Charlie, Juno, Delta and Echo....I scanned the names of the units noticing this may be the most creative thing in this whole building, besides the Winnipeg Jets logo painted on the inside walls. Peeled paint, solid steel doors, huge windows with guys in grey sweaters and orange baggy pants staring at the odd assortment of ladies (us). One with a guitar (me), others with Christmas carol sheets and a man with a box of bagged treats. We were armed with music of the season and smarties, entering the common area of the "gang unit", the "mentally challenged unit" and other disignations down the hallway. I noticed they are definately NOT built for privacy, showers, toilets, tv's and phones open and usable for those locked and living within.
Indeed, I had chosen to come with the Salvation Army group to sing and hand out "sunshine bags", smile and take requests like "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer", "Jingle Bells", and "Little Drummer Boy". I knew what I might experience, gaffawing, a little mocking, snickers and the range of looks that you know that it seems a little cheesy to sing christmas carols with inmates that rape, pillage, murder, steal your purse and other nasty things. But I didn't expect the look of one native guy, sitting quietly listening with a far away look in his eye and a soft smile on his lips. What I wouldn't give to know what he was thinking about, a distant memory of a past Christmas of peace and contentment? Love of a family member or the future wish of hope, freedom? I don't think it was smuggled drugs coursing through his veins or a vacant lot "nobody is home" space of mind.
So, we pack up and leave...say goodbye and get into our cars to escape the winter wind. Wire, bars, institution, locks and doors left behind as I turned off the gravel road onto the highway. To go pick up my kids, to make supper, to relax in a warm house and read the novel I left on the bed. The phone rings, and its a friend that has spent 15 years in the prison system. He's inviting us out for a Christmas meal, I thank him and I say, "Guess where I was today?". An hour later, he says it was the best present I could've given him, the story of my visit and how it impacted me. "What you did was go into the darkness to give these brothers a bit of light, thank you.....for them, for me". To me, a drop in the bucket, two hours, sore fingers and a chance to sing Jingle Bells. For them, its a word they are not forgotten, there is such a thing as dignity, humans treating them as human and a touch of some reality in a cement world.
When I read this poem this morning from muscian Steve Bell's website, I knew it was for our brothers in Lock Down...staring out the windows, eyes cast on life in the pen, life behind bars. May this day be one of hope and prayer released for them.
POEM: Stubble & Hay
by Gerry Atwell
Take the dusty trek across the barren field
Down those old till rows, never met no seeds
Find a place to lay as the sun gives way
To the dusk falling gently, fall away
And the echoes of your day subside
As you breathe again deep inside…
The crickets muse and the owl regards
As you slip away
Dream a dream of folly
Of other places where the night glows bright
With the painted faces and danger laughs
Of the ones who dance
All eye to eye all hand in hand
And only look to the sky when the glass comes by
And they never need to worry and they never need to cry
And you dream about the love you want to love you to want to love you
And you dream about the life you want to live you want live
And there are prizes for the biggest winners
There are roses and rubies and perfumes from far away
Bright young smiles line the banquet room
Beg you come inside and whistle them a tune
Eat all you want and pay the bill after
Every drop has been guzzled and there’s no more laughter
You look inside but you dare not enter
You back away and let yourself set
Back by the fire and the stubble and the hay
As the sun rises gently
Such a gift is one more day
