Category Archives: Essays

Essays

C.F. Villa, Excerpt from “California Elegy”

On July 1st, 2013, California inmates at Pelican Bay State Prison ignited a hunger strike to call attention to the inhumane conditions in the state’s Security Housing Units (SHUs). At the height of the hunger strike, July 8th 2013, two-thirds of the state’s 33 prisons and 4 out-of-state prisons participated: 30,000 inmates refused meals; 2,300 refused work and school assignments. On September 5th, 2013, the strike ended. The plea to stop torture in the isolation units resulted in 4 inmate deaths: Johnny Owen Vick, Hozel Alanzo Blanchard, Christian Gomez, Billy Seal. What was it that brought US Senators, California legislators, advocates, inmates, lawyers to the bargaining table? How in tune are you to the term “psychological torture”? Not your ordinary run-of-the-mill torture, but state-sanctioned, Governor-approved, guard-enforced, prison officials’ hands-on torture?

Daniel Harris – Mind Games in Our Family

Mind Games in Our Family

Humans, being creatures of high intellect (there are always exceptions to such generalities), are prone to mind games, whether as assailant or victim. In our Prisoner Express family mind games are unusual, but name calling is such a game played by those lacking the ability to defend their positions intelligently. We all know the types. They’re the ones that think yelling loud and long proves they won an argument and never listen to what anyone else has to say.

It was my honor tonight to read seven letters that were written in reply to my essay, “Standing Positive” and request within it for PE members to give their opinions on censorship of materials that Gary is to mail into prisons. It was written to inform all that I was urging Gary to use caution in what he mailed into prisoners. I was willing to be censored to protect PE. I still am.

Due to my vocation I may be more aware of the position taken by the Texas prison bureaucracy. When copies of my writings are returned to me through the mail they are often denied due to content. These are the same copies I mailed out of the prison only weeks before. The only difference is their being multiplied in the process. Naming prison gangs is a sure way to draw attention, even if you are against all gang activity and state that position. As an individual I can afford scrutiny. PE cannot because PE is dependent on the continual approval of officials for access to prisoners. I also provide books to all prisoners that live in my general area at no cost. That’s in violation of TDCJ rules and regulations and make me have to work within the system, greasing the wheels with respect, courtesy, and kindness, so they never question the amount of books I’m getting in by mail when we have a two cubic foot restriction on the amount of property we are allowed. My distribution operation couldn’t operate without the assistance of officials and many prisoners wouldn’t have reading materials. I’m willing to play the mind games necessary to be allowed to help my fellow prisoners. One thing is guaranteed, we all have to play games to continue our projects and if PE ever gives them a reason they will find their access denied.

Four of the letters were supporting my position. You touched my heart that you were willing to take the time and you each wrote wonderfully. I thank you. We all know it isn’t human nature to write about what you agree with. We humans are more likely to write when we want to voice dissent. The vote was in favor of a little censoring of the minority that misuses PE, by accident or intent, to protect this valuable resource for the majority that really appreciates it.

One person of the three dissenting chose to resort to name calling, maybe he thought to use this mind game to make me ashamed of my position. He said I couldn’t support the 1st Amendment and censorship of a prisoner’s writings to PE. It is not Gary or myself that want to see writings’ censored. Nothing stops you from saying what you wish and mailing it to PE. PE just can’t be responsible for your advocating violence or gang activities. PE must obey the rules and regulations of all prisons or take a chance of being banned after they are labeled a threat to security. Each person’s thoughts are valuable and I support your right to voice them, but I refuse to jeopardize PE to give you a venue to recruit and advocate what is anathema to the goals of Prisoner Express. Yes, there is a goal and PE does have a right to an opinion. PE advocates finding other options to violence through educational opportunities and providing intellectual and artistic outlets for prisoners. They give each member emotional support for their positive goals. Though PE would be willing, if not for prison rules, to allow the most stridently aggressive voice to be heard, it does not agree with violence or any behavior that causes harm. PE is an organization that attempts to promote emotional growth and nonviolent options. Anyone that wants an audience for a violent screed can find one, probably the cell next door. Think of the postage you’d save.

