Lost in Dreams

by Roger Bruner

  The guards touched their gun handles again. They couldn’t have looked much more befuddled. What was going on? They’d probably never witnessed a nonviolent prison riot before.

  chapter sixty

  Prayer time was extraordinary. Alfredo’s prayer meant more to me than any of the others. Not because it was elegant. It wasn’t.

  But what a contrast between this prayer and the one he’d faked earlier in the week before becoming a believer. Tonight’s prayer couldn’t have been more genuine and heartfelt. And it wasn’t the least selfish in words or tone.

  I prayed for Jo while Alfredo prayed. Despite the fact that his English was better than most of the insiders realized, he must have felt more comfortable praying in Spanish. Jo appeared to have an unusual amount of difficulty keeping up with the translation. Maybe because his prayer moved her. Or maybe because she knew she wouldn’t see him again after tonight.

  How my attitude toward Alfredo had changed. Just as he himself had changed. No matter how critical I’d been of Jo’s attachment to him before, my concerns had finally melted away like snow in bright sunshine.

  Had she been smart? Probably not. Had she been human? Very much so. Had she demonstrated the finest of Christian love toward Alfredo? Absolutely.

  Rock ended the prayer time, and Dad stepped up to the podium. He looked at somebody—I couldn’t see who—and gave a slight nod.

  Huh? Graham? Why was that sweet little man moving slowly toward the front of the room, and why didn’t Dad act surprised?

  “Friends, brothers in Christ, fellow forgiven sinners, Mr. Graham O’Reilly has asked to address you. He didn’t say why, and I probably wouldn’t have understood him if he had.” Everybody cracked up. Everyone but Graham, who put his hands in front of his face in an apparent effort to hide his reaction. “But when somebody as quiet as Graham wants to talk, the Holy Spirit must have gotten hold of his tongue.”

  The men started laughing again. Laughing and cheering. Most of the guards and all but the most recent arrivals at Red Cedar knew Graham well. Him, and his abbreviated manner of speaking.

  “Are you speaking in tongues today, O’Reilly?”

  “Didn’t know you had it in you, Gra-hambone.”

  “Found any good recipes since you got out?”

  “When you coming back to cook for us again, man? I’m losing weight eating the new guy’s cooking.”

  “I know that’s right. New cook’s pretty careless. I hope we don’t end up with him in the soup.”

  “Not more than one finger at a time.”

  More laughter. High-spirited, good-natured laughter. I couldn’t keep from smiling at the antics. Their camaraderie was something I hadn’t expected, and it made me feel good.

  Even Graham smiled that time. Maybe not the biggest smile his mouth was capable of, but a smile nonetheless. Dad stepped aside so Graham could stand behind the podium, but Graham waved him off.

  “Too small,” he told the insiders. “Can’t hide there.” Dad smirked, and the rest of the men started laughing again.

  “Inside before,” Graham said. “Not happy. Outside now. Not happy. Pray often. Pray much. Warden preaches. Graham listens.”

  Every eye in the room was watching him. Even the guards appeared mesmerized. No wonder. I doubted that many

  insiders came back to visit after getting out. From what I’d observed so far, Graham had been more popular than I’d realized or suspected.

  I could hardly wait to hear more. I hoped his old friends would be patient with his slow and troubled shorthand way of talking. Oh, but of course they would. They’d probably gotten used to it during the years they’d been locked up together.

  Graham looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds, as if appealing to God for help. He didn’t appear to be nervous, though. From my spot in the middle of the room, his eyes seemed to have an “It’s all in Your hands now, Lord” look.

  I didn’t understand it, but as soon as he looked at the insiders again, his face looked twenty years younger, his smile grew huge … radiant. And he began speaking.

  I mean really speaking. In normal-people talk. Not short, choppy nonsentences, but complete sentences, whole paragraphs, and what would soon add up to complete, coherent pages. If I’m dreaming, Lord, don’t wake me till it’s over.

