Poppa Henthorn (my maternal grandfather) thought that someday I'd kill my brother. I can't remember how many times over the course of years I've heard that from my mother and father. Apparently I had a pretty violent temper, although I don't remember it, except for the time I stabbed a kid in junior high. My parents repeatedly reminded me of the time I chased my brother through the house with a baseball bat. He was older and bigger than I, but I guess a baseball bat is an equalizer.
The day began with writer's club at the library, followed by a visit with my friend Rick in the hospital. Then after band rehearsal, I drove straight to prison for Friday evening Bible study. In our discussion group, one man who received Christ at the Keryx weekend told of how he used to wake up depressed because of his surroundings, but how he now wakes up happy. Another mentioned the difficulties he's faced this past week, and a third spoke of how he's been witnessing to his bunkies, and of how he likes to paint and hopes for a painting job in the prison. He's been there for 25 years.
I can't imagine prison doors clanging shut behind me, knowing this is my life for the next 25 years or more. The man beside me tonight who is doing that kind of time is about my age. He was a young man when he entered, and will be an old man when or if he gets out. I can't even imagine living there for two or three years. The men are there because of crimes they committed, but as I drove home, I remembered my mother's words and know it is only the grace of God that has spared me from a life behind bars. Tonight I'm lying in bed beside my wife as I type, and I am deeply grateful that God spared me. Why me, and not them, I'll never know, but I am thankful tonight that he did, and know the truth of Jesus' statement, "To whom is given much, much shall be required." One thing I know: I owe these men. I've received much; they have not. It's time to do my best to even the score.
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