A Cup of Cold Water And So Much More

Last week, I tore out a page from my past to share with you, introducing Jimmy and Leann, my roommates of the time, two leading characters in last week’s dramatis personae. I decided that I would segue from there, turning the topic inside out for an examination from the outside in. So without further ado . . .

Jimmy and Leann could not get over the drastic change that had happened in my life. They questioned me closely, but it was as though they never understood my answer, for they would ask me again and again. “Why did you change? What made you turn around?”

Jimmy, in fact, stopped spending as much time with me; like day from night, we had become so different from one another. On one of his rare occasions downstairs he told me “you seem so good and I seem so bad.” Despite this positive reinforcement that what had happened to me had taken effective root, it was a real struggle to stay there. I was different and there was no denying that fact. Perfect? Hardly! But different, yes.

I began to take a great deal more responsibility. As part of the “lease” agreement, they were always on me to sweep the tiny downstairs bathroom at the head of the stairs leading down to my bedroom in the “dungeon” below. Before, I had occasionally made a half-hearted swipe with the broom; now, I not only cleaned it regularly, but often thoroughly swept the adjacent kitchen as well. I even tried cooking dinner for them on occasion, though for all my efforts, I usually found myself dining alone with leftovers aplenty.

I broke down and bought a used parallel bible at ABC Books, which featured the New International Version and King James side by side. Every Sunday, I dragged myself out of bed, grabbed a bowl of breakfast cereal to go, and then, bible in hand, I would quietly let myself out the door (so as not to wake Jimmy and Leann), and arrive in time for Sunday school class. Occasionally, Leann’s youngest son would accompany me to church—he was always eager to go with me, but not always able—and it was interesting trying to keep a five-year-old totally unaccustomed to church in tow, though he usually behaved himself remarkably well, at least considering.

I would get back from church to find that Jimmy and Leann would have dinner ready and waiting; unlike myself, they were both excellent cooks. They would usually be sitting in the living room in front of the television eating as I would come walking in dressed to the nines in my Sunday best, and Jimmy would ask, “So how was church, Bro.?” I don’t think he usually really wanted to know, but sometimes I would offer a more in-depth explanation anyway. It was amazing how quickly he could change the topic, yet in the same breath there were other times of his own accord he would ask questions. It was all a matter of timing and mood, as is true with virtually every believer/nonbeliever dichotomy.

I was always in better spirits when I got back from church, many times feeling blessed simply to be alive. I didn’t just go to church Sunday morning, however. The very first day I went to church I liked it so much that I decided that I didn’t want to miss a single service. And so two times on Sunday, a time of prayer on Tuesday, and Wednesday evening all found my battered white and blue car sitting in the parking lot of the big church a few blocks down the street.

I soon landed a job in the warehouse of a pickle factory. The money was very poor, the nine-hour days were long, but lifting the boxes helped restore some of the muscle tissue I had lost from my sedentary lifestyle of unemployed dope fiend, and, as I noted before, it felt good to make an honest day’s wages. Between quality lunches assembled from the plenteous leftovers and a will to work, I soon bulked out considerably: no colossal muscle man by any stretch of anyone’s imagination, mind you, but perhaps more fit than I am today.

Jimmy and Leann were unable to make the payments, so their new car was soon repossessed. Before long, they were asking to borrow mine. Sometimes they would take me to work so that they could use the car to run errands. One evening, Jimmy asked me to borrow the car to go out with his friends. I soon received word that he had been pulled over and gotten a DWI; ironically it was next door to the church I attended and even closer to the apartment where I lived when Joe and I first met Russ. I rode my bicycle down the street, put it in the trunk, and drove back home. Soon Jimmy was home as well; the jail was over-crowded and though he had breathed dirty on the breathalyzer, he told the cop that he always had alcohol in his system and that was why he was otherwise functioning normally. (He was telling the truth, by the way.) After relieving him of a hundred-dollar bill he had in his pocket, they let him go after he promised to show up for his arraignment. None of us asked any questions, if you take my meaning.