  I could have been witnessing Jesus’ healing of some biblical character. Not one of the special few He brought back from death. Not a man born blind. Not a leper Jesus made clean again or a paraplegic He enabled to walk. But the restoration of Graham’s ability to speak was 100 percent as miraculous as anything I’d read about in Scripture.

  I wasn’t the only person in the room suffering from shock. At first, I heard only a few murmurs here and there. But as more people realized what they’d just witnessed, their jubilation grew and spread in such intensity that the room filled with shouts of “Halleluiah,” “Praise the Lord,” and “It’s a miracle.”

  Graham stopped speaking. Nobody could have heard him over the sound of eighty-some men rejoicing and praising the Lord together.

  If the guards failed to understand what happened earlier, what were they thinking now?

  “Friends,” Graham said when things quieted down some. I could almost picture him glowing like Moses when he came off the mountain with the second set of stone tablets. “Friends, I can’t explain what’s just happened, but I can tell you it’s from God.”

  Amens from nearly every mouth in the room. Affirmations louder than before—if that was possible. He waved his arms like a windmill that couldn’t decide which way it was supposed to turn, and the crowd settled down. From the looks on their faces, they were more anxious than ever to hear what their old friend had to say.

  “I’m not a violent man—not normally—but I killed another man in anger. Living with myself after that threatened to tear me apart emotionally. I lost my ability to talk normally the moment the jury foreman read my guilty verdict aloud in court. When the judge asked if I understood the verdict, I answered, ‘Understand verdict. Guilty. Be punished.’ Tonight is the first time I’ve spoken normally in over thirty-five years.

  “Talking like that wasn’t a choice, but I had to decide whether to reveal my secret or not. Even though I could have obtained psychiatric help, I didn’t want word to get out. I faced a lengthy sentence, and I vowed to speak as little as possible.

  “I became a Christian early in my time here, and that changed my whole way of looking at things. I asked God’s forgiveness for my crime, and I believe He heard and forgave me. But I couldn’t forgive myself. To this day, I believe God has always wanted to deliver me from my affliction. He just wanted me to put more trust in the power of His love and forgiveness.

  “Instead of resenting my incarceration, I almost enjoyed it. I knew I deserved it. When ex-Chaplain Thomas blocked

  my early parole, I secretly rejoiced. I didn’t deserve to get out. So when I reached the end of my sentence, I knew I didn’t deserve my freedom then, either. I may have been harmless to society, but I couldn’t undo the damage I’d done.”

  He stopped and looked around the room. From the anguish I saw on a number of faces, these men could relate to his predicament.

  “I had no family to go home to. My wife divorced me years earlier, and we didn’t have children. My parents died while I was inside, and I didn’t have any siblings. Completely destitute, I appealed to Brother Jenkins’ church for help, and they took care of me after my release.

  “When they decided to build the hostel to house the less affluent of your visitors, Brother Jenkins invited me to become the manager. That kindness was one more thing I didn’t deserve, but I was grateful for it.

  “Little did I know that this group of missionaries—they came last week to put the finishing touches on the hostel—would have such a profound influence on me. They found me strange. I overheard them talking about it more than once.”

  A smattering of laughter. Thank goodness, Graham didn’t look in my direction. I was gl
ad Jo was looking elsewhere, too. I didn’t want either of them to watch me break out in a blush to beat all blushes.

  “I deserved to have them talk about me that way, though. In my guilt, I had become … truly strange. Freedom amplified my guilt and deepened my feelings of worthlessness.”

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. “Don’t be shocked when I tell you I toyed briefly with the idea of killing myself. Inescapable guilt had grown that serious. But I knew suicide would leave a mess for someone else to clean up, and I couldn’t depart this earth with that on my conscience, too.”

  What might have been a concerned reaction started instead with a chuckle here, a snort there, and a snicker somewhere in between. Soon that tiny snowball of humor rolled downhill and ended up a meeting room–sized ball of hilarity.

