I have a confession. I have an addiction and I have to go back to prison to fix it. I will be fingerprinted within the week.
My addiction started innocently enough (don’t they all?). I just went into a youth prison to do an art camp. In and out baby! Simple. Done. One time. That’s all I told myself. "I will do this just one time. I can do this just once."
What I didn’t plan on was my friend inviting me to go back and check up on two of the boys that had stood out to me at the art camp. Note to self: Friends can lead you down twisted paths if you’re not careful.
So I went for a second time. One more time can’t hurt anything, right? I’ve got it under control. I can handle this heart of mine. Just one more innocent time. No one will get hooked. I’m fine.
I went.
One of Websters definitions for addiction is, “Compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal.”
I am having well-defined symptoms of withdrawal.
Like the image I can’t shake of leaving the dorm after spending hours sitting on a hard cement floor chatting about…anything…with the boys. The guard came and unlocked the door so we could leave. It locked tight behind us. We got maybe 10 yards away when there was a loud knock on the doors window. We turned around to see one of the boys smiling face waving goodbye.
How do I come clean from THAT?
Sorry, I had to go get a tissue.
I’m shaken… still. Haunted by an image and a very real sound that was directed at me. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK…WAVE…smile…KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK (I’m locked in and can’t get out)…
What do I do with that?
I tried a placebo. Because I like knowing what words really mean, here again is Websters definition. A placebo is “usually a pharmacologically inert preparation prescribed more for the mental relief of the patient than for its actual effect on a disorder.”
So, I wrote a letter. Actually, I wrote 2. If one is good for mental relief isn’t 2 better? I wrote the boys. I shared a Scripture with both. I told them I hoped to come back soon. I encouraged them not to lose hope. I hugged the letters, prayed over them and dropped them at the post office.
I included a self address stamped envelop. Not with my address, but with One Hearts address. I still have this under control. Losing control would be to get too personal, too involved. I can handle this! I’m good.
However, I found myself at training last night. Texas Youth Correctional Volunteer Training. I KNOW. I should have stayed away. I brought another friend with me; she’s willing to do it! It can’t be THAT bad if others are all doing it. I have to go get fingerprinted next. Then I get a badge. Then I can go whenever I want during visiting hours.
See….that’s the issue. I can choose to go alone now. When others join in it’s called social use. But there’s a whole other level when I choose to do this privately. That’s when I know I’ve crossed a line. That’s when I know I am fully addicted to a thing called mentoring.
I find myself mentally figuring out when I can get away for half a day and not be missed by my own family. I’m planning, preparing, devising and plotting.
“Oh God, Help me!!!! This is NOT what I asked for!!!!”
Ssshhhhh…honestly…between you and me, I don’t want to give it up. In fact, I want to dive in more.
The placebo didn’t work.
I’m bringing my addiction into the light.
Wanna join me friend? I’d be happy to show you the way down the twisted road.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Frank
I sat on the hard floor of a rectangular space the prison staff called a “group meeting room” with 4 boys and Cindy who works with One Heart. This “group meeting room” was more prison cell than meeting room. It was surrounded by windows on 3 sides, it was completely bare except for the 2 chairs brought in by the boys and a key was needed to let us into the room…and out of the room.
Cindy and I were privileged to return to the facility where only a week ago I had led an art camp. We went back to check on two of the boys who artistically stood out to me, however, by afternoon through divine appointment, 2 more boys desired to sit on laminate with us. Actually, every boy we saw was hungry to enter the small rectangular cell. You could see it in their eyes. You heard it in their questions when we were released to join them for lunch, although they were not allowed to talk much. You could feel it on their hearts. Hearts void of outside daily contact. Hearts void of hope. Hearts capable of receiving nourishment.
The word nourishment came up. “Frank” jumped on that word. I find that fascinating. Words had been linked together for the better part of the morning but when nourishment was mentioned. Frank immediately stopped the flow of conversation and said, “What’s that? Nourish whatever. What’s that mean?” I could put “The END” right now. THAT statement is powerful. A 17 year old prisoner asking about a word he had never heard and had no idea what it meant. “NOURISHMENT? What does it mean?” He asked. The End.
But I can’t end there. There’s so much more. Frank is an only child I found out. His dad was in prison (the first time or ONE of the times I couldn’t get straight) from Franks early years until he was 9. Somewhere throughout Frank’s life his mom was also in prison. Once or more, I don’t know that either. Are they currently in prison? I don’t know, although it sounded like they were out and still married to each other. I miss a lot in translation. I don’t talk street and he doesn’t talk white mom of the suburbs, not to mention the group meeting room was not created with acoustics in mind. Yet, we understand each other most of the time. The boys understand each other all of the time. There’s never a “What? Huh? Or questioning face during their conversations.” Where communication seems to break down the most between mom and prisoner is when words like “nourishment” are discussed.