After being at work or church, coming back home was always a struggle. I didn’t feel welcome, didn’t feel I belonged. It wasn’t that Jimmy and Leann had changed; they were as civil as ever. But I had changed. My values had changed. I soon saw that moving out was a must.

Moving back in with Mom and Dad wasn’t what I had in mind, but my options were rather limited. I still had quite a bit of cash tucked away, but I needed to leave the whole party scene behind, at least for a while. Any reputable rental place required notice of current employment, something I didn’t have when I first started looking for housing; I didn’t have much time to look once I did. Any place that would let me move in without documentation was, not surprisingly, a hot bed for drug trafficking and other criminal activity, not to mention usually very unkempt and dirty with thousands of cockroaches scurrying everywhere. Try as I might, I couldn’t find a place to save my life, so back in with Mom and Dad I went. This was probably the best thing that happened to me, however, for my parents are solidly grounded Christians. Perhaps this is why the Jewish model of families has such strength and resilience (or for that matter many other “non-white, middle-class American” ethnic groups): there is something to be said for the tight family unity of collectivist cultures, something from which the often excessively individualistic America could learn.

Living about forty miles away from Springfield, I drove the interstate back and forth to work; rather than driving all that distance yet again, I began attending their small church. Soon the pastor asked me if I would teach the teen Sunday school class. I didn’t feel I was in any way, shape, or form qualified, but after praying about it, I reluctantly agreed about two weeks later. Even though I had previously shared my experiences with the teenagers, I was very nervous my first Sunday, a man who not more than a few months before was a full-time dealer, now surrounded by a room full of church kids—three of them the pastor’s!—for whom he was responsible. Despite my reservations, things went remarkably well.

After working for six months at the pickle factory and teaching Sunday school, I had the opportunity to get more education through the Job Corps center in Clearfield, Utah, all expenses paid. You have to have an exceptionally low income (far below minimum wage) to qualify, but since drug money is unreported income (obviously), I shirked the wire by nanometers. I decided I would take computer repair, or so was the original plan.

The church held a “going away” ceremony for me and I was invited to speak that morning, which I did, my life story enrapturing the congregation from start to finish. They not only found my life captivating, but many were surprised by the reasoned and articulate presentation as well as my obvious lucidity of thought and clarity of speech. I suppose the conception of a “druggie” usually does not involve these characteristic traits, but one must recall that I grew up in a comparatively literate home reading books from as far back as I can remember.

My touchdown on TWA airlines in Utah was greeted by the barren landscape of snow-covered mountains, sand, and tufts of dry, dead grass. I wondered what on earth I had gotten myself into. When an old, battered school bus showed up to cart us away, I was wondering all the more and upon arrival at the former military barracks converted in the schooling facility, I looked out the glass on what looked like a prison camp complete with a fenced yard, the guard shack monitoring traffic both to and from. I ended up in a cubicle with three other strangers and it was soon time for lights out. I lay there tossing and turning on the upper bunk, listening to the ominous sounds and strange voices around me. Somewhere in the early morning hours I settled into a fitful sleep. The next morning the lights came on with the residential advisors (RAs) beating on the bunks with the butts of their flashlights, and tired and bleary eyed, I waited my turn for the showers, stood in the long cafeteria line, and was finally sitting in a classroom.

I soon got used to the new routine and the following three weeks of orientation weren’t so bad. They took us out skating, out to eat, to the movies; we took in many sights and sounds of Utah. I wasn’t even in orientation a week when I found out about a student-based bible study on Thursday night; by the following week I had started my own on Sunday nights. Though we had phenomenal success, I soon realized this was a forbidden activity on campus. Time and again our meetings were disbanded, broken up by staff members who informed us on no uncertain terms that we were not to assemble together for any kind of religious observances. I was smart about it, however, and kept documentation of dates, times, names, and conversations—encouraging the other Christians and seekers to do the same—thinking that this could well go to a court of law. Together with my good Christian friend Darlene, a brusque black woman with a heart of gold hidden under a short fuse, I drafted up a list of guidelines when staff members begin to turn up the heat. I reviewed these principles recently and was amazed at their wisdom and the professionalism with which they were articulated.

