail for a few days also. He used that time to witness to the guys around him in there, so I put my mind to do the same. It might have been easier for him, being a Pastor, 6’6” and recognized by a bunch of the guys there. Then again, I had graduated from a Bible program recently and had over 1,500 sermons taught to me in the last 2 years. I may not be a theologian, but I had learned a few things. I tried to bring it to them by first applying it to my life, and then observed how it may be true for them too. Lindsey talked about how he was living with his girlfriend and I gently pointed out that he professed to believe that God is up there, but his actions indicated he didn’t care so much. I know God slapped me a bit to wake me up. Didn’t he think that perhaps ending up in jail might have been a wakeup call also? He listened and looked away saying how hard it would be to move out. I encouraged him by saying that God knows how hard life is, and He was here. Once you accept doing it His way, it gets easier.
Luckily for me, my court date was 2 days after I got into the jail. I boarded a bus with a bunch of guys with shaky stories and high hopes. The driver played a radio station with angry rap music the whole way. Oh joy. There is nothing like being in a jail bus hand cuffed to guys all bobbing their heads and singing along to Death row records. The bull pens in Rolling Meadows were much nicer than Cook County jail, but had glass doors and little ventilation. We kidded about no one passing gas. An hour later when the policeman slid open the door, one of the guys slipped out to the right quickly. The cop yelled, “Where are you going?” We could hear a sheepish voice say, “Sorry, I had to fart.” Lol.
It was my turn to see the judge and I still hadn’t seen a lawyer or even a public defender. If I have learned anything in the last 2 years, it is to not say more than you have to. The judge assigned a public defender to me and the guy was good. I told him my situation, that I had missed a court date and that there was no criminal intention, just deep depression. I told him how I spent the last 2 years at Pacific Garden Mission, graduated from the Bible program there and did volunteer work helping guys set up e-mails and other things in the library. He took all of that back to the judge and I did yet more praying. I have a prayer that I do that really works for me. I pray that the Lord will soften my heart and soften the other person’s heart so that we can all get a long, but you really have to mean the first part. After a while I was brought in front of the judge again, and was asked if I would agree to a 2 year supervision, meaning that my slate would be clean in 2 years if I didn’t get arrested in that time. I have no prior record, so I told the judge that with the Lord’s help I believed I could do that. I pleaded guilty to making a mistake and was allowed to go home, eventually.
Two a.m. in a holding pen later that night, sitting with 20 other guys waiting to be released; most of the guys were upbeat. They talked about what they were going to do once they got out or complained about how long it was taking to get out. A funny Hispanic drug dealer on my left named Jay was talking about what he'd do with his girlfriend, how much he'd drink and smoke, and that was just on the way home. A white kid on my right was talking about the booze he wanted to drink and said he only drank the white stuff, like Jack Daniels. A few of us looked up. I said, “Dude, Jack is dark.” He went on and said, “Yeah, and Seagram’s,” to which the dreadlocked black kid next to him started laughing and said, “That’s dark too!” So the white kid defended himself by saying, “I mean I only drink the white peoples’ booze,” to which the dred man said, “We all drink that stuff too.” So white said, “Yeah, but you like other things more, like, what do you prefer?” Dred started a short list with cognac and such, and white bread looked at me and asked what I liked. Part of me wanted to revel in my past life, to impress them with my stupid prowess of drunkenness, to fit in; but I couldn't. I said, "I used to drink Knob Creek 100 proof, but booze is booze. You just like the taste of some better than others, but it all just messes you up." I could hear the conversations stop a bit as I went on, "Yeah, I used to drink a lot, but all that got me here, in this stinking cell, sitting miserably with you guys right now. I should have had a nice house, a wife, a family and a dog running around, but I'm here! People ask me how I became homeless and I tell them I drank a lot, I smoked a lot but that I can't blame those things. I was addicted to being selfish! I put all that crap in front of my family, my friends, and my God. I did what I wanted when I wanted and ended up right here. See, the finish line isn't here on earth, it's up in heaven, (I pointed up in emphasis) and God keeps telling us how to get there but we keep turning away." I left it hanging there in front of them and saw a few heads bobbing in agreement, so I left well enough alone. It may not have been what they wanted to hear right then, but it's what they needed to hear and I hope some took it to heart so they wouldn't have to be back in this hell 6 or 18 more times again.
