Water, in Jesus' Name

It has been a long day. Wednesday during the school year is my busiest day of the week, with the day filled from first thing in the morning until well past early evening. Today, for example, I was up early enough to get myself ready before the kids assail our two bathrooms getting ready for school. Claudia is out of town on a fairly extensive series of training and speaking events, so I do my part in transporting kids to school and then I'm in the office by 7:30 AM. I meet with one of our new staff members to begin work on his ninety-day ministry plan, transition in five minutes to our regular staff meeting, followed by a brief lunch and a second early afternoon meeting.

It is now mid-afternoon, and I am receiving texts from three of our children with specific requests they have in mind. At 3:00 our son Mike (20), who is living semi-independenty stops by the office to talk about how we can assist him financially in purchasing a winter coat. After our discussion I transport him to a friend's car across town and come home to take care of tasks that have accumulated throughout the intervening hours. I take three of our kids to a store so they can buy what they need and return home to provide some emotional stability for our second youngest son, Dominyk (13), who is more agitated than usual tonight. By 5:30 we are heading to church for Wednesday evening dinner, followed by music practices and confirmation (a class which I instruct). By 8:00 it's time to exit church and head for the local grocery store to purchase items for tomorrow's Clergy Day Apart, a gathering of area United Methodist clergy once a month, hosted at our church. I have three of my kids with me, and I enjoy spending purposeful time with them. We arrive home, I check in with those who have been home already for some time and enter my bedroom, where I sit at my desk to check late-arriving emails and await my wife's arrival online so we can chat for a few minutes before bed.

She appears, we exchange pleasantries and synopses of our days, and then she asks if I've heard anything from our newest "son." This "son" appeared at our house sometime about a year ago, a friend of our three ninth grade boys. It wasn't long before he was staying regularly on weekends, and then nearly every night. Finally he just stopped going home and made our home his. We told him he was welcome to stay here, but that he would have family responsibilities like anyone else, that it had to be OK with his mother, and that he had to keep in regular contact with her. We want to be supportive of him, but not disruptive of his family origins. It has really been an interesting series of months, and Claudia and I have noticed no negative difference in our family as a result of his presence. He is one of ours.

Recently he contracted a cough (which has been spreading throughout our family and elsewhere) and became quite ill. He asked to go to his step-dad's house (where his mother and a couple of half-siblings live), and I transported him there on Monday night. I realized then that he must be quite sick to ask to return home. In the meantime he has seen a doctor and received a prescription.

When I asked our kids on Tuesday if they had heard from him, they said, "He went to the doctor, but they don't have any insurance, and his mom doesn't have money to buy the medication." I must confess I was rather uncharitable in that moment, probably saying more than I should have, something to the effect of, "Well, if his mom's husband has enough money to drink a six-pack every night, there should be enough money to buy a sick kid medication." I didn't belabor the point, though, and didn't want to demonize his family in front of my kids, so I said nothing more.

So, Claudia asks me, "Have you heard how XXXXX is doing?" I said, "No." The last we had heard is that basically he was still very sick, but had no medication to take. Contrary to my reclusive character, I picked up my iPhone and texted him, asking him if he was still sick and if he had his prescription filled.

At first I received no text back, so I continued with my online conversation with Claudia. Ten minutes later an apology appeared, "Sorry I was sleeping." So I asked him again ... and in a series of text messages discovered that nothing had changed. He was still very sick but did not have the money for the prescription. I determined from him where the prescription had been electronically delivered, and asked him to be ready in ten minutes.

I'll have to admit that I was not necessarily thinking to myself, "This is what I need to do because I am a Christian." I was thinking rather ignoble thoughts about his legal caretakers, and wondering how it is that he had become one of my children over the course of the past four or five months. This is one of my kids, I thought to myself, and there is no way in hell I am going to let him suffer through an excruciating cough, fever and symptoms of H1N1 without doing something about it.