Orientation ended and I was enrolled in business clerical, now a seasoned veteran of my surroundings. Despite repeated opposition, I faithfully conducted my Sunday evening bible studies, though the numbers began dwindling until there were times myself and John, the student who held them on Thursdays, were the only ones in attendance. These times were discouraging, but to be expected.

I wasn’t happy. None of us were allowed cars and we couldn’t leave the campus when we wanted. Guards were posted to apprehend the “fence hoppers,” and after I started my daily routine of walking the perimeter of the fence, I watched them haul in more than one individual sneaking back across the line. Clearfield Job Corps Center (CJCC) had a “phase” system that used earned merits for participating in campus activities—the on-campus theater where movies were fifty cents, the pool hall, the dance hall/activity center—but I rarely got enough stamps on my card to have the higher privileges. Occasionally, I caught a ride into town on the bus, but we could expect long hours with nothing to eat and often nothing productive to do.

Several parks were forbidden territory because they were in the rougher parts of town, and perhaps it wasn’t the most Christ-like of us, but on one such excursion we visited one, knowing they fed the homeless there; soon we were seated comfortably on the ground eating bread with our less fortunate neighbors and sharing crusts with the ubiquitous pigeons. There was more than enough bread to go around and it never tasted better; it had been hours since we had last eaten and I had forgotten my wallet, so I didn’t even have the meager twenty some dollars we got paid every two weeks. Still, it was free education, all expenses paid, and it was an opportunity to do a great deal of good.

As I mentioned, to qualify in the first place you had to be practically destitute, so many of the kids I rubbed shoulders with were street kids or worse. I counted many homosexuals, pagans, prostitutes, and the like as friends and saw the campus as a tremendous opportunity to share the very Gospel message that had set me free. In the entire time I was there, I had the privilege of leading six people to God: in virtually ever case they came and sought me out. Still, I was well known as a bible teacher and would carry the used bible I bought at ABC Books to class with me. The gold lettering on the dark brown hard cover had been rubbed nearly bare and I was later to learn, to my bemusement, that several students thought I was carrying a book of spells.

I don’t suppose I did look much like a Christian, for that matter. I had dyed my hair black while strung out on drugs, and given the length of my hair, the first six inches was its natural brown, the remaining foot or so was still black. During this time, I usually wore it tied back, which made for an odd sight: a brown-bearded brunette with a very long, unnaturally black ponytail. Add to this the fact that my clothing was almost entirely black: I even wore a black leather jacket, black leather tie, black silk shirt, black dress shoes, black socks, and black slacks—even black underwear underneath—to church on Sundays. I looked sharp, but a little startling I shouldn’t doubt, if you didn’t know me. :)

I worked well with the troubled youth. I was several years their senior—one of the oldest on campus—and mere months before I had been out slinging drugs myself. I was no stranger to their world and certainly not too good to associate with such “outcasts.”

Sunday mornings were the only occasion when we could catch the church bus off campus to nearby Ogden. Even though it was against the rules, we always tried to stuff our pockets with as much fruit and other food we could find to eat because we knew it would be several hours after church before we’d get back, sometimes even too late for lunch. After church, we would wait at the student center in Ogden where we played pool, watched television, and bought popcorn for fifty cents out of the snack machines. Right next to these was a small microwave oven, so that became our staple on Sunday afternoons. I think the bulk of my money went to financing popcorn for the other students!

