by Lex Luger
“Yes, sir, Your Honor.”
The Cobb County Jail was going to be my home for the next three months.
I appreciated the reduction for the time I had served in Minneapolis, but the news that I had to stay in jail for three months crushed me. To be honest, I wanted to get out of jail, go home, watch some football, and relax.
I had cleaned up my act; I thought I had turned things around. So much for living right. No more Mr. Goody Two-Shoes for me. I vowed from that moment to return to being the old Lex. It would be a whole lot easier.
That is, if I got through the next three months. Cobb County Jail was not designed with the word fun in mind. There were no TV privileges, and any available books had the story’s ending page torn out by a previous reader just for spite. Apparently I wasn’t locked up with a literature-loving crowd. And the fact that there wasn’t a clock in sight made me feel like time was standing still.
What I did notice was that the jail chaplain who had given me the Bible was always knocking on the window of our pod whenever he came by. He’d smile and motion for me to come up to the door, but I’d always wave him off.
After weeks of this, it became a running joke among my cellmates every time he’d stop by. “Here comes that chaplain again, Lex!” they’d say. “He’s going to try to get you to talk to him.”
Finally one of them mentioned the advantages of taking the chaplain up on his offer: you could get out of the cellblock for a period of time. That would at least break up the monotony. And maybe if I meet with him once, he’ll go away, I thought.
So the next time that chaplain walked by, I met him at the window, much to the astonishment of my cellmates. “What do you want?” I asked.
“I want to talk to you,” he replied. “I can have the guards bring you to a room, and we can talk for a little bit.”
Although I was skeptical about his intentions—I didn’t want him to bombard me with religious talk—I agreed. After all, I figured that I could always walk out on him and be put back in my cell if the conversation became uncomfortable.
When we got to the room, he introduced himself to me again. “I’m Steve Baskin, one of the chaplains here.” It was awkward at first, just a little get-acquainted chitchat. When he pulled out his laptop and turned it on, I thought, Oh great, here it comes! Laying the religious stuff on me.
Instead, it was an action movie.
“I know you can’t watch TV in here, but we could watch a movie on my computer if you’d like.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Nah, that’s okay.”
We talked a little longer, and then it was time for me to go.
“By the way,” Steve said, “the food’s pretty bad in here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s definitely bad, and it’s not near enough. I feel like I’m starving all the time.”
“Here, have a few of these,” he said, handing me squeezable packets of peanut butter.
“Thanks! I really appreciate it.” This guy isn’t so bad after all.
A few packets of peanut butter might not seem like much to most people, but they were protein and sustenance to me. I began saving all the extra bread from my meals and trading for other inmates’ bread so that I could make peanut butter sandwiches for my late-night snack. Steve began slipping peanut butter to me on a regular basis, even though he probably wasn’t supposed to.
I had never talked to a pastor before and had preconceived notions about what a pastor was like. But I was pleasantly surprised. Pastor Steve was, well, normal—a regular guy with regular issues and challenges.
Over the ensuing weeks, I took every opportunity I could to meet with him and got to know him much better. We had a lot more in common than I ever would have thought. He grew up in California and had been an incredible high school athlete who had excelled in both basketball and track (he was a state champion in the high jump). But in college he decided that his calling was to become a pastor. For the past twenty years he had been pastoring a church, as well as being one of the jail chaplains at Cobb County.
The only subject we didn’t touch upon was religion. What a relief! He was one of my only visitors other than my lawyer, my sister, and my nephew. Although our conversations had become a regular thing, I didn’t plan on ever seeing him again once I got out of jail.
In March 2006, I was about to be released from the Cobb County Jail when Pastor Steve came by for the last time.
“You know, I’ve put on some pounds these last couple of years, and I’ve been meaning to get in shape. What do you think of us getting together at the local gym so you could help me with my workouts?”
“Sure, whatever, Pastor Steve,” I said, not giving it a second thought. I wasn’t a personal trainer; I only trained myself. I didn’t give him my address or phone number or the name of the gym I usually went to. Good luck finding me.
A friend picked me up from the jail with just what I needed to restart my old life—my spiked Arnold Palmer (half iced tea and half lemonade) in one cup holder and my pills in the other. I was on my way back to the extended-stay hotel in Kennesaw.
My mother had kept up with the payments so I would have a familiar place to return to when I was released, which I greatly appreciated. My parents wanted to give me the best chance for a fresh start. I had other ideas. I wanted to go back to being the old Lex. But for the first time, I didn’t have a plan. I was unsure of myself, not certain what direction to take. I jumped right back into the old routine—light buzz in the morning, pre-workout lunch, workout, then a hard buzz at night.
A few weeks later as I was leaving the gym, I heard a familiar voice call out my name.
