by Wid Bastian
There were no more visions, for which Peter was very thankful, but after offering his simple prayer, Peter began to feel better, much better.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Peter noticed that his anxiety was gone. That dull anguish, that gnawing erosion of his soul, had ceased. Instantly. When was the last time I felt this good? he silently asked himself. Has it really been three years since my arrest? Since the day my world fell apart?
Peter’s mind had begun the process of renewal. Old ideas and values, judgments, and self-images; views of right and wrong, everything was being rewired.
A new man was emerging. A child of God was replacing an unfaithful soul.
While Peter genuinely regretted stealing his client’s funds, down deep, in the center of his being, what Peter regretted most was getting caught. Part of him had known this all along, but for some reason he had never admitted it to himself. At his sentencing, Peter Carson said all the right things. He delivered his lawyer’s prefabricated and hollow apology speech to the court perfectly.
But, until this moment, the true nature of his sin, the heavy weight and blatant filth of it, had never been fully revealed to him. Peter had always tried to justify his evil using excuses such as “inordinate financial pressures,” “lack of criminal intent,” and even “clinical depression.” While the world had held him accountable, Peter had never repented.
“S*** happens,” he used to say. “No it doesn’t,” God told Peter, “you (and everyone else) allow it to happen.” Seen through God’s eyes, Peter Carson’s life was very different, far removed from his own previous conception of what it meant to be alive.
For the second time in two days, Peter wept; but these tears were healing, not condemning. He was truly sorry that he had allowed his weaknesses to overcome his soul, to take control, to make him an unwitting servant of the evil one.
He felt compelled to open his Bible, a book that had been given to him when he arrived at prison, but had so far seen no use. Without effort or conscious thought, he turned to the book of Job, the twenty-eighth chapter and the twenty-eighth verse. It reads, “And to man He said, ‘Behold, the fear of the Lord that is wisdom, And to depart from evil is understanding.’”
It turns out that life was simpler to understand, and much more difficult to correctly live than Peter had ever imagined. He, like everyone else, could choose to obey or to ignore God. Striving to be truly obedient to the will of the Father, Peter now knew, was the toughest challenge any man could possibly face.
Through the power of the Holy Spirit, the far reaching impact of Peter’s sin was made fully apparent to him. There was the pain and suffering he had caused his immediate family, the harm he’d done to his clients, both financially and emotionally, and the disgrace he brought upon his firm and his friends. He mourned over the encouragement his sin might have given others to steal. Worst of all, Peter realized, he had deeply offended God.
His fingers flipped though the pages of his Bible once more, until again, without deliberate selection, they reached the one hundredth and third psalm, twelfth verse. It reads, “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
Peter knew that this was a message specifically directed to him. All of his sins, pain, regrets, sorrow, anxiety, guilt, and shame were suddenly not his anymore. He had been liberated. Another now bore his burdens for him.
Peter closed his Bible, flipped off his reading light, and shut his eyes. With a clean heart and a peaceful mind, Panos Kallistos then slept for the better part of the next three days, waking only occasionally to eat and to be counted by the guards.
Soon after Peter was up and around again, he committed himself to the study of the Scriptures and prayer. He did these things as discreetly as possible; making no mention of his vision or his new found spirituality to anyone. He felt compelled by this new and powerful Inner Voice of his to wait before taking action. The command he received was to “watch and pray.” He took it literally and seriously.
Over the past eighteen months at Parkersboro, Peter had made a few casual friends, but none of them so close as to make much of a fuss when he now politely avoided them. Chaplains came and went at the camp, conducting Bible studies and services for the men. Most meant well, but few had any real insights into God’s true nature or His word. Peter respected their efforts, but did not participate in their meetings or discussions.
He read all day long, making notes and asking questions through prayer, and then receiving answers through understanding. His mind and soul were a sponge and he was soaking up information and gaining knowledge at a fantastic pace.
From the time of the Apostles it was believed, although the Protestant reformation to a degree tries to deny this truth, that the Bible must be interpreted if it is to be properly understood. Through interpretation, many supposed contradictions are resolved, messages and prophecy become plain, and God’s unchanging voice is made more apparent and consistent. When the books of the Bible are synchronized into the harmony of God’s purpose it flows, and the same universal truths are revealed from beginning to end.
St Luke’s Gospel says that for His Apostles, Jesus “opened their understanding that they might comprehend the Scriptures.” God now did the same for Peter Carson. It was a gift that would enable him to fulfill God’s purpose for his life. It would also make him unique, and set him apart from other men, with all of the blessings and trials that such a privileged status endows.
With each passing day, Peter was changing, further evolving into a “new creature,” as St. Paul testifies. He didn’t seem to get angry anymore and began to feel compassion for those he used to despise. The petty things in life that formerly irritated Peter to no end no longer mattered. Patience, a virtue almost unknown to the old Peter Carson, was becoming the core of his new character. The world’s influence on Panos Kallistos was diminishing, and love, God’s perfect and unconditional love, was replacing it.