Finally I was outside on California at 2 in the morning with only a bus pass as my way home, but no busses running at that time of the night there. The others reminded me of all the stories of how the gangs there liked to jump guys, to which I answered, “But they know we have no money.” The others replied, “No, they just like to beat us up.” I said again, “But it's a Thursday night and really cold.” To which they said, “Naw, they are all warmed up on alcohol.” So I scanned the cold, dark sky looking for the Sears, tower my old friend. I knew that if I stayed close to it, it would show the direction to walk. It wasn’t where I thought it would be so instead of walking too far the wrong way I looked around for someone to whom I could ask directions. I saw Jay the drug dealer and another guy standing across the way and asked them. The guy he was standing near, an elderly black man with a beard jutting out from his hoody, asked me if I wanted to take a cab. I replied that I was a homeless man with absolutely no money; I was going to have to walk. He told me how dangerous it was out there and I told him all I had was Jesus to protect me. So he looked at me and said, “If I get another fare, I’ll give you a ride to the nearest L station.” I thanked him. Jay, who was standing right there, negotiated a fare to a northern suburb and we got into the van-cab. At that point I just wanted to get back to the mission, but the driver, James, offered to take me there on his way back home, so I accepted. Over the next half hour I was able to witness to the drug dealer. When he tried to downplay things, the driver Jay, a clear cut but crusty gentleman, raised his hand and told him I was right, lol. I wasn’t going to beat him over the head with things, but I surely was not going to just let him walk on me and what I have learned. It was an interesting ride, to say the least, and I feel I planted seeds in a person that has a good amount of influence with his peers.
Yes, it was a terrible 4 days, but I did a lot of thinking about how I have been spending my time, and praying about what God wanted me to learn, but most of all what God wanted me to say to those that need so much hope. That’s the thing... no matter what you’ve done or how badly you think you’ve been condemned, there is always hope... all you have to do is accept the free gift.
The job I have here at the mission is in the transportation department, and I ride all over the city picking up donations to feed the 600 homeless folks here. We go to many chain restaurants and coffee shops, even out to O’Hare airport in our rounds. On Monday we were at the airport to pick up the bins of sandwiches, like we have for weeks, and part of that process is behind the security fence so they check everyone’s IDs. This time, they must have checked mine a bit better. I saw 6 policemen and women come out to the security shed and start talking to each other and then they approached me and asked me if that was my ID. I said, “Yes,” and they told me to empty my pockets, that I was under arrest. I had no idea what was going on and wasn’t about to argue with them as they looked serious. All they would tell me is that there was an arrest warrant out for me. I spent the rest of that day, into the next, sitting in a small blank cell at a police station in the 16th district with only gang symbols scribbled on the wall to look at. By the way, hand cuffs are no fun. Early in the morning I was herded out to a metal seated paddy wagon in 19 degree weather to enjoy a ride to . . . I didn’t know, or couldn’t see to where; freezing and banging around for an hour trying not to get the guy I was cuffed to mad. They stopped to pick up some fellow car poolers along the way, to save gas I guess, and by the end of the ride it was jammed full of people. The rest of that most miserable day of my life was spent being corralled from one over-crowded bull pen to the next. The first was big enough for 10 people and had 17. Sometimes you don’t realize how good you have it. The next bull pen was perhaps 20 by 20 and had 140 guys or so, many of whom were sprawled out on the floor, dope sick and kicking; the rest of the lucky ones were sitting along the walls. The unlucky ones had to stand for the next, well, as long as it would take; we never knew how long we would be there. For hours at times, standing, trying not to step on anyone, not able to move, and crammed in. I am amazed that no fights broke out, but after a while I understood that everyone knew that if one fist flew, it would be a terrible chain reaction with no way out, so everyone just held it in as best they could. While being processed in, they write some numbers on your arm in magic marker, tell you that you could use them to make a phone call after you registered your voice, but most of the guys couldn’t. I later found that the prisoners that had been there for a few weeks had figured out what the numbers on your arm might be and kept trying to hack it by mumbling things till one got through, all day long. The next day, when I could get through, I found that the Mission, the only number I could recall right, didn’t take the collect calls they allow from those phones, so no one really knew where I was.
Where I was, was at 26th and California on the south side of Chicago at the Cook County Jail, the largest, and from what I hear, nastiest jail in the USA. You’ve seen the movies where a prison is surrounded by deserts or are on an island with sharks all around? Well, this one was in the middle of Latin Kings territory and I’d rather face Komodo dragons wearing flippers in the sand.