“Hey, Lex!”
I turned around, and there he was—the jail chaplain! I had already forgotten his name. I was shocked to see him. How did he find me? There must be hundreds of gyms in Atlanta’s northern suburbs.
“Steve Baskin,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “I’m ready to get back in shape if you’re willing to help.”
I was initially caught off guard but quickly recovered. This might be fun. I’ll work him so hard and make him so sore, he’ll never set foot in a gym again. “Why don’t you pick me up at my hotel at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?” I said.
“That would be great,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
When Pastor Steve knocked at my hotel door the next morning, I didn’t answer. I was sure that if I waited long enough without coming out, he’d just give up and call it a day. A half hour later, I peeked out of my window. He was still there, patiently sitting in his car in the parking lot. I could tell he wasn’t going anywhere.
This guy just doesn’t get it. I figured I had no choice other than to come out, go to the gym, and run him through a Matsuda-style workout, in hopes that he’d leave me alone from now on.
At the gym, I gave it to him with both barrels, but he never complained once. By the end of the workout, I could tell he was totally exhausted.
When he dropped me off at the hotel, he said, “What time should I be here tomorrow?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. However, I knew that when he woke up in the morning, he’d be so sore he would probably have trouble even getting out of bed. But the next morning, there he was, sitting in the parking lot, ready to go to the gym. In spite of my greatest efforts to make him quit, he was there every morning. I soon realized he was in it for the long haul. He began losing weight and adding muscle and was elated with the results. Surprisingly, I began to enjoy training him and watching his progress.
Soon, we weren’t just going to the gym together. Pastor Steve volunteered to help me take care of issues I needed to address. First, he went with me to help smooth things over with my probation officer. Then he accompanied me to the Cobb County Courthouse to pay some additional fines I thought I owed. Instead of having to pay, they refunded me $700 that had been overpaid! I couldn’t believe it. I began calling Pastor Steve “my lucky charm.”
“You know, Lex, I think we should go d
own to the DMV and try to get your driver’s license back,” he said one day.
I was under the impression that it would be a long time before I would ever get my driver’s license back.
“No harm in trying,” Pastor Steve said.
Whatever, Pastor Steve. But we walked into the DMV and boom! I walked out with a new driver’s license with no hassles or delays.
After one workout, Pastor Steve invited me out to lunch. On our way there, he said he needed to make a quick stop at Walmart.
“Do you want to come in with me?” he asked.
“Steve, I’ve never been in a Walmart in my life. I’ve always been a Saks Fifth Avenue/Whole Foods kind of guy.”
“Well, come check it out,” he said.
As we walked around the store, we were constantly greeted by wrestling fans and well-wishers. “Hey, Lex, great to see you out and about!”
We then went to the Golden Corral for lunch, another place I had never been before. It was a gigantic buffet extraordinaire; I loved it! Once again, people came up to me to say hello. I realized this was all part of Pastor Steve’s plan, to get me out to places that regular folks—my wrestling fans—frequented, places where everyone was glad to see me. Truthfully, after all the bad stuff that had happened, their reactions initially caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to make of it. But to be honest, it felt kind of good.
I was getting more and more comfortable hanging out with Pastor Steve, and eventually, I started asking him questions about religion. “So what’s the difference between Catholics and Protestants?” “Why are there so many different denominations?” “Why do bad things happen to good people?” “How do you explain dinosaurs?” I peppered him with all types of questions. He always answered thoughtfully or admitted when he didn’t have all the answers. I appreciated his honesty.
One day I was out running errands with Pastor Steve and decided to stay in the car and wait for him to finish. I noticed a religious leaflet in the side-door pocket with the words God’s Simple Plan of Salvation in bold print. I began reading it, but when I saw Pastor Steve coming back to the car, I stuck it in my pocket. I didn’t mention anything to him.
That evening, I took the leaflet out and read through it. I understood the words but not what the words meant. Phrases like “being born again” made no sense to me. I had already been born. How could I be born again? I mulled it over. It didn’t seem very simple to me. For the next couple of weeks, I read and reread that small leaflet, but I never asked Pastor Steve about it.
Not long after, Pastor Steve asked, “Do you remember Dr. Frady, the head chaplain at the Cobb County Jail?”
The name didn’t ring a bell with me.
“He pastors Clarkdale First Baptist Church. I often attend the evening services there. It’s casual. You don’t have to dress up. Would you like to meet me there this Sunday evening? We can grab some grub afterward.”
It was the question that I had been waiting for, wondering when he was going to ask it.
“Sure,” I said, thinking at least we’d get good food.
“The service starts at seven o’clock. I’ll meet you there.”