Franks inquisitive mind was a bridge to his hungry heart. “Nourishment is like when a baby is born,” I told him, “And that baby needs milk to survive. It would die without nourishment.” I wonder how long Frank has been dead? The word “survival” seemed to bring up money talk. Actually it doesn’t take much to bring up discussions that revolve around money. Money they understand. Money is nourishment to them. Money is survival. It was money that got Frank into a life of drug dealing. He made good money. He nourished himself. He had to.
He looked out one of the windows in the midst of the dicussion and said, “Yeah, I want job that I can go to every day. I don’t know what I’d do, but I want that.” Here’s the moment God spoke to his heart. I replied, “Frank, the only job you’ve known is one where you live with fear every moment. Fear of getting found out. Fear of keeping it secret. Frank, you can have a job where you don’t have to live with fear every day. It may not pay as much but it will certainly be so much better than what you have known all your life.” Frank is riddled with fear. It consumes him. He gets out soon and he is fearful of that. He’s fearful of returning to the place that led him to prison. He acknowledged that it is going to be hard to turn people away that come looking for him. He’s afraid of standing up for himself and telling his “friends” that he doesn’t do that anymore. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to stay in prison either. He never wants to return.
What’s going to happen to Frank?
One of the boys that joined us in the afternoon was completely surprised when I said something to Frank. I started the statement with “Frank…” The boy had complete shock on his face and laughed. He turned his attention to Frank and shook his head. I was bewildered with the boy. I looked at him and said, “What? Is his name not Frank?” There was an awkward pause and Charlie, Who I wrote about last time, laughed and explained, “No, that’s his name. It’s just weird to hear you say it. We are only called by our last name.” Frank’s been in for almost a year. Charlie just got there not too long ago. The fourth boy who was with us has been there for THREE YEARS. Three years of not hearing his first name. The fourth boy will be coming to The One Heart Bowl at Grapevine Faith Christian School on Friday, September 9th at 7:30pm as long as he stays out of trouble between now and then. I told him I would be on his sideline looking for him. Cheering for him by his first name. I can’t share his name here, but it’s locked away in my memory. I don’t even know his last name!
I look back at yesterday and I see four infants chained to a cement floor crying out for milk. I honestly don’t know how to process that image. That fact. So instead, I will leave you with an image that Frank drew for me while I was there. I had worn my One Heart T-shirt. Right before we left he said, “Here. Here’s a new One Heart T-shrit design.” It is difficult to see the words ONE on his design. Actually it’s almost impossible especially with the image you have below. Frank wants to be a graphic designer. He’s got the talent. He can learn the skill. Frank has a heart ready for nourishment.
Cindy and I were privileged to return to the facility where only a week ago I had led an art camp. We went back to check on two of the boys who artistically stood out to me, however, by afternoon through divine appointment, 2 more boys desired to sit on laminate with us. Actually, every boy we saw was hungry to enter the small rectangular cell. You could see it in their eyes. You heard it in their questions when we were released to join them for lunch, although they were not allowed to talk much. You could feel it on their hearts. Hearts void of outside daily contact. Hearts void of hope. Hearts capable of receiving nourishment.
The word nourishment came up. “Frank” jumped on that word. I find that fascinating. Words had been linked together for the better part of the morning but when nourishment was mentioned. Frank immediately stopped the flow of conversation and said, “What’s that? Nourish whatever. What’s that mean?” I could put “The END” right now. THAT statement is powerful. A 17 year old prisoner asking about a word he had never heard and had no idea what it meant. “NOURISHMENT? What does it mean?” He asked. The End.
But I can’t end there. There’s so much more. Frank is an only child I found out. His dad was in prison (the first time or ONE of the times I couldn’t get straight) from Franks early years until he was 9. Somewhere throughout Frank’s life his mom was also in prison. Once or more, I don’t know that either. Are they currently in prison? I don’t know, although it sounded like they were out and still married to each other. I miss a lot in translation. I don’t talk street and he doesn’t talk white mom of the suburbs, not to mention the group meeting room was not created with acoustics in mind. Yet, we understand each other most of the time. The boys understand each other all of the time. There’s never a “What? Huh? Or questioning face during their conversations.” Where communication seems to break down the most between mom and prisoner is when words like “nourishment” are discussed.
