Good Morning....

I know I have neglected you for to long, again.  Will you welcome me back with open arms?  You won't?  That's to bad.  We could have had a future together.  You with your white space that needed to flourish in the journalistic world and me with the letters of the alphabet to to convey my message to the world. Please, give me one more chance?  Oh, thank you.

Do Your Own Time

Do Your Own Time

“Man, I saw the funniest thing this morning.” The young prisoner announced. “There were men down in the church saying “Praise the Lord” and “Alleluia” and raising their hands.”  I gave the prisoner the “Prisoners Handbook” response, “Do your own time.”  “More power to em.”  The courts had sent me to the U. S. Medical Center for psychiatric evaluation for 90 days.  I had changed my guilty plea to “not guilty by reason of insanity.” Merely a manipulative move on my part, to avoid being sentenced on my birthday.  Still I wondered about my own inability to stay out of prison.  “Why me?” You might say.

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I sat looking out the window of my cell at the St. Louis city jail.  The moment was innocuous to any particular thing that was going on.  There, leaving the adjoining court house was a man wearing the garb of a janitor.  In his hand was a black lunch box.  “Why couldn’t I be satisfied with that?” I wondered.  “A job, a wife and family”… I stopped my thoughts and crossed them off as wishful thinking. Prison life was all I knew and had resigned myself to the fact that I would live the rest of my life in prison and even die there.   

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I hadn’t planned to go to church the following Sunday, it just happened.  I was coming down the stairs from the chow hall, and there, going into the church, was a group of volunteers.  One of the volunteers I recognized was Mary Lipscomb. She was a teacher in the Learning Center where I spent a fair amount of my time.  I still hadn’t reconciled Springfield (U. S. Medical Center for Federal Prisoners) to the many prisons I had been to.  Stateville, Menard, Marion; These were no walk in the park type prisons.  They were mean and mean things happened in them.  Springfield had women running all over the place, it seemed. In the school, the hospital, the kitchen, even the women who worked in the administration offices were often seen traveling the halls. 

The early 70’s was a time of upheaval, not only in America, but in its prisons, as well.  Several large scale riots had happened all across the country.  One of the appeasements that came about was the authorization of ethnic culture clubs.  Afro-American, La Causa Latina, Italian-American, American Indian, even Irish American, existed.  For a club to be approved in Springfield, you had to have an inside sponsor and an outside sponsor. These were people who would oversee the activities.  And yes, more volunteers from the community came to the weekly meetings.  It was going to take some getting use to.

The Medical Center was a three ring circus, I liked to say: “Medical” for prisoners who were patients; “Psychiatric” for those who were deemed necessary for psychiatric care and “Maintenance” prisoners who were there for the upkeep of the institution.  For the most part, prisoners who were there for the maintenance of the institution were kept in the camp quarters.  Supposedly, they didn’t have a lot of time and were non-violent.  Yeah, right.

I followed the small crowd going into the chapel.  “God’s House of Hope” the sign said.  I made my way to the back of the church and sat down.  Springfield, Mo. is home to the headquarters of the Assemblies of God denomination.  Most of the volunteers were from Assembly of God churches, though not Mary. The songs were familiar from my childhood days at Glenwood School for Boys where church was mandatory.  “The Old Rugged Cross,” “Amazing Grace,” “In the Garden” was some of the popular hymns that were sung.  I sat there silently.

I had a militant attitude toward most everything back then. I was quick to hate and reviled do-gooders. I had come to a position that justified my anger toward religion.  “We don’t choose to be born. We don’t choose who are parents will be. We don’t choose whether we’re born on the gold-coast or in the ghetto, and we don’t choose whether we will be loved or rejected.” I came up on the short end almost on each count.  So about the 4^th week of going to church the Bible instructor after the service was talking about free will.  I did not have a choice, but rather I was a product of my environment “Now, after spending 26 years, half of them spent in prison, you tell me I have a free will.”  I could feel the unease that permeated this now silent church. The instructor answered that he would talk to me after the class was over. But I had no intention of waiting to hear what he had to say.

As I exited the pew I had been sitting in, an elderly lady blocked my escape.  Though I stand only 5’ 11” at best, I towered over the slightly built, white haired woman before me.  She looked like everyone’s grandma, a sweet smile that could melt the heart of even the angriest of persons.  “Sonny,” she said, “you may not understand this, but God has a plan for your life.”  If God had a plan for my life it could only include more of the same which I already had, punishment. I knew her name to be ‘Mom Carter,” Her son-in-law and daughter, Lloyd and Nita Colbaugh were also volunteers at the prison. I hurried out the door vowing never to return. 