Before his vision, if Peter dreamed at all about the future, it was of him having survived his ordeal and then living the “good life” once again with a new career, a new wife, and plenty of money. He now understood, with clarity and certainty so intense it frightened him, that if he had continued down this old road, his particular weaknesses, dishonesty, and greed being chief, would inevitably have gotten the best of him. Without a doubt, he would have ended up back in prison, and worse, in hell.
Money meant little to Peter’s “new man,” beyond what was required to survive and to care for his son. Status and worldly glory, all of the “stuff” that this fleshly existence holds to be so valuable, had become worthless to him.
Peter began to realize, to believe by faith, that he had been snatched from the jaws of the evil one not for his own glory, pleasure, or comfort, but to fulfill God’s purpose. Exactly what he was supposed to do he didn’t know, but he trusted that Christ would reveal this to him in His time.
Meditating often on his vision, Peter could not help but wonder what it all meant, for him specifically and for everyone else. Who were these “others” God spoke about who were coming to help him? How would he know who they were? What were they supposed to do once they arrived?
Yet, even in the face of all this uncertainty, Peter was not anxious. He worried for nothing, wanted for nothing. Even though the United States government held his body captive, Peter was now truly free. He had asked God for the forgiveness of his sins and had received it. He was at peace with the Lord and with himself.
He did still enjoy mowing the lawn, maybe even more so now. One bright September morning, while he was happily cutting away, engrossed in some thoughts about the prophet Isaiah, two men came walking toward him. Both were unfamiliar.
One was black, maybe thirty, and he was large, muscular, and menacing. The other was much older, slender, and white, and had the look of someone who had gotten the worst of one too many bar fights. They stood directly in his path, obviously intent on making Peter stop and pay att
ention to whatever it was they had to say.
Peter pulled back on his machine and turned it off. He removed his earplugs and watched as both of them looked him over, silently but very thoroughly. After a minute or so, it was the skinny white man who spoke first.
“Is your name Panos, Panos Chrismos, or something like that?”
“Yes, yes it is,” Peter responded, startled by being addressed by his birth name once again by another total stranger.
“Good. We need to talk to you, man. Are you the one Gabriel sent us to find? What do you know about our dreams?”
Three
Peter needed a few minutes to prepare himself, so after brief introductions he asked the two new men to meet him in the library in half an hour. Peter’s mind was racing, he could sense the Spirit telling him that whatever God was planning was starting right here, right now. It was a holy mission that could not be stopped or delayed, something both magnificent and perilous.
Their names were Malik and Saul. Evidently they rode in together on the Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) bus from Atlanta, but had come from separate institutions. Saul, the thin white guy, mumbled something about being “drawn” to Malik, but he did not elaborate further.
It was also certain that both of them had seen Gabriel. Dreams, they’d also mentioned dreams. Peter wondered if God had put them through the same tortuous series of sufferings he had endured.
Walking toward the library, Peter saw Malik sitting alone on the patio. They greeted each other and shook hands, which with Malik Graham was like grabbing a bear. Even restrained, Malik’s physical strength was impressive. As were his tattoos, which consisted of various women’s names, assorted firearms, drug paraphernalia, barbed wire, and snakes. His two front teeth had gold caps and his left forearm bore a surgery scar from elbow to wrist. Anyone with eyes and common sense could see that Malik Graham had a violent past and that he was not someone to be disrespected.
Before his vision, Peter Carson would never have come near a man like Malik Graham unless he had been forced to by circumstance. If that happened, outwardly Peter would have remained calm, but on the inside he would have been panicky.
But as they sat down together on one of the hard wooden benches on the outdoor library patio, Peter wasn’t afraid. Malik’s body was saying, “I’m a dangerous man,” but his eyes were those of a frightened child. Peter understood the source of this fear immediately, God must have recently touched Malik. No matter how big and bad you are in this world, you are as helpless as a fly in a hurricane before the Almighty.
“Should I be callin’ you Panos or Peter?” Malik asked.
“Peter is good, it doesn’t matter.”
“Are you some sort of prophet? Do you have any idea of the weird s***, sorry, crap, that’s been happenin’ to me bro?”
“Can’t seem to curse much anymore, can you,” Peter said, laughing.
“No, and it’s a pain. I thought God’s last name was damn until real recent. I was a mothereffing, straight up gangsta, Mr. Pete. No one badder’n me. Genuine thorough hoodlum. Now look at me, sitting here in this punk a** prison conversating with a crazy old white dude. Oh, no offense there, Mr. Pete. Damn! What’s happenin’ to me?”
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” Peter asked, trying his best not to smile.
Using the broken syntax of sixth grade level English mixed with a unique southern variety of Eubonics, Malik began telling his life story, condensed and summarized to the best of his ability.
Like so many other black, violent, and incarcerated men, Malik Graham came from a poor home with no father. Born and raised on the north side of Charlotte, North Carolina, Malik learned his lessons early.
Lesson one was that he was bigger and meaner than almost anyone else his own age. Once he hit sixteen or so, this comparison then also applied to the population as a whole. Being large and tough in the projects meant that you were respected and feared. Malik’s self-image was built entirely around his ability to be the “baddest mothereffer on the block.”