Many of the rules in prison are for the sole purpose of playing games with our minds. I find it in my best interest to work around them and avoid confrontation when that is possible, such as with my book distribution. One of their worst psychological tactics is to convince prisoners that there is no escape from violence in prison. In part, they are right; but because our environment requires violence to survive does not mean we cannot strive to live in peace. The minutes of failure mean nothing when you compare them to years of success.

To each of you that gave your time and made the effort to voice your opinions, I thank you. Know that I read every word, whether you were with me or against me I value your opinions. It was my idea that we come together, as a group (a family if you will), and make this decision democratically. Counting myself and Gary we have nine votes to tally, six in support of limited censorship and three against. If you didn’t vote by taking part in our discussion you have no right to complain about the outcome and shame on you. But I hope that our decision suits you.

If you look at this logically you’ll see we really have no choice except to comply with all institutional rules if PE is to continue to be the open, vibrant and valuable resource Prisoners need to work together in uplifting, educating, and rehabilitating themselves and each other. As a family of very different individuals disagreements are sure to arise about the direction PE should follow. Gary will always have the right of veto, he pays the bills and does the lion’s share of the work to keep PE going. More discussions of this sort may be required disagreement is normal in relationships of this kind. Mind games, especially name calling, are never the best way to resolve differences. I am fully aware of my ability to be a jackass at times. Reminders are unnecessary. To compare me to Bush was a low blow and I have a couple of friends reading this that need to stop laughing. As with any family that is emotionally healthy, I forgive you and hope you will forgive me. It was never my intent to anger anyone, only to protect PE from misuse.

Walk in peace and remember, Prisoner Express members are a rare breed. We should try to set good examples when we can. We are also human, prone to mind games that often fail. The only people who never fail are people that never try. Count the years in peace, not the minutes in violence.

Daniel Harris – the Ultimate Mindgame

Daniel Harris

The Ultimate Mind Game

Sitting in a tiny cell and listening to the man next door talking to angels and laughing with god has convinced me that the bible is the most dangerous book and religion a mind game extraordinaire. A warning label should be required on all bibles: “Do not Read in Solitary Conditions or Prior to Psychological Evaluation.”

Christians (being raised Christian I have experiences to go by) get upset if you mention the foibles of heir religious brethren. Can you name another religion where members hear the voice of god tell them to do outrageously stupid things so often? Raping their own and other people’s children, killing the innocent, refusing life saving medical treatment and cutting off their own sex organs are the most regularly and historically attributed to Christians that claim to be acting in the name of god. There are sects that practice the mortification of the flesh through cruel flagellation to subdue their sinful natures. Christians always blame the devil and a lack of faith. I blame the bible and a lack of brains.

Still, every Christian you meet is sure you should convert to their flavor of religion and be saved. In my opinion, handing some people a bible is like giving a child whiskey, drugs, and a loaded gun to play with. It’s criminal negligence. They’re sure to hurt themselves and possibly others as well.

Couldn’t we at least require a psychological test to evaluate a person’s mental stability and licensing before we let them join a church or carry a personal bible? That would protect us all from the outcome when a nuts gets religion. You have to have license to drive a car or carry a handgun concealed. Bibles and religion are much more dangerous. Big-time televangelists aren’t immune to long term contamination. Religion is toxic. It should be monitored like hazardous waste.

Remember when Oral Roberts told his congregation that god had told Oral he had to raise a million dollars or god would kill him? Okay, I admit that was pretty smart, he got lots of money, but think how many crazies sent those checks, one was my grandmother. Maybe it was just my perverse sense of human, but I really hoped he’d fall short so I could see what would happen. I went to Mama Claudie’s to watch Oral preach for weeks on Sunday morning. If he got struck by a bolt of lightning…Boom! I’m a believer for life. He claimed to have got the money. Would he admitted it if he hadn’t?

Pat Robertson’s call for Hugo Chavez’s assassination was surely insane, as was his statements concerning Hurricane Katrina being sent by god to punish sinners on the Gulf Coast. What about the Christians that got punished in the process? They all start to come unwound, though this one might not have been wrapped too tight to start with.

Religion is designed to manipulate a person’s natural inclinations and destroy their free will, which is supposedly a gift from god. It’s contradictory to say god gave us free will and then tell us we are going to burn in a lake of fire unless we worship god in perfect obedience. God didn’t write the bible. Men did. Jesus left no written record. Men put words in his mouth later that suited their ulterior motives. All religions are created by men to control the masses and create an elite class of priests that never have to work and live richly on the gifts of the poor. Christianity is the ultimate mind game and always will be. Unless we all wise up and quit sending in those checks, but that’ll never happen as long as fear of burning for eternity is beaten into every new generation.