Franks inquisitive mind was a bridge to his hungry heart. “Nourishment is like when a baby is born,” I told him, “And that baby needs milk to survive. It would die without nourishment.” I wonder how long Frank has been dead? The word “survival” seemed to bring up money talk. Actually it doesn’t take much to bring up discussions that revolve around money. Money they understand. Money is nourishment to them. Money is survival. It was money that got Frank into a life of drug dealing. He made good money. He nourished himself. He had to.
He looked out one of the windows in the midst of the dicussion and said, “Yeah, I want job that I can go to every day. I don’t know what I’d do, but I want that.” Here’s the moment God spoke to his heart. I replied, “Frank, the only job you’ve known is one where you live with fear every moment. Fear of getting found out. Fear of keeping it secret. Frank, you can have a job where you don’t have to live with fear every day. It may not pay as much but it will certainly be so much better than what you have known all your life.” Frank is riddled with fear. It consumes him. He gets out soon and he is fearful of that. He’s fearful of returning to the place that led him to prison. He acknowledged that it is going to be hard to turn people away that come looking for him. He’s afraid of standing up for himself and telling his “friends” that he doesn’t do that anymore. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to stay in prison either. He never wants to return.
What’s going to happen to Frank?
One of the boys that joined us in the afternoon was completely surprised when I said something to Frank. I started the statement with “Frank…” The boy had complete shock on his face and laughed. He turned his attention to Frank and shook his head. I was bewildered with the boy. I looked at him and said, “What? Is his name not Frank?” There was an awkward pause and Charlie, Who I wrote about last time, laughed and explained, “No, that’s his name. It’s just weird to hear you say it. We are only called by our last name.” Frank’s been in for almost a year. Charlie just got there not too long ago. The fourth boy who was with us has been there for THREE YEARS. Three years of not hearing his first name. The fourth boy will be coming to The One Heart Bowl at Grapevine Faith Christian School on Friday, September 9th at 7:30pm as long as he stays out of trouble between now and then. I told him I would be on his sideline looking for him. Cheering for him by his first name. I can’t share his name here, but it’s locked away in my memory. I don’t even know his last name!
I look back at yesterday and I see four infants chained to a cement floor crying out for milk. I honestly don’t know how to process that image. That fact. So instead, I will leave you with an image that Frank drew for me while I was there. I had worn my One Heart T-shirt. Right before we left he said, “Here. Here’s a new One Heart T-shrit design.” It is difficult to see the words ONE on his design. Actually it’s almost impossible especially with the image you have below. Frank wants to be a graphic designer. He’s got the talent. He can learn the skill. Frank has a heart ready for nourishment.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
"Charlie"
"You may be behind bars but your imagination is free to go anywhere" was one of the statements that flew out of my mouth to the group of 7 inmates that had been chosen for the first One Heart Art Camp.
It's been a week since I was locked up. But it’s also been a week since my body's been free to roam. What I find is that my mind has chosen to return to a place of incarceration. My thoughts return to the boy pictured above. I'll call him "Charlie". His face is not free for viewing due to jailhouse rules. So, I will protect his name as well.
Charlie walked in with the other boys. All dressed the same. All had turned their clothes inside out in case paint got on them (good thing cuz it did). Their eyes delighted not at the art supplies, but at the food supplies we brought. Candy bars, beef jerky, crackers, ho ho's, granola bars, oatmeal pies and fruit were freely passed around. Surprisingly they loved the fruit. Food seemed to immediately break down a few barriers. I wonder if that's why Jesus ate with people.
As they settled in they were asked to doodle. "Draw anything," I said. My voice was immediately overpowered with a correctional officer boldly proclaiming "Except gang related stuff!" And so, I began again. "Draw anything as long as it's not gang related. That's not allowed here." Charlie started drawing diamonds in the corner of his paper. He never ventured off the corner of his paper for the first 30-45 minutes. It was apparent that he was bound. Not physically. Creatively. Bound. Afraid to move off the edge. Constrained to the outer limits. What was he afraid of?
He began to look at some of the magazines and books we brought with us. He was drawn to texture in the pictures. Color. Abstract objects. Those were my first clues that he might be the one. I asked him if he wanted to paint on one of the big wooden boards we brought with us as canvases. His eyes got big. He couldn't believe he had been given permission to do such a thing even though I had told the group at the beginning that they could choose boards to paint on. So began an exploration so vast that barbed wired melted away and freedom began.
This blog is not the place to describe the technical process of artistry between teacher and student. I really don't know which one of us was the teacher anyway. What I do want to share is the moment of transfiguration. The moment God broke through and radiated out of this boy/man/artist/prisoner.
