Cuba

Today in the NBA, the Miami Heat beat my favorite basketball team, the Boston Celtics. While the result was disappointing, it gave me a moment to reflect on things.

When the season started I was in jail. I remember following when I could. Checking scores and stats on the jail “tablet”. Watching the games on hard plastic chairs with a dozen other inmates.

I remember when Miami played Boston in jail. One of my friends, “Cuba”, used to live in Miami. Cuba was a die-hard Heat fan. We used to bet fifty push-ups on games.

Last I had heard about Cuba was that he tried to commit suicide in jail several months ago. I felt saddened hearing it. But I get it. Jail can be mentally and emotionally grinding. It’s hard to stay afloat at times. Especially during the pandemic. Especially on a capital murder charge.

Once again, a young man living the fast life. Caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. A gun was pointed at his face. He made a series of rash decisions. Now he is facing the death penalty.

I remember him smiling a lot. Always laughing. He used to crack jokes constantly. Many of my memories of him was of him being a goofball on the handball court. He was also an active part of our evening prayer circle. Always praying that the circle would grow. Praying for the other inmates. He tried to keep hope alive. But he would also open up. Break down in tears about how scared he was. I pray he is in a better space today.

I know that he is jumping for joy right now that the Miami Heat are in the NBA Finals. There are precious few things to uplift a person in jail. While I’m sad my team didn’t make it, I’m happy for Cuba. He needed this victory more than I did.

I need to write him soon.

My prayers go out to you bud.

Burn out

A couple of days ago I met a couple of social workers. They were dining in at the restaurant. We began chatting about the field and mental health in particular. They had been in the profession for over twenty years. I mentioned I was considering going to graduate school for social work.

There response wasn’t exactly encouraging. It’s stressful. There’s no money in it. Burn out is real.

I left the conversation wondering if this was something I really wanted to do. Work with others. Underserved communities. Marginalized populations. Mental health. Addiction. Criminal offender populations. I wondered if my future would differ from their experiences.

Would I get burnt out? Grow tired of the day in, day out emotional drain? Then I realized that their experience was just one perspective. My passion and purpose doesn’t come from a field of my choosing. It comes from a personal journey that is uniquely mine. I didn’t choose this path. This path chose me.

All the struggles. The heartache. The days, months, and years in rehab. In mental hospitals. Behind bars. On the streets. The near death experiences. To the eyes of the world these experience make me a lesser candidate. People in business and politics desire squeaky clean individuals to represent their entities with “integrity”. A criminal record is a permanent scar in these arenas.

Yet my vulnerabilities can become my greatest strengths. I’ve walked this journey. There are others who can draw strength from my story. So many people in the shadows. Hurting. Lost. Afraid. I’ve been there. This is the path I am walking. Maybe I can help light the way a little.

After the rainstorm I found the rainbow. Maybe there will be a pot of gold somewhere there. Maybe there won’t. But my journey is more than chasing material things. It’s more than finding a career. It’s about fulfilling a purpose. A destiny. The meaning behind all the tears. I’ve caught glimpses in the past. I’ve seen a glimpse in my present. Because of that I keep my eyes watching God. Asking Him to increase my vision.

Burning out implies using up all my natural energy. Putting the world on my shoulders. Finding out that I can’t carry the burden. But having faith and trust in God lets me lay my burdens down. I can cast my cares aside. I don’t have to shoulder it on my own. I have a hidden reserve of oil to burn when my supply is gone.

RV

I met RV about eight months ago in Tarrant County Jail. He was in there for murder. Nineteen years old. But I learned a long time ago to not judge anyone based on their criminal charge. I could tell that he had a good spirit about him.

When I got to know him a little better, I could tell that he was just “caught up” in the lifestyle. The gangster life. The F– the world attitude. I don’t want to get into details, but I believe he was at the wrong place at the wrong time when he caught his murder case.

He used to get in all sorts of trouble in county jail. Always bucking the system. Cussing out guards. Blatantly disregarding orders from the officers. Getting into fights. He was young, locked up, and lived like he had nothing to lose. It seemed like he was getting a disciplinary case every week.

I sat down with him one day. It was at a time when all his “homeboys” seemed to have turned against him. He looked alone. I took the opportunity to take him under my wing a bit. Share something positive in his life. Give him a little hope. A little guidance. I was almost old enough to be his dad anyways. Maybe like an uncle.

My main message to him was to not be a “crash dummy”. It’s okay to stick to yourself. Do positive things. Read a book. Workout. Carry yourself in a way that would make your family proud. Get better everyday. Even if it’s just a little. Build a connection with God. Read the Bible.

We spent a good amount of time together. Playing handball. Watching movies together. Making “spreads” – jailhouse feasts made with Ramen noodles, chips, cheese, summer sausage. Talking about his family and his girlfriend issues. His goals and dreams. I realized he was just like any other teenager. Rebellious. Impulsive. But inherently a good person.