You Talk too Much


Georgia O'keeffe

     Ohhh you sneaky snake, you did it!  They said it couldn’t be done, but you did it!  Hee-he-hee, you did it!  They said it was impossible, but you, you’ve proven them all wrong!  Oh my, what a marvelous feat!  Simply marvelous!  I alone saw it!  I alone know!  Tee-hee!

     “Quiet Sam,” said the man that is not Sam.

      Oh, yes-yes, shhh, no one must know.  Your secret is safe with me.  I won’t tell a soul.  No-no-no!  My lips are sealed!  Tightly shut they shall remain!  Oh but how you must feel.  So sly.  So sharp.  Sheer genius I must say.  You did it, and got away!  I may not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.  And here you stand beside me.  What a—

     “Quiet Sam,” said the man that is not Sam.

     Why-why yes, you’re quite right.  Someone may be listening or lurking about.  Oh but wait!  What if, what if someone else saw?  Wha-wha-what if, what if someone else already knows?  Why, I-I-I’d be just as guilty, just as guilty as you!  Oh me oh my what will I do?  What-what will—

     “Quiet Sam,” said the man that is not Sam.

     Yes-yes, of course!  We mustn’t panic.  We mustn’t give ourselves away.  We must remain calm, cunning, conniving, at the very least! We must stick together!  We must—officer! Officer!  That’s him!  He’s the one you seek!  He’s done it!  I can tell you all you need to know!!

     There he is officer!  That’s the man!

     Sam hid behind the officer while urging and nudging him forward.

     Take him in officer!  He’s guilty, guilty as sin!  He must be punished!  Punished I say!  Take him!  Take him away!

     “Quiet Sam,” said the man that is not Sam.

     The officer looked at the man then looked at Sam, puzzled at both and with an irritated look simply said “listen to the man Sam,” and walked out of sight.  Sam’s eyes widened as he gasped and went to stand by the man that is not Sam.

     Ohhh you clever clever man!  You did it again!  That was a close one!  He almost found us out!  But we outwitted him, outwitted him indeed.  Brilliant!  Brilliant!  How crafty are we!  How—

     “Quiet SAM!!!” shouted the man that is not Sam.

     Sam was quiet for all of four seconds, but a second after the fourth came a grin and a smirk as he looked to the man that is not Sam and whispered, “You did it.  You did it and got away with it too. You…”

Narcotics Anonymous

     Everyone has heard of “A.A.” Me, I became a member of N.A. Drugs was my downfall. All makes, all kinds. Of course I had to wash  it all down with alcohol. I guess that’s why I had to make a few of those A.A. meetings also.

     But when it came down to finding a sponsor and working the steps, it had to be N.A. I had heard that some of those old timers (over 15 years sober) in A.A. just switched their drug of choice from booze to prescribed medication. I couldn’t do that. I had to stop it all.

     After finding a great sponsor and working the first 3 steps, I got to number 4- Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Wow! No wonder so many people did the “3 step relapse” dance. After working the first 3 steps, couldn’t face their fears with a moral inventory so they went back out to use again.

     Me, I was determined to stay clean. I went ahead and wrote down all my dirty laundry. I keep it hidden in a good place because I didn’t want my roommate to find it. Finally my sponsor set a date to do a step 5 with him.

     Step 5- “Admitt to god, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact  nature of our wrongs.” Confession time! Boy was I sweating, worried that after it was over with, my sponsor would have nothing to do with me again. But during my “drag my soul over hot coals” event, he shared some of his wrong doings with me. That helped me so much. I was able to finish and move on to the rest of the steps with no problem. I realized then that confessions really are “good for the heart.”

 

Kindness without Question

     Does it really matter who receives an act of charity, or is the important thing the act itself? In December 2008, one of the greatest acts of kindness ever to have been done for me in my (then) 53 years of life was a sham – it was an act of charity I tried to reverse, yet could not due to the circumstances. Nonetheless, so profound was that act of charity, I need to share it and tell the results of it, for that act was not the sham – I was.