And then I was startled by his next text: "But can you get a water first? That would be great." What? I paused. I glanced at the text frame on my iPhone. What was the source of that request? It was almost as though the gospel text affirmed my intention to do the right thing. A "cup of water, offered in Jesus' name." I assured him I would buy him some water when we picked up his meds.

At 10:30 PM I was pulling into the mobile home park where his family lives, where he sat on the steps awaiting my arrival in the dark. As he ambled over to the car I could hear his wracking cough, and as he opened the door and sat down I inquired, "Como estas?" (he is Hispanic and bilingual). "About the same" was his linguistically tortured response. Our drive to Walgreen's was a quiet one. My son Ricardo (16) was with us (I thought XXXX would be more comfortable with one of his friends along with me), and we drove in contented silence.

As we entered the store I asked mijo ("my son" in Spanish) if he had picked up a prescription before. I could tell by the look on his face that he had probably never done this before, so I led him through the process. I greeted the pharmacist who glanced at my middle-aged, graying-around-the-temples caucasian form and the two young Hispanic men with me. I indicated as discreetly as I could that I would be paying for the prescription, and confirmed that there was no insurance. The pharmacist instructed XXXX as to the dosages and frequency of administration. As promised, we walked to the open cooler and I asked XXXXX to pick out several drinks to take with him. In addition we purchased some ibuprofen and cough drops.

In the car I went through dosage instructions once again, handed him the two pills he would need to take right away, and reminded him that he needed to take one per day afterwards. He nodded his understanding. Minutes later we were back at his step-father's mobile home, and as he opened the door to leave I reminded him that I would text him tomorrow to check in with him, and that we wanted him well again because we missed him at our home. His muted "thanks" were acknowledged, as he stepped back into the shadows of a cool, late September night, going "home" again, but not really.

By the time I returned home XXXX had texted again to tell me he had taken his medications, and wanting to make sure he knew when to take the next dosage. I confirmed the directions and told him to get well soon.

You know, it's a strange world we live in when a $70 prescription, three bottled waters, two bags of cough drops and one bottle of ibuprofen offered in Jesus' name late on a fall night cures more than flu-like symptoms. And I'm not talking about "mijo." I'm talking about myself.

Necessarily Inconvenienced ... the Life of a Parent

Claudia and I are preparing to take a week's vacation by traveling with friends who share our last name but not our direct genealogy this week. We will travel from our home in south-central Minnesota to Columbus, Ohio, where we will present workshops at the North American Council on Adoptable Children (NACAC) annual conference. We have attended many of these conferences in the past decade and have found them to be places of support, education and connection. It has become one of our regular routines of summer, and we like it.

Coordinating travel is always a challenge. With the number of children we have, there a multitude of logistical issues to resolve. Where will our kids stay? Which kids can be home together and live in harmony? Which PCA (personal care attendant) will be able to "overnight it" to provide adult supervision? What will they eat ... planning the menus, purchasing the groceries, providing money for milk and basics later in the week. What about laundry? Where are socks for everyone? Is there enough laundry detergent, softener, dishwasher concentrate, dishwashing liquid, cleaning supplies for the week?

It is a tiresome, tedious process which Claudia and I divided between ourselves. This time, however, there have been several of complications that have inconvenienced out always stressful planning process. I have had a couple of professional responsibilities to care for that have crept over into my vacation time this week. Inconvenient, but necessary and care for. We have the extra frustration of replacing a passenger window in our car before we can actually depart on our trip. The window, of course, was broken by a careless thirteen-year-old on Friday night and, of course, the specific glass cannot be shipped to our community until tomorrow morning by 8:00. (We hoped to leave by 9:00, but that may be delayed now). I have been waiting a week or so to have the oil changed in our car so that we could begin our 1600 mile trip with fresh oil. That will have to be squeezed in after the window has been replaced tomorrow morning. I would like the car completely washed and vacuumed before leaving, too, so the stress is compounded.

