One year ago was the last time I saw one of my closest
friends outside of a prison visitation room.
One year ago was the last time he slept in his home, in his
bed, with his wife beside him.
One year ago was the last time I hugged him in his regular clothes,
for as long as I wanted, without being watched by a prison guard.
One year ago he self-surrendered.
It’s been a year – one year out of seven.
He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother.
He’s my dog’s uncle.
He’s my source of wisdom, of spiritual insight, of vetting
my boyfriends, of protectiveness, of laughter and prayer and affectionate
teasing - of everything a big brother should be.
I miss him more than I can say.
Sitting in that prison visitation room across from him
several times over the last year, trying to suck the marrow out of the few
hours we’re given, has been scary and hard and humbling. It hasn’t gotten easier.
I won’t go into the explanation, the story, the six years of
stress and strife and the haunting, foreboding every-day-ness that preceded
that day last year. It’s not my story to
tell, and I couldn’t do it justice anyway.
Suffice it to say: it is a
tragedy.
And yet, in prison, despite leaving his family and his
friends and the comforts of home, he is a survivor. He has flourished. His zeal for our Lord, his generosity of
spirit, and his inherent joy has already left a marked impression on his
friends there. He is doing God’s work
inside that place.
I understand all that.
I get it; I really do.
But I still just want him home.
In this world you will
have trouble, Jesus said. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
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