Lesson two was that the way to get ahead in this world is to deal drugs and steal. None of Malik Graham’s peers were anything but antisocial and criminally inclined. The guys that drove the Beamers or the classic cars with the three thousand dollar rims, the homies who passed around benjamins like they were candy, the gangsters who had a stable of bitches and whores, these were Malik’s role models. Who else, what else, could he possibly want to be?
Only one person in his whole life ever saw Malik Graham as anything other than a career criminal and a violent felon, his grandmother Josie.
Josie Arnold was Malik’s maternal grandmother. When her daughter abandoned her only child at the age of twelve because her coke dealer boyfriend didn’t want him around, Josie took Malik in. But by then it was already well past too late. Malik’s heart was hardened, his life’s course set.
Granny Arnold was the only person Malik truly loved. While she wasn’t nearly a strong enough influence on him to keep him away from the streets, drugs, violence, and “the life,” Granny Arnold was able to get his attention when no one else could.
In and out of juvenile facilities on charges ranging from assault to grand theft, Malik left a swath of destruction from an early age. During those rare short periods when Malik slowed down for awhile to appease a judge or a probation officer, Josie Arnold got him to read the Bible and go to church.
The Arnolds had been Pentecostals always, which meant church services included copious amounts of “spirit-filled” worship, like prophesying and speaking in tongues.
One Sunday night, when Malik was fifteen, Josie was able to cajole him into going to a particularly raucous service. Men were “on fire with the Spirit” that night, many were “slain,” demons were “exorcised,” “miraculous healings” were achieved, new and unique “heavenly languages” were spoken.
Malik told Peter that during all of this commotion, a man appeared out of nowhere. A white man about thirty or so, with light brown, curly hair. This man’s presence at once made Malik uneasy or, as he put it, “scart to death.” Why? For one thing, white people didn’t go to Granny’s church, so at first Malik thought he might be a cop or a social worker that had come to take him away. For another, this person, in Malik’s words, threw off a “righteous power” he could readily sense if not easily relate.
Before Malik even said it, Peter knew he was describing Gabriel.
Young Malik sat there petrified as Gabriel held his hand and said to him, “Say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.” Gabriel repeated this short verse from the Psalms three times.
Then he said, “Be ready when you are called, Malik. The Lord will protect you always and make you honored among men.”
Malik remembered that at that moment a blanket of peace swept over him. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He described it as “pure joy,” a calmness, a passive, positive feeling of acceptance and love both “intense” and “comfortin’.” Malik remembered thinking that this has to be “what heaven is like.”
Malik told Peter that he turned his head to get Granny Arnold’s attention and to show her this unusual white man. Josie was evidently completely engrossed in the service and in the thirty seconds or so that it took him to get her awareness, Gabriel disappeared.
On the ride home, Malik told Granny Arnold everything Gabriel had said to him. Almost anyone else would have dismissed Malik’s statements as the rantings of a disturbed and impressionable teenager, overcome by an intensely dramatic Pentecostal service, but Josie Arnold wasn’t anybody else.
“That was your angel, Malik,” she told him. “We all have ’em. Always remember what he told you, boy. God must have somethin’ real special planned for you.” She said this with such assurance that Malik believed it without question. He didn’t understand it, but he did believe it.
“Scary thing is, Mr. Pete,” Malik said, catching his breath after telling the Gabriel portion of his story, �
�now I think I do understand.”
From the age of fifteen on (he was thirty now), Malik Graham lived the gangster life. His encounter with Gabriel did not change that. By eighteen he had killed his first man. There would be several more.
Malik sold “rocks,” crack cocaine. He robbed other drug dealers, pimped whores, fenced stolen property, and set up a counterfeit money ring. Every few months or so, he would get arrested.
Since he had plenty of money for lawyers and “business expenses,” like bail and bribes, Malik was never in jail for very long. Clever at his craft, the local authorities could never stick Malik with anything serious enough to put him behind bars for any length of time. This would change when Malik turned twenty-four. It was then that a federal drug task force zeroed in on his operation. The FBI set up wires and surveillance, paid informants, and tracked all of Malik’s criminal activities for six months. Then they nailed him.
Malik woke up one morning to the sight of ten U.S. Marshals, all pointing shotguns at his head. They seized everything; cash, cars, motorcycles, boats, jewelry. The Feds also found twenty kilos of crack cocaine, enough to put Malik away for the rest of his life.
You cannot easily buy or talk your way out of major federal drug trafficking charges, Malik found out. He spent the last fifty thousand he had stashed on a top-notch defense attorney.
What did it get him? Rather than life in prison, he signed a plea for a sentence of three hundred months. Thirty years. Even with good time, that meant Malik Graham wouldn’t see the world again until he was fifty something.
They sent Malik to the United States Penitentiary (USP) in Atlanta. He fit right in. Malik knew four or five of the inmates there, because he once ran with them in Charlotte. They quickly became his crew and did Malik’s bidding.
Always the dominant one, Malik Graham ruled his block with harsh discipline and cruelty. What privileges and luxuries that existed in a bleak place like a USP, Malik made sure he had plenty of, like drugs, liquor, and dirty magazines. Actually, his life was little changed from the one he lived on the streets, the only real differences being he couldn’t move around freely, and his “hos” were now punks.