That is all inconvenient. But the biggest inconvenience of the day is that our son John was released after 88 days in a county jail two hours from our home. The timing was not great, but we had few options. We couldn't see him being released onto the streets, and we were unable to find anyone willing to house him until our return in a few days. (We can't really blame anyone ... who would be open to welcoming someone who has been jailed for legal "criminal sexual conduct" (and no, he has not been assessed as a predator or as a risk to society; it is simply the age-old statutory rape issue with a male who is eighteen and a girlfriend nearly sixteen years of age).

So at 6:00 AM I drove out of our driveway with three of my children (I told the family that anyone who wanted to come could, but they needed to up and ready to leave at 6:00 AM without my getting them up) to pick up our son. We arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled court hearing, but it was late. Ninety minutes after its scheduled time to begin, the hearing commenced.

John was brought into the courtroom in his jail "blues," handcuffed and shackled, with an armed deputy standing immediately behind his chair for the duration of the hearing. Security has been strengthened in this particular court room after an incident sometime ago in which an inmate threw a sandal at the judge.

John's public defender is a champion of his clients, intelligent, articulate and passionate. Since this was not my first time in a court room with one of my children, I am pretty familiar with the protocol and not at all anxious. I have developed a rather hardened shell after all these years of receiving in some cases as much blame from the legal system as my children who have defied my and society's mandates. So, I never really expect much in the courtroom anymore and am prepared to take my legal tongue-lashing for parenting children who are not law abiding.

Today, however, was different. The attorney took time in his eloquent communication to acknowledge the work that Claudia and I have done in "taking in challenging kids and adopting them," as he put it. He commended me publicly for investing time in challenged kids and, in particular, for our willingness to bring John back into our family's life, even after serious legal charges have been levied. I was touched by his sincerity and warmed by his words of affirmation.

The judge was equally as impressive. He spoke in even and courteous -- but direct -- sentences that made it clear to John what would happen if he violates the terms of his probation. In brief fashion, should probation be violated, John will be required to register for life as a sex offender, serve up to fifteen years of probation and perhaps as long of prison sentence. This was not a surprise.

But the judge's next words were. "John, I have read your files, and I can see that you have spent most of your teenage years in legal trouble. I'm assuming that has been difficult for you, but not nearly as difficult as it has been for your parents over these years. You have had many opportunities to make good choices and have not. People have tried in your life, but you have consistently chosen to disregard them. You have the opportunity now, as an adult, to get your life together." He went on to present clearly and fairly what John needs to do.

Again, I was touched to have received even a brief moment of acknowledgment that raising John and children like him has been very, very difficult. Today was an inconvenience, but in the past eight years of John's involvement with the social services and legal systems, Claudia's and my lives have been very difficult. In that time we have learned so much about what we can control and what we cannot control. We are much more at peace with ourselves and our children today, knowing that there is really only so much a parent can do for a kid hell-bent on self-destruction.

Through it all, though, we have learned that unconditional commitment to a child (or young adult, in this case) may be the only thing that ultimately a parent can offer. All the rest is necessary inconvenience.

Attachment Is a Nice Thing

Over the years of raising attachment-disordered children (our oldest four children, in particular) I have forgotten just how nice attachment can be between a parent and a child. And, I suppose, how natural attachment is for many parents who raise children with that innate capacity not having been destroyed by early years of neglect or abuse.

Today I took three of our kids, Mercedes (13), Leon (14) and Ricardo (15) to our church parking lot, where they met a group of teenagers and parents who are on their way to Kansas City. There they will be engaged in mission work together for about a week's time. Over the years I have taken many of our children to such settings, and I have learned to be careful not to excessively embarrass them. Our older children seem to have had the more significant attachment issues, and I learned in those early years of parenting to keep my distance in public situations. I always made sure to bid them goodbye and pat them on the shoulder or whatever, and almost always with no reciprocal response and never at their initiation. I became accustomed to this unusual way of saying "goodbye," always hoping that my consistent efforts to express affection would pay off one day. To date they really haven't. With our older, attachment-disordered children it is still painfully awkward to express or receive emotion. I have pretty much given up on that after all these years.