He struggled with the paint. He had only chosen two colors to work with. Black and light green. He looked up and said, "I want the black to be more over the green, but the green keeps getting back on top more." That's where God broke through. "You know what, Charlie? I think YOU are the green paint. I believe God says 'YOU are a leader'. Charlie, there's no reason for you to be here in prison and I never want to see you here again. You've been given a second chance." Charlie hung his head and wiped his hand across his face. (If he weren't in front of 6 other inmates I believe he would have broken down and cried.) Then he looked back up at me nodding his head and said, "Yes, Ma'am.” I believe in that moment Charlie’s spirit rose up and drew a line in the sand that said, “I will no longer fear the leader in me.”
Some behavioral issues have been going on at the facility since we have left, but Charlie hasn't been involved in the uprising. The earliest he can be released is April. However, the leader in Charlie has already been released. In fact, his art work will be exhibited with great honor in my upcoming exhibit in Fort Worth, called "Bound To Breakthrough". There's even a miracle of a chance Charlie will be able to attend the artist reception with a correctional officer. Please pray he can join me there.
I don't know what all Charlie needs when he gets released but I do know that he needs artistic opportunities. He IS an artist!!!! HE IS!!!! He is raw in his art. He doesn't know he's an artist. He didn’t know he was a leader either. The challenge is hoping/praying he doesn't define who he is by the bars that surround him or the past that got him there.
If you would like to see his artwork and perhaps get a chance to talk to this amazing young man, come to the Fort Worth Community Arts Center 1300 Gendy Street Fort Worth, Texas 76107 for the artist reception Friday, October 7th 7pm-9pm. Even better, come buy his artwork. The money he receives will help him start a new life outside prison walls. Charlie is worth the investment.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
The Prison Came To Me
This week I am going to prison. I never expected to end up there. It wasn't on my bucket list. It has never been a dream or desire in my heart. I never aspired to have bars close and lock behind me. Yet, in less than seven days the sound will be unmistakable.
Remarkably I have no fear.
My journey to prison started three years ago. It began when the prison came to me.
If you don’t know that part of the story, here’s a quick look back. Grapevine Faith Christian School’s football team was scheduled to play Gainesville State Correctional Facility, a maximum security youth prison in Texas. My two oldest boys were football players on the Grapevine Faith team. Their coach sent out an email asking parents to form a spirit line on the Gainesville side and then stay on that side and cheer, by name, for the boys from the prison. Faith families are a bit sold out when ideas like this come around, couple that with Texas football and you’ve got the makings of something revolutionary. Revolutionary it was.
That football game birthed the annual One Heart Bowl; a book, Remember Why You Play by David Thomas; a movie, www.oneheartmovie.com; a project, The One Heart Project; and for me, The One Heart Art Camp.
The first One Heart Art Camp is in less than five days. In less than a week, I will be in prison surrounded by teenage boys who no longer know freedom. Did they ever?
People have said that I am a remarkable person and that I am doing a good thing by going into the prison to offer this camp. I don’t know how to respond to those comments. You see, the spark that ignited me is “discovery”. As an artist, discovery is the bow which propels the arrow to hit its mark. Without the passion to discover, nothing would be created. Canvases would remain empty. Sculptures would be void of form. I am not approaching the prison camp due to a moral obligation to society or even from the place of thinking I have something to offer. I go because I get to discover.
My goal is clear. Search for the next One Heart Artist. Once found, display his artwork in my upcoming October exhibit in Fort Worth called “Bound to Breakthrough”. The End!
AAAHHHH, but the thing about discovery is it usually leads to more discoveries. The things that aren’t so clear propel me to the prison as well. Things such as, will the boys in the camp open themselves up as they progress from doodling with pencil to exploring with paint? Will they soften for a time so the Spirit of the living God can fall fresh upon them as I share how That Spirit has transformed me? Will they give their lives to a new Lord of their life named Jesus?
There are other things that await an unveiling. Such as, if I do find The One Heart Artist and I put his artwork in the exhibit and it sells, can I set up a fund for him as seed money for when he gets out of prison? Will I find more than ONE artist? Will one art camp and one exhibit really inspire him/them once he/they are out of prison to start a new canvas of life? Will others be inspired to start their own One Heart Art Camp for their local prison? Will I go back and do another camp?