In time, the church we attended began voluntarily coming to pick up students on Sunday evenings, but by then, my bible studies were firmly established on that night and I felt I had an obligation. Initially, I had chosen that night because I knew we only had one shot at church a week. Although only about four of us could fit, on Wednesday nights the pastor started coming by to pick us up in his car for which we were most grateful: that is, except for the fact that the man always wore far too much cologne! Evidentially his wife liked the smell of it; if I were her, I think I would have used my feminine graces to lovingly suggest he tone it back just a wee bit. Pew!

We soon got into trouble with the pastor, because having been imprisoned on the campus, when we finally were free, we took to walking down the sidewalks of Ogden before church while the others were in prayer for the service. Especially after going out of his way to pick us up, he was understandably upset when we would sometimes arrive back a little late; what he didn’t know was how incredibly close to God we felt during those times. There were many times a Christian comrade or two, myself, and a non-believing friend from campus would walk those sidewalks talking about God and life in general. God seemed so near in those moments; the smallest things most of us take for granted seemed ineffably sweet—though we were mere paupers, the smallest luxuries made us feel like gallant kings. All these things and more I would have shared with the pastor, but how does one convey such sentiments to a man with a church and a mission? He lived in his world—he cared enough to reach into ours—yet he had no way of knowing what it was to live in the reality we faced daily anymore than I suspect we knew what it was to live in his.

The barren countryside with dry desert sand and tufts of grass that first greeted my eyes in the month of January had, with the magic of spring, sprouted flowers in the desert. It is truly beautiful during the spring and summer months: the greenest greens, the bluest skies, flowers everywhere, the air crisp and clean, and the purple mountains beckoning you just beyond the outskirts of town. To give you some sense, for those of you who watch Touched by an Angel, it is filmed in Utah, not far from where we were. A further comparison is that of the Holy Lands, though I am basing this observation off films and photos; I have never had the luxury of visiting there myself.

No, I was not free. Having always been the free spirit, my freedom was among the things I most cherished. I began to pray that if it be God’s will, I might be able to move on to something else where I could be free: free to be me. Soon, my two weeks vacation came due. Flying back to Missouri during the beautiful spring months seemed a little strange. The hilly landscape had shrunk into a gently rolling prairie, the greens were not quite as varied and pronounced as what they once seemed, and yet I was home, back to the state I have called such for more years of my life now than not. I was also finally back in the land of adults again, where people treated you as such and you didn’t have ten thousand rules of conduct dangling over your head day in and day out. I was able to drive my car again: it felt as if I was driving an army tank down the road, my feet unaccustomed to the petals, the steering wheel grown foreign to my fingers. It felt just a little unreal—I loved every minute of it!

I could finally go out and enjoy my moonlit romps, such as the one I described in the recent “On the Nature of Fairytale: Seeing the Beauty in the Bittersweet.” Instead of keeping pace with my assignments, I had been using my business clerical class as a time to write my autobiography, almost all of which was completed in Utah. I had grand ideas of publishing it as a book, never envisioning a website and a newsletter; in fact, at the time I didn’t even have a computer. I dreamt of the picture-perfect cover, a nighttime photograph of Franska bridge under the moonlight, which I could see painted on the retina of my mind’s eye. With that said, what do you suppose part of my vacation found me doing?

Wearing a pair of cut-offs, a 35mm camera and stand in hand, I waded out into the middle of the river finding the best place to shoot film and set up the tripod, the current flowing past our five collective legs, and proceeded to wait until the moon rose high enough to get the ultimate angle. Unfortunately, the aperture was not large enough to let in enough light nor the shutter speed slow enough to capture a truly breathtaking picture. But I tried my best: if only I could have captured the subtle nuances of that awe-inspiring moment! You can at least appreciate the mental picture as you envision a hippie standing in the middle of a river in the dead of night, moss covered trees on either side, a 35mm mounted on a tripod, trying to capture the perfect picture for a book that may never be published. Ah well.

