That first
step into a prison is one of those life events that are never forgotten. The
only event I can think of that might be similar is the feeling that comes with
a first day of school in a new school. There is a sense of uncertainty, a fear
of not following the rules correctly. I
recall a school day like that after my parents moved to Huntsville at the beginning
of my fourth-grade year. I remember going in that new building without any
supplies except a new notebook and a few pencils. There was no Meet the Teacher in 1964, so
mother enrolled me on the first day and I entered the classroom on my own. I
was terrified but managed to stay calm enough not to make a blubbering fool of
myself. It was a sense of abandonment and survival all rolled into one big
stomach ache. There was no time for embarrassment, I had to remain attentive in
case someone was looking at me. And yet, I was excited about the new year and
meeting new friends.
That feeling
returned several times in my lifetime. I felt it most often when I changed
schools or started a new semester of classes in college, but never did I feel
that first-day feeling as much as I did the first time I entered the grounds of
FCI Coleman. I was scared, nervous, anxious, and excited all at the same
moment.
As we
traveled down the long road, passed the guard building and a group of
warehouses I began to feel overcome by intimidation before spotting our final destination.
Pulling in the parking lot my mood changed. It felt like we were entering the
set for some prison movie…surreal. I could see no less than four towers that
stood taller than any telephone pole I had ever seen. They compared more to
those huge power line poles that lead to a power substation. I’d hate to guess
how tall they actually were, but I’d say they stood about 50 feet tall. Each
tower had an enclosure at the top that had dark colored glass on all four
sides. I would assume that they were manned, at least at random times in
alternating towers. Matt said there was a rumor that the towers were not manned
at the medium facilities, but I would not want to take any chances at either
place.
During a
first trip of any importance, I nearly always become preoccupied with observing
every detail I can take in, kind of like my first trip to Disneyworld and our
trip to the Holy Land. I did not want to
forget the procedures I had practiced. I wanted to remember exactly what I
needed to do on the following visits. Because I was so focused, I was also very
quiet. I did not laugh and showed very little emotion to any of the guards. We
were also discouraged from talking with other visitors, so most of our
communication consisted of a smile or a simple, “How far did you have to come?”
I guess the authorities felt that we might strike up a coup or start a
conspiracy. Who knows?
I couldn’t
help but feel a sense of compassion for the other guests in the waiting room.
We all had something in common, a wayward son or relative who we loved but had
to deal with his mistakes. I looked around and saw many different faces. One
lady had come from California to visit her son, only to find out he was in the
Special Housing Unit and could not receive visitors. A brother was turned away
much like I was because he tested positive to cocaine. One young lady was told
she could not visit in the clothes she had on because her pants were too tight,
so she left to find a store where she could purchase appropriate attire.
I felt sorry for all of them. I knew their
heartaches and their fears all too well. It really didn’t matter what the crime
was, we were the families who had to deal with the embarrassment and
humiliation we faced on a daily basis. When Matt was first arrested and charged
with the robberies, I remember seeing his little league baseball coach and his
wife in a retail establishment. I know they saw me, too, but they turned away
and acted like we were not there. I’m sure they just didn’t know what to say.
It was probably best since in the early days I would cry at the mention of his
crimes. The hurt was too fresh and too real.
Several
years later, I was able to put my feelings down in words, so I started a blog
called Visiting Prison. It was my way of giving the glory to God even when the
situation seemed like a hopeless cause. Through my blog I was able to reach
others in similar situations who did not want to talk about it. I tried to give
them the hope I have in my Savior Jesus Christ. I wanted them to know that they
can make it through the bad times, that God will NOT take the hurt away but He
will send a peace and be with them through their journey just as he has been
for me.
Those same
people who sat in the waiting room with me had become my purpose, so I began to
write. I began to share my thoughts and feelings. I began to share God’s glory
to all who would listen.