So, this morning before we left the house I made a point of hugging each of the three kids going on the missions trip, telling them that I was happy they were doing something good and that we would miss them in their absence. I wanted to make sure I had a moment for connection if things at the church became too busy or awkward for that to occur. We loaded into the car and set off for the parking lot.

Arriving there they unloaded their luggage and gathered with other youth and parents. I had to make a quick trip to the ATM for cash for my young missionaries and joined them a few minutes later. I joined the casually gathering circle of humanity when I felt a warm body cuddling up to mine. Expecting it to be our daughter Mercedes (who is quite affectionate at home and in public) I glanced down, having to make a second glance. It was our newest son, Leon, clearly desiring to be close to me in the moments before his departure. I stretched my around his shoulders and hugged him close (but not too close, since I didn't want to embarrass him). His body eased into my side, as natural as sunshine in the morning. He was content to stand as close to me as he could, my arm around his shoulders squeezing his tanned neck as an act of parental affection. He didn't move until he had to, when our youth pastor invited the youth participating to move to one side of the circle and the rest of us to the other. And even then he was reluctant; it was obvious that he preferred to stand close to me in those waning moments than with his peers.

I couldn't believe it. I have a kid -- a fourteen-year-old boy, at that -- who is attached and who loves his dad (he loves his mother, too, probably a little more than me). It was a very fulfilling emotional moment. I have waited years and years for one of my kids to initiate any indicator of healthy attachment, and reality arrived early this morning on a humid, rain-spattered morning in a church parking lot.

It's strange how adoptive parents learn to value the things that many "ordinary" families take for granted. Like a child-initiated hug in a church parking lot filled with peers and parents. Attachment. It's a very nice thing.

Breakfast With the Kids' Friend

Claudia and I have always had as a goal for our family something we might call permeable boundaries. Permeable boundaries is a concept that attempts the best of two worlds: clear boundary expectations with a sense of inclusive hospitality. What I mean is that we have some clear family guidelines about what we expect from people who live in our home, but we want our family to be an "open" system, not a "closed" system. Many families with clear expectations, it seems, become mini-fortresses unto themselves, where those who are "in" are "in" and those who are "out" are "out."

Claudia grew up in a family where her brothers' and her friends were always welcome in the family home. She tells me that on more than one occasion her parents "took in" friends of her brothers who were unable, for whatever reason, to live with their families of origin for a period of time. It was simply the way her parents practiced their faith. They were (and are) hospitable people, generous in giving of themselves and whatever they have.

I was also raised in a family where inclusion was a strong value. Although we never had anyone live with us for any length of time, my mother from my earliest days instilled in me a concern for those who were different (due to physical or mental handicaps), forgotten (foster children in the community) or outcasts. She herself was raised in a family with interesting dynamics; her mother was always clear that there were no "step"-whatevers in our family. There were only children and (as they grew up) people who were to be treated with dignity and respect.

It is no surprise, then, that our home has continued to follow in these noble directions. Even during some of our most challenging times three years ago we did our best to be hospitable to friends of our kids. I have served food at our table on more than one occasion to our son Mike and his friends in moments when it was obvious they were inebriated or high. Frankly those moments tested my Christian conviction, because the behaviors I cite violate our family guidelines, and I was not all that interested in being kind to older teenagers living in ways that rejected our values. I decided, with gritted teeth, that my Christian witness would be stronger in providing compassionate hospitality than in asserting a moral code ... at least in those moments.

In any case, we have always considered it a privilege that many of our kids like to invite their friends to our home. Usually that has been for a short period of time -- an overnight or a weekend -- but this summer that invitation has extended to what appears to be an entire summer kind of thing. Our fourteen-year-old boys (we have three of them) have a shared friend who is a really nice kid. He is respectful, appropriate and cooperative.

