Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
. . . And I was. In the dream, my anxiety turned to desperation as I walked into the retreat center hoping beyond hope to see Father Moe sitting there waiting for me. Instead, what I found was a room full of empty chairs at empty tables in a place where there had been no signs of life for many years. Dust and cobwebs covered everything, and death was all around me. I came face to face with the stark reality that the life I knew before prison is gone. There was no place for me anywhere. I didn't understand what Father Moe had done. I may never understand it. . . .
In the Year of the Priest, the Tale of a Prisoner
. . . It's hard to describe the brokenness of the person sitting a few feet away staring intently, lost in a mindless TV show. Most of you do not have a category in which to understand the aftermath of such a shattered life. Skooter, his head shaved, his right arm covered in prison tattoos, looks as menacing as a wounded person possibly can. Skooter said I am the first person he has ever told of his past. I believe him. He wasn't able to tell most of it even to me. Instead, he spent all night writing, and gave his story to me in the morning. He titled it, "The Life of Skooter." It's not an easy story to tell. . . .