The next bull pen was 15 by 30, with a small smelly bathroom in the back with as a sliding griddled door. Sixty guys were in there when I arrived, with 15 more behind me, so I moved on in, somehow, till I could find enough room for my feet. We seemed to end up in this series of pens a few times, and once I had the pleasure of being way too close to that steel toilet. Some pens had cold drafts, others had no air, but I’d rather not complain too much and end up swarmed, hand cuffed tightly and set in a cell by myself for 6 hours that way. I saw it happen to a poor guy that needed to use the washroom. I can’t really blame the CO (Correction Officers) too much. They know what works and what gets people shanked, but it is not a positive atmosphere really. If you don’t like it, just don’t come back is all. One memorable cell was right before the kangaroo court. It started with a nasty toilet area, hooked to the left, was dirty, small, had a pillar in the middle of it, and felt for all the world like I had just landed in a Turkish prison. I was able to sit down in this one and didn’t mind the dope sick guy doing flip flops next to me too much, since his glazed over eyes indicated he didn’t mean it. Oh, and let me tell you about the smells . . . or maybe not. Never mind.
The kangaroo court might have had actual kangaroos in it, but I was swept through so fast I didn’t get to look around. Five or 6 people behind a raised desk flipped papers back and forth, one rattled off either my reason for being there and bond, or where they were selling a 2010 Chevy at auction. Less than 20 seconds later I found myself back in the Turkish prison and found a place next to the pillar. The rest of the day was a miserable blur of being sworn at for not doing my finger print right, getting my DOC clothing, and realizing that the T shirt I had on underneath my hoody had a cartoon of three hotdogs dressed up like suburbanites at a cook out. How would I get into that sack cloth DOC shirt with no one seeing that T shirt?
When you have sat uncomfortably in one of 9 different bull pens on that first day, you try to just block it all out. Around me guys were yelling to each other or to guys in other cells like it was a reunion. Ninety percent of the words started with an N, F, MF, S or worse. Occasionally someone would walk by and flash a gang sign to which 6 guys in your cell would pop up yelling back with their fingers in odd formations. The Hispanic guys all seemed to know each other. During the day we were led through tunnels, past barred doors, up stair wells, and through whole body search machines. By 8:00 that night we were led outside into the freezing cold to an old building till they could find room for us on the “deck” as they called it. From 8:00 till midnight I slept, like a lot of guys, worn out on a very cold floor. We then got led back out into the cold, which I didn’t notice as much at that point, to what might be my new home, Division 2, dorm 4, Q town, lower bunk number 43. We got a quick run-down on the do’s and don’ts; my favorite being to not touch the huge exhaust fan on the wall in the bathroom or you’d get a really bad Mersa infection. I later saw a guy drying his underwear on said fan . . . now that was going to hurt. I was lucky to get a lower bunk since they had no ladders for the uppers. The guys around me were decent enough. On my right an elderly gentleman, that looked like DeNiro, spoke almost no English but was able to have us cut a deck 4 times randomly and then flip every card in perfect order . . . the whole deck! The guy above me had a long goatee and was in for stealing $100 of baby food for his infant daughter. It turned out he knew the guy that was in the bunk next to me here at the mission. He also had a small Bible he let me read, which really was a bright spot in the turmoil. I asked him if he ever read Psalm 51, so he picked it up and read it out loud while we were sitting on the floor waiting to work. “8 Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.” The guy on the bunk to my left came in at the same time as I did. His name was Lindsey and we hit it off right away. Lindsey was a slender black man about my age. I found that he was a church going man with a serious situation going on at home. He told me how his wife died a few years ago from cancer and his girlfriend he was living with now allowed her daughter to move in with her boyfriend. It turned out they got drunk and did drugs all the time. The thing that landed him in jail was a fight the two ladies were having. His girlfriend got slashed with a knife across her face and around her stomach, while the daughter got her teeth knocked out with a frying pan. Lindsey told me he was just trying to break up the fight, but I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps he was the one who did the damage at first. As they say, everyone is innocent in jail.
The hours dragged in there, so you would spend 20 minutes sleeping, 10 sitting up looking around and then go back to sleep. You knew wandering around too much was just inviting something to go wrong; so you sat back and listened, watched without looking and figured out what to ask without angering people who were already on edge. By the second day I faced up to the thing I dreaded the most. . . I needed a shower badly. Beyond the idea of no privacy was the fact I had no shower shoes and didn’t want to get a disease, so I had to borrow some. I have size 13 feet. The only guys I could borrow from were big dudes. I asked around and one guy agreed as since this must happen all the time in there. As I walked in his flip flops to the shower not only did I have to be careful not to walk into anyone or look at anyone wrong, but I also didn’t want to take a misstep and break one of those shower shoes. That would have angered the rather large owner that I had no way of repaying. The shower itself was nasty. It was just one of those things where you mind your own self and get it over with. Everything you did in those rest rooms was very public and barely useable, such as the sinks. They were 5 foot long troughs where you pushed a button and water trickled out for 20 seconds, never very hot or very cold, and you dried your hands the old fashioned way, on your shirt. They hung a couple of rolls of toilet paper on a string outside the bathroom. You just had to be sure to take enough wads in with you. If you ran out, you couldn’t just reach up and get more.