When I finally got bonded out, he joked that he shed a tear for me. I don’t think he was really joking. We had gotten close. It was my time to move on. But I promised him I would write him when I got out.

I wrote him while I was at each rehab. I wrote him when I finally made it to my sober living home. I even printed out some pages of my blog for him to have something positive to read.

I think about RV on a regular basis. It’s a terrible time to be locked up. There are no visits. The inmates are locked in their room 95% of the day. When I write him and read his letters, I am reminded of where I came from. Where I could end up if I slip in my recovery.

I’m grateful to have made and kept a connection with RV. I pray for him from time to time. I think he prays for me too. He asked for a shout-out in my blog.

This is for you, lil’ bro. I’ve got love for you.

Falsely accused

Do you have a gun? My roommate asked me that today. What? No way. Apparently the folks at CVS saw you in the store with a gun in your waistband.

Immediately, anxiety. Racing thoughts. What if the cops get called? What if they bust down the door to the house with guns raised? What if my bond is revoked and I have to go back to jail? What ifs what ifs what ifs.

When I left his room, I said a prayer. God, whatever you want me to do give me the strength to do it. I got the feeling that I needed to tell him about “the incident”.

Up to this point, no one in the house knew what really happened to me. Why I was in jail. The things I went through. I kept it to myself for awhile. I didn’t want others to judge me.

So I let it all out. I set the stage by showing him my indictment. The legal document clearly said that I was charged with “threatening an officer with a pellet gun”. A third degree felony. Then I told him what happened. How I had a manic episode, had a bb gun, and laid it on a table in IHOP. I told him I was shot with an AR-15. I told him I should’ve died.

He was remarkably supportive. I shouldn’t have expected any less. He’s been through a lot himself. He went on to share some of his personal experiences with psychosis.

He also went on to say that he believed everything will be all cleared up. Must’ve been a mistake. Maybe they recognized me from the news and are either imagining things or spreading rumors. Either way, it’s not in my control.

Yet this situation reminded me just how delicate my current state of freedom is. How in an instant, everything I’ve been working for could be taken away. By a rumor. Maybe I was getting too comfortable with my new life. Working. Making money. Buying nice things. Maybe it was a reminder that I need to continue to give my life over to God. These things out of my control. I can’t help if people spread false rumors about me. I can’t help if they decide to take it to the next level. But I know my God has a plan. I know He is the one in control and desires me to earnestly seek after Him.

If that was the message, I received it. Loud and clear.

Attitude of gratitude

Having a grateful outlook is easy when things just start getting better. I remember being able to eat for the first time after waking up from my coma. Being able to walk without assistance. Realizing I was strong enough to play basketball and handball. I remember getting out of jail and treatment centers. My first slice of pizza. My first ice cold soda. The feeling of a soft mattress. Checking my email for the first time. My first embrace with my wife, son, sister. Playing with my dogs again. My first day of work and first big tip. The list could go on.

Those first moments were gold. I felt such a wave of appreciation. I felt like God was smiling down on me, his blessings raining on me. I experienced grace and love and mercy in abundance. I soaked it in and enjoyed each moment. It was easy to do because it had been so long. I had been through so much.

But what happens after those “firsts”? I realize that being grateful for each moment requires practice. Losing that attitude of appreciation comes naturally. Pizza gets old. The soft mattress feels commonplace. Maybe I need a mattress topper. Instead of being grateful I can walk, I complain in my mind about having to walk all the way to the freezer to restock the ranch dressing at work.

It hasn’t happened yet, but it can happen with the people in my life as well. It happened in the past. I took my loved ones for granted. It became a known fact that they would be there for me, day in, day out. Until they weren’t. Until my self-destructive actions destroyed everything I valued in my life.

Today, I realize the importance of being grateful. Grateful for the little things. For the big things. For things that aren’t things. Love. Family. Support. Companionship. Fellowship. Accountability. Responsibility. Freedom. Peace. Life.

I’ve fallen down the slippery of taking life for granted. It happens gradually. But the impact can be felt in one life-altering experience. I know today the work it takes to remain thankful for every aspect of my life. Waking up each morning and having a gratitude list. Telling my loved ones every chance I get that I love them and appreciate them for being in my life. Telling God during the still moments, thank you for this new life.

Things won’t always go my way. What once felt like such a blessing can begin to feel mundane. I’ve felt that before. I can feel traces of it today. Feeling the rain for the first time after being locked in a cell for a year was an exhilarating experience. Riding my bike in the pouring rain after being on my feet for several hours at work can be a downer. Sometimes I catch myself muttering curses. But I refuse to go down that path of discontentment again. I know where it leads.

Today, I am grateful. Today, I look back up at God and I smile back at Him. Even when it rains.