Serving Time/Served by Time
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When I arrived at North Carolina’s Central Prison I wore my fear and trepidation like an aura as I, a pallid 128-pound weakling, stepped into my worst nightmare. All conversation and card games came to an immediate halt when I walked into the dorm. My first thought was, I’m going to die tonight. I was about to learn just how misleading first impressions can be.
I never knew his real name. “Preacher” was probably in his late fifties and, despite imprisonment, carried the demeanor of one who hadn’t a worry in the world. As fate would have it, I was assigned to the bunk immediately over him. After a couple of days of observing me in my self-imposed isolation, Preacher approached me carrying a soda and a Bible.
Now, I always considered myself to be a Christian. I mean, I was brought up in the church, baptized, and “saved,” so I must be a Christian, right? Yet, I tended to view God as some sort of celestial Santa Claus who I called on only when I wanted something.
“You look like you could use a friend,” were Preacher’s first words, as he handed me the Bible and soda. My suspicions must have been obvious. Preacher tilted his head back and laughed. “Don’t worry yourself. I ain’t gonna hurt you, and I want nothing from you. My friendship and the Bible are free. You can repay the soda when you’re able to.”
My relief, as well as all of the anxiety and apprehension I’d kept bottled up inside, suddenly burst forth. Tears flowed.
“You can live in prison one of two ways,” Preacher explained. “You can serve time or it can serve you.”
Puzzled, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious. God intends for you to learn something. You have a choice now, just like you did when you committed your crime. It’s called free will. You can spend your years consumed in anger, bitterness and blaming everyone and everything else, or you can accept responsibility for your actions and make this time work for you and count for something.”
“You mean, sort of like when life gives you lemons and you make lemonade?”
“Kinda,” Preacher responded. “You have the opportunity, albeit forced upon you, to better yourself—get a handle on your problems, pursue an education, develop a talent. It’s all up to you.”
I stared dumbfounded. “It sounds as if you think I should be thankful to be here, Preacher.”
Shaking his head, Preacher replied, “No, Gary, not at all. What I’m trying to tell you is that you should make the conscious choice to not waste this time. Have something to show for it when the time comes.”
Preacher left Central Prison just a few days later. Inmates are a transient population. That was nearly 29 years ago. Since then I’ve earned four college degrees, and banked over 300 credit hours. I’ve published six books, four plays—all of which have been produced on stage—and innumerable stories and poems. Equally, I’ve developed an appreciation for art that once upon a time I would never have taken the time for—all of this while making time serve me.
Most importantly, I’ve gained a greater sense of who I am and a deeper, more meaningful relationship with God. I no longer see God as a celestial Santa Claus who I run to with a wish list of prayers. I now see God as my Creator, with whom I spend time every day.
While I am still not grateful for prison, I have come to accept it and to find renewal in making time serve me.
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