Division 2 was a working deck. My job was in the kitchen. No one was going to run around and explain everything to you, so it was good to talk with folks that had been there before. Lindsey to my left had been there before. We headed down to the staging area, and tried to get a jumpsuit that fit. Everybody wanted a bigger jumpsuit, but there were only so many. The last thing you would want as a tall guy was a tight jumpsuit that would pit your shoulders against your crotch in a tug of war. Your shoulders are bigger, they would win. Then you waited. My bunky Ben showed me how to grab a pile of jackets from a bin and make a nest on the ground to lay back on and just wait. Many of those conversations turned to why guys were in, and what they needed to do to get out. Some of these guys knew the ropes really well. Like a person who has been playing a game a long time, they knew all the strategies and possibilities. For example, which programs might be harder to deal with, but would get you a shorter stay, or which programs might ask if you had a record or not. You had to weigh the merits. In your other life you knew people for a long time, and nurtured relationships of the like-minded. You knew who to turn to for a deep conversation on those things that fascinated you and heard them agree or add to it. In prison you didn’t have that luxury. You felt out a bit, but mainly just listened to learn how to survive. Boring conversations about what might be complete lies were better than being by yourself in there.
The work in the kitchen was pretty straight forward. You stood next to a conveyor line of food trays, scooped up some mixed vegetables, threw them in the veggie square and just kept up. For the next 5 hours this was my life with almost not a second to even look up. I’ve had worse jobs, I think.
Going back to the dorm it seemed louder than before. They had two TV’s on a few bunks down and guys were gathered all around to watch BET and a basketball game. I thank God I was not on that first row, right in the crowd. I looked around and saw some guys sitting and talking on a bunk. One was chopping food with a piece of plastic in a plate on his lap. Being a working dorm, they earned like a dollar a day and could buy stuff at the commissary, so these guys were getting all gourmet. I heard a voice calling in a childish way, “Mr. Man, oh Mr. Man . . . Man, oh Mr. Man” and saw a dude stooping low enough to see under a top bunk. He stepped a few times and repeated the words to his sleeping buddy who woke up and they both got a laugh. Laughter. How amazing is Man that here, in the midst of misery, we had laughter. There was a lot of it really. Maybe it was mainly nervous laughing, like, “I don’t find this funny but don’t want you mad at me”. Guys made comments at the TV and an eruption of laughter broke out. Sometimes from a group of guys who were just talking 4 rows over you could hear it. This was a lousy, lousy place to be, and yet they found glimmers of joy. I lay back, trying to pass time, thinking about what I did wrong and how I needed to take care of some things. Thinking that maybe that was not the only reason I was here. Maybe it was a higher calling. I recalled about a year ago Pastor Green telling us how he was on vacation with his family and had been pulled over in the farthest southern point of Illinois, Cairo. Some ticket he had from years ago had caught up with him and he ended up in jail for a few days also. He used that time to witness to the guys around him in there, so I put my mind to do the same. It might have been easier for him, being a Pastor, 6’6” and recognized by a bunch of the guys there. Then again, I had graduated from a Bible program recently and had over 1,500 sermons taught to me in the last 2 years. I may not be a theologian, but I had learned a few things. I tried to bring it to them by first applying it to my life, and then observed how it may be true for them too. Lindsey talked about how he was living with his girlfriend and I gently pointed out that he professed to believe that God is up there, but his actions indicated he didn’t care so much. I know God slapped me a bit to wake me up. Didn’t he think that perhaps ending up in jail might have been a wakeup call also? He listened and looked away saying how hard it would be to move out. I encouraged him by saying that God knows how hard life is, and He was here. Once you accept doing it His way, it gets easier.
Luckily for me, my court date was 2 days after I got into the jail. I boarded a bus with a bunch of guys with shaky stories and high hopes. The driver played a radio station with angry rap music the whole way. Oh joy. There is nothing like being in a jail bus hand cuffed to guys all bobbing their heads and singing along to Death row records. The bull pens in Rolling Meadows were much nicer than Cook County jail, but had glass doors and little ventilation. We kidded about no one passing gas. An hour later when the policeman slid open the door, one of the guys slipped out to the right quickly. The cop yelled, “Where are you going?” We could hear a sheepish voice say, “Sorry, I had to fart.” Lol.