There’s a tension in working with these boys- at least for me there is. During the One Heart Bowl last year at Grapevine Faith Christian School, I was priviledged to serve the boys a meal. There weren’t bars surrounding them although the guards were very present. The boys parents weren’t anywhere around nor would they be although there were parents surrounding them in the kitchen and would be cheering them on later on the field. I talked with the boys. I put my hand on their shoulders. I refreshed their drinks. I answered questions they asked about my son who they would be playing against shortly. I told them I would be cheering for them tonight. I realized they were just like any other boy in need of a loving mom and dad, but something happened the minute I let down MY guard. The iron bars of my heart went in lock down mode. It was so loud it jolted me to attention and I withdrew my presence from among them. I was reminded of THEIR prison. My internal turf war raged: Love vs remembering what they had done. I really didn’t know what they had done but I knew it was bad if they were in a maximum security prison. I lost the battle that night. I withdrew my love based on their past actions. I don’t want to lose again. I want love to win and so I go to prison to discover this about myself as well.
I know I would not have had the courage to go to prison if the prison hadn’t first come to me. I know I wouldn’t explore the inside of barbed wire fences if the fence wasn’t first removed by inmates playing football on my turf. The teenagers might live behind bars, but I have my own bars I bring with me. I want out of prison. That's one of the reasons why I choose to go to prison. Pray for me as I discover how to love unconditionally.
Stay Tuned.
Remarkably I have no fear.
My journey to prison started three years ago. It began when the prison came to me.
If you don’t know that part of the story, here’s a quick look back. Grapevine Faith Christian School’s football team was scheduled to play Gainesville State Correctional Facility, a maximum security youth prison in Texas. My two oldest boys were football players on the Grapevine Faith team. Their coach sent out an email asking parents to form a spirit line on the Gainesville side and then stay on that side and cheer, by name, for the boys from the prison. Faith families are a bit sold out when ideas like this come around, couple that with Texas football and you’ve got the makings of something revolutionary. Revolutionary it was.
That football game birthed the annual One Heart Bowl; a book, Remember Why You Play by David Thomas; a movie, www.oneheartmovie.com; a project, The One Heart Project; and for me, The One Heart Art Camp.
The first One Heart Art Camp is in less than five days. In less than a week, I will be in prison surrounded by teenage boys who no longer know freedom. Did they ever?
People have said that I am a remarkable person and that I am doing a good thing by going into the prison to offer this camp. I don’t know how to respond to those comments. You see, the spark that ignited me is “discovery”. As an artist, discovery is the bow which propels the arrow to hit its mark. Without the passion to discover, nothing would be created. Canvases would remain empty. Sculptures would be void of form. I am not approaching the prison camp due to a moral obligation to society or even from the place of thinking I have something to offer. I go because I get to discover.
My goal is clear. Search for the next One Heart Artist. Once found, display his artwork in my upcoming October exhibit in Fort Worth called “Bound to Breakthrough”. The End!
AAAHHHH, but the thing about discovery is it usually leads to more discoveries. The things that aren’t so clear propel me to the prison as well. Things such as, will the boys in the camp open themselves up as they progress from doodling with pencil to exploring with paint? Will they soften for a time so the Spirit of the living God can fall fresh upon them as I share how That Spirit has transformed me? Will they give their lives to a new Lord of their life named Jesus?
There are other things that await an unveiling. Such as, if I do find The One Heart Artist and I put his artwork in the exhibit and it sells, can I set up a fund for him as seed money for when he gets out of prison? Will I find more than ONE artist? Will one art camp and one exhibit really inspire him/them once he/they are out of prison to start a new canvas of life? Will others be inspired to start their own One Heart Art Camp for their local prison? Will I go back and do another camp?
There’s a tension in working with these boys- at least for me there is. During the One Heart Bowl last year at Grapevine Faith Christian School, I was priviledged to serve the boys a meal. There weren’t bars surrounding them although the guards were very present. The boys parents weren’t anywhere around nor would they be although there were parents surrounding them in the kitchen and would be cheering them on later on the field. I talked with the boys. I put my hand on their shoulders. I refreshed their drinks. I answered questions they asked about my son who they would be playing against shortly. I told them I would be cheering for them tonight. I realized they were just like any other boy in need of a loving mom and dad, but something happened the minute I let down MY guard. The iron bars of my heart went in lock down mode. It was so loud it jolted me to attention and I withdrew my presence from among them. I was reminded of THEIR prison. My internal turf war raged: Love vs remembering what they had done. I really didn’t know what they had done but I knew it was bad if they were in a maximum security prison. I lost the battle that night. I withdrew my love based on their past actions. I don’t want to lose again. I want love to win and so I go to prison to discover this about myself as well.
I know I would not have had the courage to go to prison if the prison hadn’t first come to me. I know I wouldn’t explore the inside of barbed wire fences if the fence wasn’t first removed by inmates playing football on my turf. The teenagers might live behind bars, but I have my own bars I bring with me. I want out of prison. That's one of the reasons why I choose to go to prison. Pray for me as I discover how to love unconditionally.
Stay Tuned.
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