     I had been released from Texas’s penal-slavery prison system on October 1, 2008; just 6-weeks after hurricane Ike had devastated the Texas Gulf Coast. Although I had requested to be released to my hometown of San Angelo, or to Lubbock where I, also, had friends; for some unfathomably insane reason the Parole Board ordered me to a “multiple use facility” (MUF) halfway house in Beaumont – which lay in Ike’s destruction zone!

     Beaumont was still in the process of initial recovery – tarps were still being spread over torn roofs; debris (and an occasional body) still being cleared away; and, even The National Guard was still handing out free MRE’s to anyone who showed up at the distribution site. Probably 50-65 percent of the area businesses were “closed for repairs”, and almost all the rest had reduced their workforce until business picked up again. Only clean up and construction companies were hiring; and, they were only hiring day laborers and temp-help for the duration of the clean up and rebuilding. There were a lot of illegal aliens in Beaumont at the time – it was like vultures drawn to a carcass – nonetheless getting one of the day jobs or temp jobs was super easy! Literally walking down the street I would be asked, “Hey – you want some work for today — $10 an hour!?” (Sometimes even as high as $20-$30 per hour, depending on the work —- one guy in a pick-up offered us $100 per hour to do ‘Body recovery” along the coast; this entitled combing through coastal brush for debris piles and victims of Ike.) I might have earned thousands of dollars in a single month, but –

     Again, for some unfathomably insane reason, the “Beaumont Center” had a rule that prohibited residents there in from accepting any day labor or temp jobs! Such insanity, the first thing a recent release must do is get some kind of work to get cash. We are literally penal-slaves in Texas’s prisons – Texas and Georgia are the only states left that do not pay their prisoners — and are only given $100 release money. When we pay for our state ID ($20.00), and buy food during the Greyhound ride, we barely have enough left of that $100 to buy some socks, underwear, and change of clothes; so day labor is crucial during the first few weeks… more so in a hurricane destruction zone where such is the only work available! Yet, my parole officer upheld this insane policy! So – I absconded – went over the fence (literally) of the MUF, and walked the 23 miles to the Louisiana border. By the time I was missed, I was across the Sabine River and out of State.

     A Baptist church pastor in Orange, TX, saw me limping along (I had fractured my right foot going over the 8ft fence) and said, “leaving Ike’s zone?” “Uh, yeah,” I answered, “the place I was staying… uh… “ “Yeah,” he said, “I know. Come on in and have some breakfast.” After the church fed me, Pastor Knight and the Orange County Christians organization went 50/50 and bought me a $150 bus ticket to Tennessee – where a friend (who shall remain anonymous) bought me a ticket to Baltimore, MD. These acts of kindness, while laudable, are not the subject of this essay, though, because charity from churches, charity organizations, or friends is not uncommon. The incredible charity happened in Washington, DC, after a chance meeting on a commuter train –

     The minister of a Unitarian Universalist Church in Baltimore had bought me a round-trip ticket to DC on the MARC train so I could go visit a friend there (a gorgeous transsexual college student and activist I have been pen friends with while in prison). As I sat on the commuter train with my backpack at my feet, a man about 30-35 boarded and sat across from me. Dressed in a decent suit, his eyes and bearing literally said “FBI” (or some such). “Tourist? “ He asked me, nodding at my pack. “Not exactly,” I said, “more like vagabond!” “Ah,” he smiled, “You’re from Texas!” “Yeah,” I said. “Me too,” he offered his hand, which I shook, “originally from there, anyway – Michael Samhel.” “Logan Diez,” I returned, “you don’t have much accent.” “Been here in DC since I graduated,” he smiled, “I work as a strategic planner at the Justice Department – FBI,” he confirmed my initial judgment. “Unemployed,” I shrugged.

     We were quiet for a moment, and then Michael said, “were you in Ike?” “No,” I replied, “I was near Dallas when it actually hit, but was living in Beaumont until last week.” “So – you’re basically homeless?” “Yeah,” I answered, not, obviously, including that I was a parole absconder. The train pulled to a stop at DC’s Union Station and I stood – “Listen, Logan,” Michael said, “Would it offend you if I give you a little help?” “Uh – no, I guess not,” I said. “Hey, great – just walk with me to the ATM, okay.” “Sure,” I said, and did. I politely waited some distance away as Michael withdrew some cash – and, as gentlemen do, I tacitly palmed the folded bills from his hand when we shook hands, and pocketed them without looking at them. He gave me his card and we parted company.