It was my turn to see the judge and I still hadn’t seen a lawyer or even a public defender. If I have learned anything in the last 2 years, it is to not say more than you have to. The judge assigned a public defender to me and the guy was good. I told him my situation, that I had missed a court date and that there was no criminal intention, just deep depression. I told him how I spent the last 2 years at Pacific Garden Mission, graduated from the Bible program there and did volunteer work helping guys set up e-mails and other things in the library. He took all of that back to the judge and I did yet more praying. I have a prayer that I do that really works for me. I pray that the Lord will soften my heart and soften the other person’s heart so that we can all get a long, but you really have to mean the first part. After a while I was brought in front of the judge again, and was asked if I would agree to a 2 year supervision, meaning that my slate would be clean in 2 years if I didn’t get arrested in that time. I have no prior record, so I told the judge that with the Lord’s help I believed I could do that. I pleaded guilty to making a mistake and was allowed to go home, eventually.
Two a.m. in a holding pen later that night, sitting with 20 other guys waiting to be released; most of the guys were upbeat. They talked about what they were going to do once they got out or complained about how long it was taking to get out. A funny Hispanic drug dealer on my left named Jay was talking about what he'd do with his girlfriend, how much he'd drink and smoke, and that was just on the way home. A white kid on my right was talking about the booze he wanted to drink and said he only drank the white stuff, like Jack Daniels. A few of us looked up. I said, “Dude, Jack is dark.” He went on and said, “Yeah, and Seagram’s,” to which the dreadlocked black kid next to him started laughing and said, “That’s dark too!” So the white kid defended himself by saying, “I mean I only drink the white peoples’ booze,” to which the dred man said, “We all drink that stuff too.” So white said, “Yeah, but you like other things more, like, what do you prefer?” Dred started a short list with cognac and such, and white bread looked at me and asked what I liked. Part of me wanted to revel in my past life, to impress them with my stupid prowess of drunkenness, to fit in; but I couldn't. I said, "I used to drink Knob Creek 100 proof, but booze is booze. You just like the taste of some better than others, but it all just messes you up." I could hear the conversations stop a bit as I went on, "Yeah, I used to drink a lot, but all that got me here, in this stinking cell, sitting miserably with you guys right now. I should have had a nice house, a wife, a family and a dog running around, but I'm here! People ask me how I became homeless and I tell them I drank a lot, I smoked a lot but that I can't blame those things. I was addicted to being selfish! I put all that crap in front of my family, my friends, and my God. I did what I wanted when I wanted and ended up right here. See, the finish line isn't here on earth, it's up in heaven, (I pointed up in emphasis) and God keeps telling us how to get there but we keep turning away." I left it hanging there in front of them and saw a few heads bobbing in agreement, so I left well enough alone. It may not have been what they wanted to hear right then, but it's what they needed to hear and I hope some took it to heart so they wouldn't have to be back in this hell 6 or 18 more times again.
Finally I was outside on California at 2 in the morning with only a bus pass as my way home, but no busses running at that time of the night there. The others reminded me of all the stories of how the gangs there liked to jump guys, to which I answered, “But they know we have no money.” The others replied, “No, they just like to beat us up.” I said again, “But it's a Thursday night and really cold.” To which they said, “Naw, they are all warmed up on alcohol.” So I scanned the cold, dark sky looking for the Sears, tower my old friend. I knew that if I stayed close to it, it would show the direction to walk. It wasn’t where I thought it would be so instead of walking too far the wrong way I looked around for someone to whom I could ask directions. I saw Jay the drug dealer and another guy standing across the way and asked them. The guy he was standing near, an elderly black man with a beard jutting out from his hoody, asked me if I wanted to take a cab. I replied that I was a homeless man with absolutely no money; I was going to have to walk. He told me how dangerous it was out there and I told him all I had was Jesus to protect me. So he looked at me and said, “If I get another fare, I’ll give you a ride to the nearest L station.” I thanked him. Jay, who was standing right there, negotiated a fare to a northern suburb and we got into the van-cab. At that point I just wanted to get back to the mission, but the driver, James, offered to take me there on his way back home, so I accepted. Over the next half hour I was able to witness to the drug dealer. When he tried to downplay things, the driver Jay, a clear cut but crusty gentleman, raised his hand and told him I was right, lol. I wasn’t going to beat him over the head with things, but I surely was not going to just let him walk on me and what I have learned. It was an interesting ride, to say the least, and I feel I planted seeds in a person that has a good amount of influence with his peers.
Yes, it was a terrible 4 days, but I did a lot of thinking about how I have been spending my time, and praying about what God wanted me to learn, but most of all what God wanted me to say to those that need so much hope. That’s the thing... no matter what you’ve done or how badly you think you’ve been condemned, there is always hope... all you have to do is accept the free gift.
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