Far too soon it was back to Utah. I decided that we weren’t getting enough exposure as the numbers had dwindled to almost nothing; John had all but given up, and therefore I made the calculated decision to up the ante and print fliers. Never mind the fact that you could have almost any other support group imaginable: Native American, Gay and Lesbian, African American, etc. You were not allowed to have any religious group whatsoever. It didn’t matter that you couldn’t leave campus at will; it didn’t matter that students were conducting the meetings of their own volition and no staff members were involved; it didn’t matter that you had one shot at church a week without connections and even then they made it difficult for you—you were not allowed to have a Christian support group of any sort. I decided that by disregarding the rules, I was within Biblical guidelines, for I felt that by so doing, we were doing a far greater service for the Lord.

Thursday rolled around, and I was sitting in the cafeteria with another Christian who didn’t always attend the meetings, though he was a good friend and very supportive of our efforts. I joked with him that we had left our calling card and now there was likely going to be a showdown. I also told him I half suspected that I would end up leading the meeting myself and I invited him to come to watch the spectacle. We were not to be disappointed.

Though I conned the driver into letting me stand up in front of the church bus every Sunday morning to make an announcement for the bible studies, at least one girl had come for the first time, having just learned about our predominately covert operation through the flyers. John was sitting at the table, totally unprepared, playing chess or the like. I had no lesson plan, but I was always ready at a moment’s notice. We joined hands and, after taking their many requests, I led the group in prayer and proceeded to open my bible to teach. In less than ten minutes the center director and a female RA accosted us. They took down our names on a pad of notebook paper and everyone more than willingly signed. We were more than used to this by now, but the oddest thing happened. Let me put this in context of Scripture, which I firmly believe now just as I did then.

The first sentence of this passage is one that I feel has been given to me on many occasions, which makes me wonder where my life may yet lead, the second part is a promise I have believed and had tested and proven true on many occasions.

This is just exactly as it happened, or, as it was with the martyr Steven, when they began to argue with him “they were not able to resist the wisdom and the spirit by which he spake” (Acts 6:10). They were absolutely flabbergasted and frankly so was I. There was not a single accusation but what I did not have a ready answer, my temper remained very level, and I was polite and genial while having a spiritual backbone of steel like few other times in my life. It was like my intellectual capabilities were crystalline clear, a fog rolled away from my mind, my clarity of vision impossible for them to withstand. I guarantee that the impression is indelibly stamped on the minds of those in attendance, an impression that they assuredly talked about for weeks to follow. I’m not sure what all was said, but I do remember a few of the more basic things.

I told them that yes, I had signed a piece of paper when I entered the Job Corps campus, but that as a citizen of the United States there was no piece of paper on which I could sign away my rights as a U.S. citizen. I told them I could appreciate their concern that if they offered religious freedom to one group, this would mean they would have to extend the same freedom to all, including “devil worshippers.” (Their words, not mine.) I informed them that though I understood this rationale, if such a group did something—say, skinned a cat—they should be terminated based on the violation of campus rules, not on religious expression. I also told them that if they only knew my past, they might very well be kicking me out, but certainly not for conducting bible studies! ;)

The next day I was sitting in class when I received word that I was to report to the correctional office. They told me they had understood I had completed the program (since when?). Not a word was heard about the real reason, of course. To make a long story short, I was on a plane back to Missouri by the next morning—it would have been even earlier had any flights been available. To his credit, the center director came to the dorm to seek me out personally and told me he had a tremendous amount of respect for me. We spoke for nearly three hours, he of his Mormon beliefs, me of my traditional Christian interpretation. He told me that he didn’t have to tell me I would “go places”—he meant every word of what he said—and that “I just wanted you to know I wasn’t the one who kicked you out.” Evidently the female RA, who was nothing but pure hatred toward God and Christianity, decided that if you are going to scatter the flock, the best way is to take out the shepherd.

I took this as an answer to prayer at the time; I wanted out. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I would have challenged it in court—I am certain I would have had a case and my father even contacted a Christian attorney, but in order to combat it, I had to seek re-admittance, something I was not prepared to do. Sometimes I wish I would have now, but I didn’t feel I was doing wrong then.