The next morning I entered the Learning Center and handed my pass to the young lady at the desk, Mary Lipscomb.  “It was good to see you in church yesterday.” She said.  “Yeah, I go every Sunday, but it’s not doing me much good.” I snarled.  “Do you believe in God?” Mary asked.  “I believe there’s somebody up there that’s running all this.” I answered.  “Have you ever prayed?” She asked.  “Sure” I responded, “I asked him once to get me out of boy’s school? He said no.”  I felt a bit awkward that I had continued the conversation and sought to end it.  “Look? God and I have a perfect understanding, I’ve never done anything for him, and he has never done anything for me. We’re even.” I flippantly concluded and spun on my heels and went to my seat. 

I did not anticipate the turmoil I had set in motion as I tried to sleep that night.  Sure, I had been rude to her in my spinning away and my surly attitude. But so what, I didn’t care about anyone, least of all someone who had no idea of what prison is about.  The grapevine had Mary pegged as being someone who came from an affluent family in town who probably had everything in life handed to her on a silver platter.  Why should I care?  But I did, and that bothered me even more.  I would go to the Learning Center and apologize. Eventually, sleep found me and I retired for the night.

The next morning I greeted Mary by saying, “Look” I didn’t mean to be rude yesterday. Most of the men have nothing but good things to say about you, so I apologize.”  And then I walked away.  Well, I tried to.  Mary stopped me with, “You know, God can change your life.”  “God didn’t want to have anything to do with me.” I said.  I rattled off one excuse after another. I had been in prison to long. I had done too much. I had seen too much.  At each rejection, Mary answered me with scripture which she seemed to know endlessly. 

Another night of turmoil, and no sleep.  She just didn’t get it.  I had hurt too many people, and there was no way God was letting me off that easy.  Inwardly, I knew I didn’t deserve forgiveness, and there was no way I could make amends for all that I had done.  Nor did she know the pain and shame that I had endured.  I’d go there one last time and tell her the drama that I felt kept me from trusting God or anyone for that matter.  If you’re going to argue with a Christian about God, make it somebody who doesn’t know scripture.  Mary was well armed with scripture after scripture, and I was stuttering some ill-prepared answers every time.  Finally, it was Mary who said, “Look, I’ve told you everything that I can tell you about God and His promises. You can either accept Him or reject Him. If you accept Him, then you will have all His blessings, but if you reject Him, the consequences will be your choosing.”  And then she walked away. This girl had spunk and spirit.

So I don’t need to tell you another sleepless night laid in store for me.  I probably relived my whole life that night.  I was angry with myself for allowing this to get out of hand.  I was angry with Mary for always having the right scripture for responding with. I recalled my vow from 10 years previously, I would never shed another tear, no matter how awful things would get.  I would never let anybody get close to me so that I would never care about anyone or anything.  Where it came from I do not know, but a question formed in my mind, ‘What if she is right?”  What if God could change me?  She said God could change me, not me.  I had tried to change for my mother, for my aunt. But it never worked.  And I sure wasn’t going to change for some girl who I didn’t even know and who after I leave this prison will never see again. The question persisted, however.  “God can change your life.”  There was no argument that my life needed changing.  I could not consider what that even meant.  The only rational thought I could think of was “What do I have to lose?”  If He couldn’t change me, I was in no worse shape than I was before all this talk began? I hadn’t prayed since I was that scared little kid going to boy’s school for the first time.

“God, what if what that girl says is true, that You can change my life?  I need to tell You, I have exceedingly little hope and can offer no help. She said you could change my life. If I have to obey a set of rules and promises to be good, that’s not going to work.  You have to do it all, and if what she says is true, I accept your Son as my Savior.”  Shocked, as soon as I said the word Savior, a torrent of tears poured from my eyes.  I tried desperately to stop crying but could not.  I was afraid others in the dorm would hear me so I covered my head with the pillow.  Still, I could not halt the flood of tears pouring from the depths of my being   An unusually loud thunderstorm mercifully prevented anyone from hearing me. It was only after the torrent inside my soul and outside my cell stopped, that I finally fell asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I didn’t feel any different from what I normally would feel.  Still, I had a sense of excitement in knowing that I would tell Mary that I had accepted Christ.  After signing my pass, and going to a cubicle, I called Mary over.  Well, I did it.”  I said.  “What did you do?”  “John.” “I accepted Christ.”  Mary never looked so beautiful; She lit up like a Christmas tree.  I could see she was trying to restrain her enthusiasm because employees and prisoners were not to become that familiar with each other and to do so could cost her, her job.  My vow to never shed another tear was broken, and so was that vow to never care about anyone.

