Authors: Wid Bastian
By this point Julie Morgan had heard more than enough. She took the gloves completely off.
“Tell your phony God to kiss my a**, and if you ever touch me or come near me again I won’t stop at a court order, I’ll see you get hurt. Now get your filthy hands off of me.”
Having gotten in the last word, with a confident flair and her head held high, Mrs. Julie Morgan turned and walked away. Every man in the place was watching her, trying to visualize just how perfect that body really was under that tight dress. Every man but one, that is.
Peter had already started back to the south lawn to be alone and to pray for his ex-wife and his son.
Christmas in prison can be the most depressing day of the year. More so than at perhaps any other time an incarcerated man’s thoughts focus on the family and friends he may no longer have and on the good times past. Joy is often in short supply.
Peter was by no means immune to this problem. His heart and mind were not on the miracle of Christ’s birth, but rather on his son, and the fact that he could neither talk to him nor see him. He wondered what Kevin had been told, but he really had no doubt; right now his mother was probably consoling him by saying, “I know your father was supposed to call. I’m so sorry, Kevin, but Walter and I love you.”
The men were expecting a rousing Christmas service, one full of hope and the promise of “life more abundantly” in Christ. Miss Mac set up a hundred chairs around the porch (brought them in special, raising more than a few eyebrows) in anticipation of a large crowd.
“Pastor Pete,” as most of the men now called him, wasn’t polishing his sermon or making the rounds with Malik and Saul this Christmas morning. Despite his best intentions, he still hadn’t gotten out of bed.
All night long he was haunted by his visit from Julie. It wasn’t self-pity or rejection or anything to do with him that was troubling his soul. It was Kevin. Why must he suffer for my sins? He’d asked God this a thousand times since midnight. Despite knowing how crazy it was, Peter found himself seriously fantasizing about walking into town, stealing a car, driving to Atlanta and taking Kevin away forever.
Peter did believe, despite his fleshly urge to run out and save his son, in St. Paul’s admonition that, as Christians, we must, “walk by faith and not by sight.” What appears to be an insurmountable problem, everything from an illness to a divorce to a prison term, is often simply a vehicle for God to use to implement His perfect plan for our lives.
While Peter was nowhere near one hundred percent, a few hours of silent prayer sufficiently recharged him to be able to get on with the day. “Whether in season or out of season” (regardless of one’s emotional state) it was his duty to care for his flock. Peter reminded himself that many of the men would also not get to see their children today.
Dressing quickly and gulping down a cup of coffee, Peter made his way out of the dorm and toward the compound. An inmate intercepted him and asked for a brief prayer for his mother, who was gravely ill.
Just as he was about to say “amen” and open his eyes, he heard a child’s voice calling to him.
“Hi, Mr. Peter.”
Although he had never seen her, he knew who it was. Peter turned and standing behind him was little Carrie Johnson, all four and a half beautiful feet of her.
“Mr. Peter, auntie Gail brought me to your Christmas church. I wanted to come and give you a kiss.”
With a sudden surge of joy, Peter reached down and lifted the little girl into his arms. Seeing and feeling the flesh and blood of a miracle made his spirit soar and his own problems seem less daunting.
“Isn’t she the most adorable child God ever made?” Gail McCorkle said, as Peter put Carrie down. “There are no words that could possibly express the incredible happiness and peace my family feels this Christmas, Peter. All of us thank God for you everyday.”
At times the Lord reminds us of what He will do by showing us what He’s already done. Peter knew that his anxiety over Kevin was unwarranted. If God healed this precious child, surely He would take care of his son too.
Peter picked up Carrie and carried her to the cafeteria where inmates and family members were gathering for Christmas dinner. They talked along the way.
“You look better in person than you did in my dreams, Mr. Peter.”
“Yes? You knew what I looked like before you got here?”
“Of course, Mr. Peter. You came to me and told me to wake up, don’t you remember? You and Gabriel.”
Amazing. Peter hadn’t realized that Carrie had actually seen him in her mind. Gabriel’s involvement was no surprise.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Gabriel was in my dream last night too. He told me to tell you God will always protect Kevin. Who is Kevin?”
Peter didn’t answer the question. He just smiled, kissed Carrie on the cheek and told her to thank Gabriel for him the next time she saw him.
After an excellent meal, not just by prison, but by any standards, Peter delivered a passionate Christmas message. Working primarily from the Gospel of Luke, he did his best to bring his audience to the events, to imagine with them what it must have been like to see God enfleshed, born of a virgin in a manger, to witness angels proclaiming the coming of the King, to see a new star rising in the east and shining down upon the Holy One. It was a vivid, personal sermon from a man who knew that what he was proclaiming was pure truth, that the events described in the Gospels surrounding the birth of Christ literally took place.
God sent Gabriel to give the Virgin Mary a vision, a divine purpose she freely chose to fulfill; because of her love and obedience, the world received its Savior.
Only a few in attendance at Parkersboro on that mild, almost balmy, Christmas day in South Carolina knew that in order to fulfill His purpose in modern times, God was intervening once more, sending forth His messenger angel to call the faithful to His service.
But it wouldn’t be long before the whole world would be asked again to believe, to turn away from the darkness, and toward the Light. Would the answer be any different this time? Was the twenty-first century ready to embrace its anointed prophets, or would it reject them as the Jews of old had always done?
The answers to these questions, like so many others, were not given to Peter Carson. Like Mary, John, Samuel, Elijah, Moses, and all of the messengers of God who had come before him, he was called to proclaim the Kingdom and to leave the rest to Him.
Eight
“That still kinda freaks me out just a little,” Saul said, eyeing the two men casually strolling into Parkersboro to be processed and imprisoned by the BOP.