     My friend, Jamie, met me in front and, after a hug, I said “Let me buy you lunch at that Subway – a guy just gave me some money!” “How much?” she asked. “Uh – let’s see,” I pulled the folded bills out… “Wow!” $300 in twenties! I sat down in shock – then pulled out my cell phone and dialed Michael’s number. I insisted he let me give him back most of the money – he refused. “Don’t sweat it,” he said, “I can afford it – besides, we Texans need to take care of our own.” The enormity of Michael Samhel’s charity toward a complete stranger, fellow Texan or not, amazes me still – and he deserves full praise for it, G-man or not.

     It doesn’t matter that, had he known, I was an absconder with a Texas Parole Board “retaking warrant” on me, he would have been duty bound to arrest me and cart my ass off to the D.C. jail – who I was wasn’t really the important thing to Michael, nor do I believe our being fellow Texans really decided the matter. Michael Samhel’s act of kindness would have been done regardless of what state I had come from – his kindness was from his heart, not him geographical roots.

     For all my peeves against the corrupt bureaucracy in D.C. and Police State Nazis who abuse their powers – Michael Samuel’s selfless act of kindness toward a total stranger proved to me there are still good and honorable men and women in the rank and file of our Nation’s Government.

 

Thin Comfort – Joseph Stanwick

Thin Comfort- Joseph Stanwick

636416 2/1/13

We are on lock down status again as every inch of the prison compound is searched for contraband and living on thin sandwiches again, jam sandwiches we call them made of two pieces of stale bread and a spot of peanut butter jammed together. This time around they are the worst ever and I am hungry day and night or I was until another con began giving me his food…

Across the wide expanse of cellblock directly in front of my cell on the opposite side lives an elderly Mexican American who is confined to a wheelchair. The day after Christmas he began refusing his meals. I didn’t think it unusual at first because some people fast around holidays; you know? But then I recalled that up to Christmas Eve he had been getting law books delivered to him every other day or so for months from the Prison’s Legal Library, an activity that suggested he was diligently working on the appeal of his conviction or perhaps a law suit but then abruptly after Christmas no more law book came and he quit eating. The guards took no notice of this because they work on a different cellblock every day and too there is always a con or two skipping a meal. No one seemed aware that the old man had stopped eating, but me. When we went on lock down status on January eleven he had not eaten in sixteen days. I do not know his name or even if he speaks English. I stand at my cell door window panels and smile and nod across to him on the other side of the corridor and he does the same. That is the extent of our communications, nods and smiles. I began informing guards that the old man had quit eating.

I once read an article long ago in some magazine about IRA (Irish Republican Army) prisoners inside English prisons that went on hunger strikes to force England to recognize them as prisoners of war instead of common criminals. Many Irishmen starved themselves to death and the horrid publicity of it all compelled the English to agree to the strikers’ demands.

I remember while reading about one IRA prisoner who celebrated the victory from a hospital bed where in spite of his jubilance and desire to live he was doomed to die because after seventy five days or so of eating no food he had caused fatal and irreversible damage to his vital organs. He had passed the point of no return. I wonder what kind of damage the old man is doing to his organs and how much nearer his point of no return must be because of his age.

Not long after we began getting bag meals he started asking the guard feeding to give his bag to me. At every meal.  It is no inconvenience to do so since we live right across from each other and so I began eating his jam sandwiches and my jam sandwiches too. He sits at his door at meal times and as soon as he sees that his bag has been given to me he shoots me a thumb up sign and disappears into the depths of his cell. I have asked a sergeant of the guards and a lieutenant and a captain to stop at his cell door and talk to him when they each came walking through the cellblock on their inspection rounds and they each did, but still he refuses to eat. I eat his food instead and am grateful for it too because eight pieces of bread at each meal instead of four keeps the pang of hunger away.

Today is the twenty third of January and it has been twenty nine days since the old man last ate. I woke up in the middle of last night to discover his cell door opened and he gone and I was startled by the sight of it but then a few minutes later the guards brought him back to his cell. I think they must be taking him to the medical department to weigh him every so often and monitor his weight loss. That seems logical and I can think of no other reason for taking him out of his cell at night. There are horror stories floating around inside this super segregated high security prison about force feeding cons who try to escape their sentence by starving themselves to ruin. Strapped down to a gurney, a rubber tube is pushed up their nose and down their throat to drip life preserving nutrients into their emaciated bodies. Ghastly tales.