  Graham looked at Dad when the men quit laughing. “Brother Scott, I apologize for taking up so much of your time. I’ll sit down now if you want me to.” Grumbling. Loud protests. The men wanted to hear more.

  Even so, they respectfully gave Dad their attention when he stood up to respond.

  “Brother Graham, like the sermon Chaplain Jenkins gave”—four or five men interrupted with applause—”yours is probably more relevant than mine.”

  Graham twisted his face in disagreement, but Dad kept going. “You have great value in God’s eyes, my friend, and you have great value in ours. Let’s hear everything God wants you to share. We don’t have anywhere we need to be now.”

  “Especially not back in our cells,” Rock said. That cracked everyone up. Even Graham.

  “Around midday yesterday,” Graham said, “I learned that my Christian sisters, Jo and Aleesha, were somewhere on Tabletop Mountain. Probably lost. I’ve come to know that place from base to peak and back again, and I offered to help—no, I insisted on helping—Miss Kimmy rescue them.”

  Somebody in the back row gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Along the way, she told me how much she loved me. She said she wanted to adopt me as a grandfather.” I couldn’t tell if he’d paused for a few seconds to collect his thoughts or to enjoy the memory of that special moment. “But she also told me I displeased and dishonored God by holding on to my guilt.”

  I knew he’d paid attention to what I told him, but hearing him refer to it now … I couldn’t believe it.

  “Kimmy”—he looked at me—”Kimmy probably doesn’t know how much she helped me. She made me see that my guilt was as great a sin as any other. One I needed to repent of. I talked to God about it last night, and tonight I’ve found freedom. Real freedom. ‘The truth shall set you free,’ Jesus said. He wasn’t just talking to hear himself talk.”

  chapter sixty-one

  A breakout occurred at Red Cedar Correctional Center that evening, but not a single insider attempted to escape. It didn’t make the late evening news on television or the early morning edition of the newspaper, even though it deserved that kind of attention and more.

  Perhaps I should have described it as an outbreak rather than a breakout.

  God’s Holy Spirit moved among the insiders like nothing I’d ever seen. His Spirit might have ignited the fire with Warden/Chaplain Jenkins’ sermon, but He used Graham’s testimony to fan it into a sizeable flame. Despite forty-five minutes of heavy-duty listening, the men insisted that Dad speak. They were raring for all of the spiritual food the evening might provide. It would provide extra fuel for God’s fire.

  “I’m not going to use the special talk I prepared for tonight. I wanted to make it the high point of my messages to you men, but God had different wants from mine …”

  Grins appeared on most of the men’s faces, and Rock and Hi chuckled. The true believers in the room understood that man’s plans were far inferior to God’s. And they were always subject to change—whether forced or voluntary.

  “God told me to scratch that message. I could use it elsewhere. He said to share the plan of salvation instead. Many of you don’t need to hear it, but some of you do.

  “I’m not here to ‘scare the hell’ out of you,” Dad said in a quiet, understated voice that made his use of the word hell even more amusing. Although he never talked that way, it

  seemed proper in this context. “What I want to do is keep you out of hell.”

  “This joint is hell!” one of the men shouted. Several others grumbled in agreement.

  “Then let this be a lesson to you,” Dad continued. “Hell is real, and it makes the most atrocious prison in the world look as pleasant and enjoyable as your living room at home. Everyone who hasn’t accepted God’s gift of salvation is already destined to go there. In His eyes, everyone is guilty. Automatically guilty. That’s what the Bible says.”

  “Not my grandmom,” a voice chimed in. Huh? One of the guards? “She’s no Bible-toting, churchgoing Christian, but she’s a saint, anyway.”

  I prayed for Dad to handle the interruption in the godliest possible way.

  “Many fine, well-intended nonbelievers spend a lifetime doing good deeds, and it seems like they should be able to waltz their way into heaven. No waiting in line.”

  “That’s her,” the guard said with a smile.

  “It doesn’t work that way, though, friend. Everyone has sinned. You, me, your wonderful grandmother. Sins are equal in God’s sight. Has she ever been angry or held a grudge against someone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then she’s sinned. That’s the same to God as killing Him.”