Just before school was letting out in May, Leon asked if this friend could "move in for the summer." Claudia and I thought the request might be a bit exaggerated for emphasis, but we had no problem in saying, almost immediately, "Sure, as long as it's OK with his parent(s)." The request, it turns out, was quite literal, with no exaggeration. When it became apparent to us that he would be staying with us the summer, Claudia sat him down to explain our expectations. He would need to comply with our family's behavioral guidelines. He would need to assume a household chore. He would need to keep in contact with his mother on a regular basis. Their friend has been here nearly every night and day since that time, and it has worked out beautifully.

Last night as we watched Leon's late baseball game (it started at 8:00 PM and wasn't over until past 10:00 PM), I glanced past Claudia to see him sitting in one of our family's chairs, as bonded to us (or moreso) than our own children. Fortunately for him in this very white community he has "siblings" who belong to us who look nothing like us, so it's as natural as can be for him to assume a family connection with us.

I was up earlier than anyone else today, and I decided I would make pancakes for breakfast. On my day off (which Friday is) I usually make something that I eat right away and then serve others as they awaken (until about 10 AM, which is our family cut-off time for breakfast). It was quiet in the house, I had just sat down to eat my pancakes and sausage, when out of the corner of my eye I saw our kids' friend walking quietly up the stairs. Not wanting to shatter his or my solitude, I waved good morning to him. A few minutes later he appeared in the kitchen, and I asked him if he'd like me to make him some pancakes.

"Please," he said, a response, that from my kids or their friends, will motivate me to do a lot. A few minutes later we were sitting down at the table together eating quietly, as he prepared for his morning at summer school. In those moments words aren't really necessary. It makes me feel good to know that we are providing this young man with some stability and connection during the summer. I hope it teaches him something about the lived values of a Christian family. And I hope it teaches my kids something of Jesus' ethic of inclusion and hospitality.

Years ago I might have felt a bit awkward eating breakfast with my kids' friend without my children being there, but these days I simply count it a blessing and thank God for helping us create the kind of family that has permeable boundaries.

A Cynic's Surprise

I have alluded to the reality that I have a tendency to be a bit cynical about things at times. Years of working with humans in both my professional and personal life remind me daily of just how fragile and ordinary life can be. While I find every individual's story interesting, and often provocative, I have seen and experienced too much the apathy and pain of others to have more than a jaded view of things. As an adoptive parent of older children, experience has taught me to expect the worst so that I can appreciate the surprise of something going well. (And, in case you're wondering ... no, it is not my practice to express to my children that I expect the worst in them ... I communicate expectations of the best, but prepare myself internally for the worst).

Last night Claudia and I were together in two church-related meetings. The first took place with nearly all of our teenaged kids, while the second was just the two of us plus a couple of other adults. Both meetings were really positive and encouraging, which makes me smile internally. During the second meeting I received a call on my iPhone from one of our older sons asking, "Is it OK if we go to the park?" Having learned from many years of parenting experience, you will understand that my next question was: "Sure. Who is 'we'?" He said, "Ummm. Just about all of us, and he named each of the boys in our family, plus one of our kids' friends who is pretty much living with us this summer." "OK," I said.

After the meeting, on the way home together, I said to Claudia, "Oh, yeah. That call was from Jimmy. He asked if they could all go to the park."

"Hmmm," Claudia replied. "I got a call from the girls [our fourteen-year-old daughter and her friend] that they wanted to go to the park, too. I think we should just swing by the park before we go home to see what's happening."

We have had a good summer so far with the kids who live in our home. They are getting along well together, can be trusted for periods of time with no parents in immediate line of supervision, and generally are earning a great deal of trust with their good behavior. Inwardly I began to cringe, wondering if we had reached a new negative turning point and hoping that I would not regret my decision to tell them they could go to the park together.

In years past, especially three years ago after having moved to our "new" community and with several of the older children living in our home at that time, any of their forays into the community were met with some new challenge. Negative peer influences, physical assaults, alcohol and drug experimentation ... we were never sure what would happen, but we always knew something negative would happen.

As we rounded to corner to the park, I was subconsciously chafing within. Just how disillusioned and disappointed would I be this time?