When you take a bunch of “street kids” and confine them on a campus in the name of free education, you assume they aren’t smart enough or strong enough to know better. If a nail does happen to stick up a little, you assume you can pound it back down without further recourse. I look back now and say, “If only . . .” There was one other problem with this, however. My carefully documented accounts were foolishly entrusted to a Christian I didn’t know well who left the program presumably with papers in hand. I might have made more of it had I had this hard evidence. For that matter, I have no idea what happened after I left. Of the two people I’ve had contact with since, the first completed a few weeks before I did, the second left the same day and flew next to me on the airplane to St. Louis.

I was now back home without a job and sunk into a depression. I prayed earnestly to find work; eventually the only option available to me was the newly renamed Tyson foods, which soon became Willow Brook foods. I really didn’t want to go back. I had run drugs through that place, and the thought of going back filled me with anxiety. But I knew beyond a doubt that is where God wanted me, so back I went and that is where I still work to this very day as of July 17, 2002.

God, in His provision, saw fit that I would find a job that allows me full benefits—medical, dental, 401(k)—while working part time hours, not to mention reimburses me up to a thousand dollars a year toward tuition. My job is far from glamorous, but this is a much more attractive package than that of many of my fellow college students who, to all appearances, have the more prestigious jobs. Despite outward appearances—all the many frills their credit cards can buy—I make better wages as well, though I am considerably more frugal with my funds. Be this as it may, one more semester and I’ll be starting my junior year: better late than never.

One last parting tale before I leave: I went to visit Jimmy and Leann two years ago for Leann’s birthday. They were still talking about my conversion, as full of questions as ever before. Before long, Jimmy and I took a trip to the store to go and get some steak, several ears of corn, potatoes, watermelon, birthday cake and other supplies for the festive occasion. Jimmy had them slice the steak ultra thick and dropped two cases of his ever-present beer in the cart while he was at it. We checked out and I was talking with him on the way back to his home. Being used to driving the thoroughfares where the speed limit is forty, I have become accustomed to mindlessly driving on “automatic pilot,” paying little attention to the speedometer. I was cruising through his residential area—which is posted fifteen miles per hour less than the expressways—intent on the conversation when he informed me I ought to slow down. I brushed him off seconds before the blue lights went on behind us. Remember that I told you earlier Jimmy had gotten a DWI in my car? He had never made his arraignment. Yes, that’s right. Jimmy was soon cuffed, read his rights, and carted off to jail.

The third officer didn’t say much to me, though after handing me my ticket, he noted the beer on the back floorboard. He took one look at me, flashed me a knowing smile, and said, “ah, you’re overage.” I simply smiled back at him, feeling a bit foolish.

Late that evening Leann and I finally bailed him out after I co-signed, for I was the only one eligible. We ate late steak, corn, and potatoes until we were stuffed to the gills and I went home for the evening, dead tired, desperately trying to stay awake the next morning while the pastor’s voice kept fading in and out.

And so, with waning clerical voices, we draw to a close. Do you realize that I have said almost nothing I intended to say and much of what I didn’t? It would be interesting to see what some of your reactions are. The impression you may have formed in your mind of the author on the other end of these mailings may be drastically different from the portrayal pictured here. So be it. I would like to believe that this is all the much more to the glory and power of God. A long-haired hippie, former drug addict and dope dealer, driving a dilapidated car, who, by the sheer determination of his will (and the grace of God) decided to launch a website and a newsletter, neither of which he has so much as a penny invested. Hours and hours of time, yes. Money, no.

This is the paragraph that I usually tie everything together with some kind of nice, poetic and/or philosophic wrap-up. Not today. I am feeling much too free-spirited and candid now, so refreshing to simply drop the scholastic pretense—if only for a moment—and let my life story unravel at its own leisurely pace: to let the art create itself rather than being shaped by the artist. Adieu to you, my friends. Night night, sleep tight: don’t let those bothersome beddy bugs bite!

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