  “But she’s just being human,” somebody said from the other side of the room.

  “She is, and that’s why no human being is good enough in God’s sight. Even a single sin makes a person unacceptable to God.”

  A few of the men fidgeted, while others leaned forward and closed their eyes. Dad—actually the Holy Spirit—was getting through to them. To some of them, anyhow.

  “On the other hand, many people refuse to believe that God can forgive the terrible things they’ve done. Some of you may fall into that category.”

  Dead silence.

  He started looking around. A moment later, he caught my eye. “Kim, would you sing that song …? I can’t recall the title, but it’s the one about not being good enough or bad enough …”

  I nodded. I knew just the one he meant. Standing up where I was, I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I don’t know why. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

  I began singing. I’d never done this song a capella except in the shower. I don’t know about the insiders, but I imagined angels singing backup with the most gorgeous harmonies.

  “What good can I do? What good can I say

  That’s good enough to pay the Lord for loving me?

  There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I can say

  That’s good enough to pay the Lord for loving me.”

  Mr. Guitar figured out what key I was singing in and started playing along. He couldn’t have done a more effective job if he’d been playing that song all his life.

  “What bad can I do? What bad can I say

  That’s bad enough to keep the Lord from loving me?

  There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I can say

  That’s bad enough to keep the Lord from loving me.

  Well, what then can I do? What then can I say

  To thank the Lord for loving me?

  I’ll do everything I do, I’ll say everything I say

  In the name of the Lord who never stops loving me,

  In the name of the Lord who never stops loving me.”

  Although those fellows had always applauded when somebody sang, the Holy Spirit moved them and kept them from desecrating the awe-filled reverence that filled the room after the last notes faded away. I’d experienced perfect silence several times in my life, but I’d never known stillness like that.

  Dad presented the Gospel plan in words a child could have understood—but he didn’t talk down to the inmates. He didn’t waste words with unnecessary embellis
hment, either. Not the way TV preachers sometimes do. God must have had him by the tongue, too.

  He might have been assembling a jigsaw puzzle from the bottom up the way he laid the foundation of salvation and then built upon it word by word, concept by concept. Nonbelievers would soon see the completed picture of Christ crucified, raised from the dead, and offering forgiveness and new life to everyone who accepts it.

  “Many of you are already Christians,” he said. “I couldn’t feel any more at home here than I do with the men at my own church. Faith, hope, and love—God’s love—tend to do that to Christians. Believers, if something is on your heart tonight, please share it with your new chaplain or me. Then I want you men who need to make the eternally significant decision to become Christians to step forward.”

  I didn’t notice the dozen or so men form the line to talk with Dad or Chaplain Thomas. They just appeared there. No pushing. No shoving. No signs of impatience. Only the sounds of sniffling broke the stillness, and that somehow made the atmosphere seem even more reverent.

  I stayed in my seat and tried to keep from blubbering. I needed to pray. Some of the men in that room had undoubtedly pictured themselves as tough guys before coming to Red Cedar, and many of them had probably worked hard to maintain that image as insiders.

  Even though God wanted to win the soul of every insider present, He wouldn’t force Himself on anyone. Yet not even the toughest man in the room could have rejected the Holy Spirit’s tugging that evening without a painful struggle.

  Chaplain Jenkins had told them the Good News. So had Graham—in his own special way. Dad, too. While some of the men had undoubtedly listened with open ears and receptive hearts, others had hardened themselves to the message. Each man would have to make a decision—to accept Christ and live or to suffer both earthly and eternal separation from God. I was thankful for the rededications, but my most earnest prayers were for the men who had yet to reveal their decisions.

  When the line of people making rededications got down to one or two, a sudden onrush of men headed to the front of the room and lined up behind them. Unable to ignore them and keep my mind on my prayer, I noticed that only a few men remained seated, and several of them had the strained, agonized look I’d always pictured Jacob having when he wrestled with the angel of God.