Before I could make out the figures in the distance (it was dusk and my middle-aged eyes aren't what they used to be), Claudia said in approbation. "Well, will you look at that? Our family is playing baseball together!"

With the exception of our sixteen-year-old daughter (who is home for a few days from her boyfriend's family's house), all of our children were at the baseball field. There were enough boys to fill the outfield and bases, as well as allowing a pitcher and a batter. In the stands were the two girls in what appeared to be a cheerleader-like stance. They were not arguing, taunting or otherwise disturbing one another. They were, I kid you not, playing baseball together. What could be more all-American and "normal" than that? And who else in our community has the personnel resources under roof to accomplish such a feat without even calling friends?

I returned home with a glow in my heart, my cynicism for the moment melting in a pool of emotional warmth. A few minutes later they returned home as the summer darkness was closing in. Seeing fourteen-year-old Leon, I said, "Hey, it looked like you guys were having a lot of fun. You even had a couple of cheerleaders out there."

He glanced at me impassively and without missing a beat responded, "Well, I think they were doing my texting than cheerleading out there."

So maybe I'm not the only cynic in our family, but every once in a while everyone, even those of us predisposed to negativity, enjoy a surprise.

The Irony Which Informs My Faith

Claudia and I returned from our Philadelphia trip today. We had a delightful few days together doing what we most enjoy ... I love to investigate new places and historical sites, and Claudia likes to, well, work. So I spent most of yesterday exploring Philadelphia in the rain (I was gone about ten hours all told) while Claudia worked diligently in the room. Both of us feel we succeeded, so we returned home satisfied.

We were thrilled to learn that our kids who had been semi-independent (we have good neighbors across the street who serve as support, plus Dominyk's PCAs) for these days did well in our absence. Almost all of the laundry was done, the kitchen and living rooms had been cleaned and the emotional barometer was as steady as a blue-skied summer day.

After greeting our kids I began to skim through the accumulated mail for the week. In the midst of magazines, bills and solicitations was a letter from our son. As I surveyed the envelope with its county adult detention address, the irony which I have contemplated many times struck me once again. Our son's name is (I'll make this non-searchable, so read around the "*"s) J*ohn W*esley F*letcher, a name that has important connections in our family of Christian faith, the Methodist movement. It was John Wesley (1703-1791), an Anglican priest, who was instrumental in a revival of religion that swept across Great Britain and into the early United States of America. John Fletcher (1729-1785) was a contemporary of Wesley's and considered to be the theologian of the movement. It was rumored that John Fletcher was Wesley's intended heir apparent, but due to Fletcher's early death and Wesley's extended life this never materialized.

In any case, you might see why our son's name is significant in the family of a United Methodist pastor. When he was baptized at the age of ten we explained to him the historical heritage his name carried. His full name is J*ohn W*esley R*odriguez F*letcher (we included his birth surname), and we and he have always been proud to see the Methodist and Hispanic connections in his identity.

To see the names of two of Methodism's founding fathers handwritten above the institutional stamp of a county jail is an irony which forms my faith. And no, it is not the irony you might think -- a United Methodist pastor with a son whose name represents powerful figures in Christian history sitting in a county jail for charges that could result in his having to register as an offender for years to come.

No, the irony for me is that one of the groups of people John Wesley was most concerned about was those in prison. Much of his time and the time of his "preachers" was invested in visiting those who were incarcerated. In fact, for those of us who are ordained Elders in the United Methodist Church, it is a question asked of us prior to ordination: "Will you visit those in jail?"

It is oddly comforting for me to recognize this irony -- that my son J*ohn W*esley F*letcher is situated in a location his historical namesakes would have been quite familiar with -- and to believe that one day my JWF will discover the spiritual power that transformed those who have come before him.