I was able to get a guard to slide a National Geographic magazine and a religious magazine under his cell door. A minute later the old man appeared and shot me a thumb up. He is looking gaunt. I live in solitary confinement the same as he and cannot leave my cell and so I have done all that I can possibly do to help him. I don’t want him to give up on life, I care and yet at the same time hunger compels me to eat his food; a paradox that I struggle with daily, reasoning with myself that if I refuse to accept his food the guard will just give it to someone else. But even so that rationalization provides thin comfort and I think that I am agonizing as much for eating his food as he must be for not eating it. Prison is hell I tell you.

On January twenty five the old man began eating again and on February one we were taken off lock down status and jam sandwiches.

–

2/6/13

Joseph Stanwick #636416

777 FM 3497, Lewis Unit

Woodville, TX 75990

Will-O-The-Wisp

     I felt the bone break the moment I ran into the swing set.  Bonnie Baumgartner, a girl who was three years older than me, and a foot taller, decided she was going to give me my first kiss.  Contrary to her plan, I decided to run for cover.

     At eight years of age, all boys know that kissing girls causes babies to be born and I was certainly not the least bit interested in becoming a dad at eight.

     Bonnie had it all planned out.  School let out at 3:15 sharp, and she knew which door I would exit when the bell rang.  I never had a chance.

     I hit the door at a full run, Bonnie, and her herd of Marsha Brady lookalikes, came after me with a vengeance—all of them yelling how they were going to ‘kiss me all to pieces.’   The sheer horror of telling my dad I had at least ten babies coming caused me to run faster.

     Sadly, an eight-year-old boy running at top speed is no match for an iron swing set pole sunk securely in concrete.  I woke up to find myself, ‘kissed to pieces,’ so I cried my eyes out.  It was about an hour later that my heart pain subsided and my broken collarbone pain cried out for attention.

     Broken bones equal no school; at least you don’t have to go to school.  In my case, a wispy classmate named Sandy showed up with all the day’s schoolwork I had to do.  It was for this reason I hated her arrivals.

     For three weeks Sandy would come in and talk to my mom (about me, I would later learn).  Mom loved her to pieces and hinted that I should think about taking her to church.  Of course, Mom didn’t know that she would soon have almost a dozen grandkids with at least that many Marsha Brady lookalikes calling her “Mom.”  Sandy was a non-interest for me—at least up until it was time for me to move away.

     My parents loved to move.  One day everything would be fine and then the next day we would be packing to move across the country.  When Sandy heard we were leaving, she showed up at my doorstep in tears with an odd-looking yellow flower in her hand.  Mom told me to go out and talk to her, so I did.

     Sandy was a tiny thing with wispy blonde hair that always seemed to be floating in constant motion around her head.  She told me how much she loved me and how heart breaking it was to see me leave.  She gave me the odd-looking flower and, in my fear of crying with her, I threw it on the ground and told her she was just a dumb girl.  To prove my point, I stomped the flower deep into the ground.

     Sandy ran away crying so hard that I felt it.  That thing that guys of all ages refuse to accept, that inner tugging that makes us want to run after the girl whose heart is broken, that thing I had no idea existed until later in life when another girl cried and ran away from me.  This time that girl was my wife of twenty years.

     That illusive thing was manhood.  I learned it years too late and in sorrow, I remembered the wispy girl named Sandy who, decades before, I shattered her heart.  I wanted to find her and tell her I was sorry, so I flew across the country and visited my old town.

     Things change in forty years, especially the names of every girl I went to school with.  I called every last name in the phonebook that sounded familiar with no leads and then I saw the name “Baumgartner” with the initial “B” beside it.  Surely that “B” couldn’t be the Bonnie that once hunted me down like a tube of lip-gloss, but it was.

     After all these years Bonnie never forgot me, she also never forgot Sandy who for many years lived next door to her.  Bonnie wouldn’t talk about Sandy over the phone; she insisted that I meet her at a park near where my old home used to be.