“What’s that, brother?” Malik asked.
“How a man can just come right up to the front gates of a prison, even one as laid back as our dear old camp cupcake here, and say, ‘Honey, I’m home!’ and waltz right in. Tell you what, the Feds never got me so easy.”
“How would you handle it today, Saul, if you were free and told to surrender yourself to the government?” Peter asked, as he walked up from behind his two friends who were sitting outside the camp barber shop taking in the morning view.
Saul knew it was a loaded question. Pausing to think for a moment, he then confidently offered his response.
“I’d pray about it and then do what God told me to do.”
“That’s exactly right. Guess you have been paying attention after all. And to think Malik and I were considering trading you in for another felon. Trouble is you’ve got skills. Hard to find another Saul Cohen.”
“You are both so lucky I’m still here. Especially you, big fella. Who would protect Malik if someone jumped him and I wasn’t around?”
The absurdity of Saul’s joke made them all laugh and carry on even more. Barbs were traded back and forth until eventually both Saul and Peter ended up in a Malik Graham headlock and were forced to “apologize” before he would release them.
On a level impossible to achieve even in the closest of worldly relationships, Peter, Malik, and Saul were now bound together as if they were one. They knew that their lives were no longer their own, that they belonged completely to Christ.
Formerly each had lived a selfish existence, seeking only to satisfy their passions. In their ignorance, they believed sin was liberating, but after they were called, they discovered that total surrender to God is, paradoxically, the ultimate form of human freedom. What happened in this world no longer controlled them as it once did. Now they had no need to impress anyone, to be anywhere, or to do anything. No more egos, no more vain lusts. They had been set free in a way unimaginable to natural men. They remained incarcerated of their own free will. God wanted them at Parkersboro, so they stayed. The minute He told them to go, they’d be gone. That the United States Government still believed they were prisoners was a detail of little importance to them.
“I know those guys,” Saul said, looking down the corridor as the two newcomers emerged from the camp offices.
“Yep, me too, Mr. Pete,” Malik agreed.
“Let me guess, these two gentlemen are part of the prayer circle you both saw standing on the porch in your dreams, two more of the seven?”
“Yes,” they answered in unison.
“‘Bout time,” Peter replied.
December had casually strolled into April. Winter had passed by uneventfully, or at least without extremes, but now the men were ready for action, primed to respond to a call to duty.
About an hour later, roughly the time it takes to go through a Parkersboro initiation tour, one of the new inmates walked onto the porch.
He carried himself confidently, almost cocky, and acted as if he were greeting old friends, which in a very real way he was.
“No doubt about it, you must be Panos Kallistos,” the man said while extending his hand. “And I don’t know either of your names, but I know that you both belong here.”
“You have me at a loss, sir,” Peter acknowledged. “You know my name, but I didn’t catch yours.”
“Kenneth Robert Simpson. My friends call me Kenny. The Justice Department calls me a ‘leach,’ a pariah that ‘feeds off of society and steals from his friends.’ How did they put it exactly in my pre-sentence report? I remember, ‘Mr. Simpson has no concern for anyone but himself and flaunts the law at every opportunity.’”
“Sounds like you’ll fit right in,” Peter said, amused by the banter. “We don’t care what the Feds have to say about you, but who do you say that you are?”
“Me, well, I have been crucified with Christ, so it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.”
“That’s not very original, Mr. Simpson,” Peter said, happy to play along.
“Damn! Caught again! I confess, it was St. Paul who first said that in a letter to the church in Galatia. Chapter two, verse twenty, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
Peter would soon learn that when it came to quoting scripture from memory, Kenny Simpson was in a class by himself.
“Had any interesting dreams lately?” Saul asked Kenny.
“Oh, a few. Keep having one staring you three, Larry and two guys I don’t see here yet. We pray a lot and tend to emit flames from the tops of our skulls. Sound familiar?”
“Ever met a man named Gabriel?” Peter asked.
“Funny you should mention him,” Kenny answered. “Saw him last night. Told me to tell you that he remembers the prisoners as if chained with them.”
“Hebrews chapter thirteen, verse three,” Peter replied.
“I can see that I have a rival to my title as the ‘One most knowledgeable in the Word.’ Everything is true! Gabriel was right, you surely are God’s anointed messenger. I need to sit down, please.”
Looking a bit peaked, Kenny managed to stumble into a seat on the bench.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. This is all more than a little overwhelming. You men need to know that I’ve spent most of the last thirty years of my life preaching God’s Word, yet not truly believing. I thought it was all a game. To me the Gospel was nothing more than a ‘means of gain,’ if I may be allowed to quote St. Paul again. I’m afraid, my friends, that you have fallen in with the worst of sinners, a con man who used God’s name to exploit people.”
Malik brought Kenny a cola from the vending machine. The caffeine burst seemed to pick him back up, and after a few minutes of small talk Kenny was ready to share his testimony with his brothers.
“Back in the early seventies I graduated from Duke with a degree in business. Truth be told, my sheepskin should have read, ‘Bachelor of Science in Partying.’ Man, those were the days, a bag of weed, a keg of beer, and fifty of your best friends. Life was good, worries few. My flat feet and severe myopia, along with my student deferments, kept me out of the running for a body bag.”
“That sounds vaguely familiar,” Saul said, thinking of his own history. “I remember those days well.”
“Trouble was in ’
73
it all ended,” Kenny explained. “Went through this little drama called graduation. Evidently after this blessed event, I was expected to go out into the world and make something of myself. For some reason I never saw that one coming.” Kenny’s smart aleck delivery was laced with self-deprecating humor and presented with panache. His style was disarming, amiable.