A Visit to Philadelphia's Eastern State Penitentiary

I am on vacation this week in Philadelphia, the birthplace of the United States of America. I have accompanied my wife on one of her speaking engagements, and while she works I experience the city of foot. This has been my fullest day this week, just in time for our return tomorrow to Minnesota. I am happy to report that I have walked more than 18,000 steps today, most of them from our hotel to Independence Hall and back. Once there I hailed one of the tour buses, disembarking at what is now a visitor's site, the Eastern State Penitentiary. This penitentiary was first opened in 1829 and saw its last prisoners leave in 1971. The tour is self-guided with the assistance of an easy-to-use listening device. I spent nearly two hours in the experience, moving at a fairly steady pace; I could have spent at least another hour there, exploring empty cell blocks and listening to further presentations with more attention to detail. It was really quite fascinating.

In the past few years I have become much more interested with the history of penology as a parent of a couple adult "kids" who have found their way behind bars as a result of breaking the law. I must say that the adoption journey has provided many opportunities for me to think about situations that earlier in my life rarely crossed my mind. Sure, I had thought philosophically about the criminal justice system as a college student, debated about it during my years in seminary, even initiated a visit to a prison years ago with two of our foster children in attempt to "scare them straight." I am not sure what ever became of the two foster kids, but I was always hopeful that I wouldn't be the parent of kids behind bars. Unfortunately, that has not proven to be the case, and I have had to come face-to-face with more than philosophical meanderings about criminal justice.


ESP came about due to the prison reform concerns of leading Philadelphians like Benjamin Franklin and (Episcopal) Bishop William White. They and others formed what was then called The Philadelphia Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons (it first met in May 1787). My visit to ESP reminded me that in many cases the purpose of incarceration was not punishment for crimes committed; it was created as an opportunity for the "criminal" to become "penitent" (note that this is the root of the word "penitentiary"). While not all facilities were built with this purpose in mind, ESP was in the early 1800s. Even the language used to describe the experience connected with religious imagery. Ask a priest or other person familiar with the ways of the monastic, and he will be clear that even today in such a setting an individual monastic's room is called a "cell." In the cell was an opportunity for solitude, confession and amendment of life.

At ESP in the early days prisoners were "hooded" before entering the facility, until they were securely locked in their cell. This was to protect their identity from being observed by others, as well as protecting the identity of those already incarcerated. Once in the cell they had the bare minimums -- a bed, a bench and a cast iron toilet. Interestingly, ESP has indoor plumbing in place before the White House in Washington, DC! Once a day for an hour's time the inmate was allowed to step into the fresh air immediately behind his cell. Each cell had an individual area for outside exercise; no contact was permitted between prisoners. In the early years, an individual could serve the length of his sentence and not have contact with any other prisoner during that time period.

I found this picture too interesting to pass up. It is a picture from the "early days" with an inmate in his cell. He has a writing desk, a bed and on the wall above the door to his exercise area in back is a cross (the picture does not show that clearly) in the center, with two pictures on either side. Immediately above the door is this text:

I believe in God my Father

And in Jesus Christ my Saviour

And in the Holy Spirit, who comforts me and leads me into all truth


Compared with today's context, it seems a glaringly sectarian approach to reform. A clear statement of the traditional Christian understanding of a trinitarian God would never find state approval in today's culture. It would seem, in fairness, that it wasn't a universal at ESP, either, as there was a synagogue and a rabbincal leader for inmates of Jewish faith. However, the role of religious faith was, for those who created this penitentiary, paramount. To reform one's life meant, by default, the need to connect with God.

There don't seem to be any good records as to the success rate of ESP. It is not known whether ESP's approach to reforming a criminal's life was more fruitful than those penitentiaries where punishment was more the norm. I have to wonder, though, how much benefit might be derived from the appropriate exploration of spirituality by those currently incarcerated. (I'm not advocating that state or federal penitentiaries be places where faith is forced upon anyone, but why wouldn't society benefit from the opportunity to offer to a "captive" audience the opportunity to "reform" based upon a new or renewed relationship with the Divine?)

It seems to me that the United States of America -- with more people incarcerated than any other country in the world -- might rethink some of our criminal justice processes. Perhaps it is time to form a new Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons. It is nearly two hundred years since this positive model was initiated. What might it look like today?