I arrived at the church at 7:10 p.m. I didn’t see Steve’s car in the parking lot, but I figured he might have gotten a ride with someone else. Now that I was there, I was nervous. I walked up to the large white doors and put my hand on one of the gold handles, but I hesitated. I had a major case of cold feet. I turned around, went back to my car, and sat there for another ten minutes debating with myself. I’m really late. I should just go home and call Steve later. But if Steve was waiting inside, I didn’t want to let him down.
I went to the front door for the second time and hesitated again, almost bailing. Instead, I slipped inside and quietly found a seat in the last pew. Up front, behind the pulpit, Dr. Frady was into his message. I heard him mention that his text was from the Sermon on the Mount, when Jesus was speaking to a large group of people. And then he read Jesus’ words:
Whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock: and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it. (Matthew 7:24-27, KJV)
“When we build our lives around other people, money, or what we consider success,” Dr. Frady said, “we’re putting our faith in trinkets and baubles that will not last, things that we ultimately can’t count on. What’s your life based upon? The rock or the sand? When your life is based upon the Rock, your house will stand strong, no matter what.”
He’s describing my life. My life has been built completely on the sand.
I envisioned the Sugarloaf mansion, all my cars, clothes, and jewelry, all my “trinkets and baubles” I had accumulated—everything that I had considered the evidence of my success—piled together on a sandy beach. Suddenly I saw a huge wave crashing onshore, and within moments, everything was gone, washed out to sea. It all seemed so real.
The impact of what Dr. Frady said nearly took my breath away. It seemed like he was standing just a foot away from me as he spoke, and I pressed back into the pew as far as I could, trying to put space between the two of us. Of course, in reality, Dr. Frady was still up front, and there were many rows of pews between us. Still, I was unaware of any other people in the church; I felt like it was just him and me alone in the room. Even though Dr. Frady’s lips were moving, I truly believed it was God—not him—speaking directly to me.
Everything I had believed to be so important—chasing fortune and glory—was empty, without substance.
Dr. Frady asked if anyone wanted to commit their lives to Jesus Christ and invited them to come to the front of the church. I conveniently took the opportunity to head the other way—out the door and to my car.
I was sweating, and my heart was racing. I didn’t know what was going on with me. Oh, man, that was a close call, I thought to myself.
I called Steve later that night. “I didn’t see you at church.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I couldn’t make it. I left a message on your phone.”
“Oh.” I had a bad habit of not checking my voice mail messages.
“By the way, did you tell Dr. Frady I was going to be there tonight?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I was convinced that I had been set up, that Pastor Steve had tipped off Dr. Frady so that he specifically chose the theme of his message to target me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Frady’s message the entire week, the contrast of the rock and the sand. All of my bad decisions and what I had based those decisions upon—the things that I believed had made me successful to myself and other people—really had been a sham. It was all built on the sand.
I kept pulling out the little pamphlet I’d found in Steve’s car and reading it, but it still didn’t quite connect with me.
It was April 23, 2006, and Steve and I were hanging out at my hotel watching a Los Angeles Lakers game on television. We were casually sitting and talking when I decided to bring up what had been dogging me all week. I reached under my bodybuilding magazines on the coffee table and pulled out the pamphlet.
“I got this from your car,” I said, “and I’ve been going over it a bunch of times. I just don’t get it.”
Steve immediately jumped to his feet. I had never seen him move so quickly, with such urgency.
For some reason, I was pulled to my feet too.
“What are we standing here for?” I asked.
“This is the moment I’ve been waiting for,” Steve replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Lex, be totally honest. Are you truly happy with the direction your life’s takin
g right now?”
“No,” I admitted. “Honestly, I’ve made a complete mess of things.”
“Lex, that’s okay. We all make a mess of things when we try to do things on our own. But there’s a much better way for all of us. God has always had a plan for each one of our lives, including yours.”
“Steve, I’ve done so much stuff. It’s too late for me.” I thought I had gone too far down the road and didn’t think I could ever make up for what I had done. It was the most honest I had ever been with myself.
“We all fall short when we do it all on our own.”
I knew Steve was right. I was weary. After trying to do things myself, I had only managed to make a wreck out of my life. I had been a rudderless ship, beyond hope.
“You don’t have to fight anymore,” Steve said. “Move over and let God take control. Let Him steer.”
Yes, I was ready to surrender, ready for somebody else to take charge of my life. I wanted to get out of the way; I wanted to be saved from myself. It was never clear to me until that moment.
“What do I need to do?”
“Ask God for His forgiveness.”
“Man, all that stuff I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt—I can be forgiven for everything right now?”
“Yes, you can.”
Steve got down on his knees in front of the couch, and I followed suit.