     Bonnie turned into a very beautiful woman.  Four ex-husbands couldn’t tame that indomitable spirit that almost broke my neck.  Bonnie was a girl who knew what she wanted and she had no trouble getting it.  When she saw me, she broke down and cried.

     We stood in a park that was built after progress demanded the demolition of an entire residential neighborhood.  Yes, my old home fell to the blade of a bulldozer.  With the landscape so drastically changed, I didn’t know that Bonnie had me meet her in what once was my old front yard.

     She told me how Sandy loved me and how for years she took care of the willow tree I had planted in remembrance of our love.  Bonnie raved at how precious a love Sandy and I had for each other.  She went on to say that in every one of her marriages, she hoped that she would find a love that would grow like her friend Sandy’s willow tree.

     Sometimes things just don’t turn out like you expect them to.  Sandy refused to let her love for me die and Bonnie showed me the willow tree I planted by stomping its seedling flower into the ground.  Once again, I felt that tugging desire to run after Sandy.

     Bonnie turned to me and said she wondered how different life would’ve been if I hadn’t left and Sandy hadn’t married the man that beat her.  I asked her where Sandy was now and Bonnie said we were standing on her memorial.

     The man Sandy married was a drunk who lost control of their car and killed her.  Sandy’s dad owned the savings and loan, and built this memorial park around the tree Sandy watered with her tears.

     Bonnie said Sandy’s dad was still alive and would love to meet me.  I told her I had to go and I couldn’t stay.  She made me promise to come back, but in the world of broken hearts and bones, I added a broken promise that said, yes, I would come back soon.

                …I’ve been hiding ever since.

The Vision

     One day as I was in prayer, the Lord had asked me a question and I was struggling for an answer. The question was, “Where on Earth does man keep his most priceless treasures?

     After much thought, my answer was, “Lord, usually gold, silver, diamonds, and precious jewels are kept under lock and key.”

     God spoke, “Like man,” he said, “my most valuable treasures are locked up.”

     As I pondered these words I then saw Jesus standing in the front of seemingly thousands of prisons and jails, and the Lord said, “These have almost been destroyed by the enemy, but these ones have the greatest potential to be used and to bring forth glory to my name. Tell my people I am going to the prisons in this hour to activate the gifts and callings dormant in these lives that were given to them before the foundation of the Earth. Out from these walls will come an army of spiritual giants who will have the power to literally kick down the gates of Hell and overcome satanic powers that are holding many of my own people bound in my own house. Tell my people that great treasure is behind these walls in these forgotten vessels and they must be restored. My people must come forth and touch these ones, for a mighty anointing will be unleashed upon these for future victory in my kingdom and they must be restored!”

      I then saw the Lord step up to the prison doors with keys. One key fit every lock. Then the gates began to open. I then heard and saw great explosions, which sounded like all-out spiritual warfare.

     Jesus turned and said, “Tell my people to come in now and pick up the spoil and rescue these.”

     Jesus began walking in and touching inmates who were thronging him. Many, being touched, instantly began to have a golden glow come over them.

     God spoke to me, “There’s the gold!”

     Others had a silver glow around them.

     God said to me, “There’s the silver!”

     And like slow motion they began to grow into what appeared to be giant knights in armor, warriors! They had the entire armor of God and every piece was solid and pure gold and silver.

     I heard God say to these warriors:

     “Now you go and take what Satan has taught you and use it against him!”

     “Go and pull down the strongholds coming against my church.”

     These spiritual giants then started stepping over the prison walls (with no one to resist them) and they went immediately to the front line of battle with the enemy. I saw them walk right past the church and big name ministers known for their powers with God. They surpassed even giant warriors like David going after Goliath.

     They crossed the enemy lines and started delivering many of God’s people from the clutches of Satan while demons trembled and flew out of the sight of their presence.

     No one, not even church people seemed to know who these spiritual giants were or where they come from. For all you could see was the armor, the golden and silver armor of god.

    Beneath the solid gold and silver were the people that nobody knew –

    Rejects of society, street people, outcasts, the poor, the despised, the alcoholic, and the drug addict. “These were the treasures that were mussing from my house!”

    I’m closing the Lord said:

   “If my people want to know where they are needed tell them they are needed in the streets, the hospitals, the missions, and most importantly, the prisons, and when they come here they will find ME and the next move of my spirit. This is according to my word found in Matthew 25: 37-4