The Road Is Long: January 12, 1978

The Road Is Long: January 12, 1978: January 12 th , 1978.   I had only one more day, then freedom, even though I would be in the halfway house.   After 6 and ½ years, even...

January 12, 1978

January 12^th, 1978.  I had only one more day, then freedom, even though I would be in the halfway house.  After 6 and ½ years, even that is something to look forward to.  I had gone to the parole board on 5 occasions during this stretch and even had been given parole which was later rescinded.  October, 1977 was the last time I had gone before them, only to yet again, be denied. My maximum release date was September, 1978 and surely after all the years that had gone before me I could wait another 8 months.

Something inside me refused to accept my latest denial.  I filed an appeal to the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City, the very people who had denied me in the first place.  My chances of getting the parole board to change their mind were slim to none.  But I would add a twist to my appeal.  I wrote as many correspondents as I could and asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf.  The list was substantial, a few hundred in fact.  Most all of them, I had established correspondence with during the time I had been in prison after becoming a Christian.  I asked them to basically write and encourage the ‘board’ to reconsider my case.

Two months passed with no word from Kansas City.  Prayers were going up to God continuously from everyone.  In the early part of December, Mr. John Conte (My caseworker) called me into his office.  The parole board had called and said, “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point.  Over three hundred letters had poured into their office supporting my parole.  On December 19^th, my counselor came to my cell.  “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for 10 years and I have never seen one of these.”  I could only imagine what he held in his hands as he referred to the letter resting there.  The parole board had CHANGED their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13^th to the halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released on Friday the 13^th.  Jokingly, I suggested that I’d probably get run over by a truck.  I’m not superstitious nor do I believe in superstition.  Besides, any misfortune wasn’t going to wait til the 13^th, it came that night on the 12^th.

Mr. Conte again called me into his office.  “We have a problem.” The Associate Warden, Ed Arborgast, was advising the warden not to allow me to go to the halfway house.  Mr. Arborgast had been a guard in Marion, Il. In 1965-67, the years that I was incarcerated there.  I didn’t remember him, but apparently I had made on impression on him.   “No,” I said, “we don’t have a problem, I have a problem. You’re going home tonight. I am staying here. Dejectedly I called Mary and told her the disappointing news.  She asked me how I felt and I told her I wanted to tear the place up.  I had felt this powerlessness before and in the past I had torn the place up.  I tried to pray,  but it seemed like the old hopelessness had invaded me heart. Mr. Conte had said my past record had shown that I hadn’t ever made it upon my release and why would this be different.  He used the example of a race horse who always lost.  Would I bet on a loser.  I told him I wasn’t a horse, I was a man and men change.  Mr. Conte said I would have to interview the Halfway House Administrator in the morning and he would make his own recommendation to the warden.

Mr. Robert Thompson was the Administrator.  Son of a Baptist minister, he would at least understand the belief in redemption.  What would I say that would make a difference?  Even I had to admit the record wasn’t lying.  I hadn’t ever stayed out very long after previous releases, but then I had never been released trusting in God for my future either.  When Paul was brought before the Roman tribunal as a Roman Citizen, God gave him the words to say.  And that had always been my trust in past occasions as a new Christian when speaking before the judge or parole board, God would give me the words to say.  I’ve always believed that it’s not so much what you say, but what the Holy Spirit did with what you said.  At the conclusion of the interview, Mr. Thompson gave no indication what his recommendation was going to be.  Aimlessly, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards to while a way the time.  If it got to 4 o’clock, that pretty much sealed the deal against me.  As 2 o’clock arrived the female guard, (from Springfield, Mo., Mary’s hometown, and who even recollected perhaps knowing Mary’s sister Jeanne.) came over to the table and looking me straight in the face, slowly said “so what are you waiting for?  Go get your stuff. You’re being released.”  I didn’t have many personal belongings: a box of books, letters and pictures and $22 on my account.  They took me out to a local haberdashery, where in the dead of winter, the salesman went back to the back of the store and bought out an ill-fitting summer suit with a stain on it.  They could have released me in a gunny sack and I would have been satisfied!

Having one’s fingerprints taken is a part of the convicts life. That is a part of the way we live.  Having God’s fingerprint on our life is another thing altogether different.  Parole boards don’t change their minds, three hundred correspondents writing letters on one’s behalf rarely happen. God’s fingerprints were all over this!