Lunch with a friend
Heading for a restaurant to have lunch with a friend. Feeling a little unhappy with her. When I’d contacted Marcia to see if she wanted to get together, the usual issue came up—trying to find a time when we’d both be available.
We’d eventually settled on today, but with one condition: only if her adult son, Ryan, could join us. He’ll be moving to another state soon, and this will be her last opportunity to see him before he leaves. I’d reluctantly agreed. I’d be much more comfortable with just her, but having him there would be better than waiting weeks or months until our schedules line up again.
I hardly know Ryan. As I drive down the road, I’m wondering if I’ll feel like a fifth wheel, watching and listening as they share last-minute thoughts and precious memories.
Our visit starts out that way. Mother and son talking to each other. Me sitting on the outside. Ever since I’d met him two years ago, Ryan had been stiff and awkward around most people, only speaking when someone asked him a question, and then with tight lips and few words.
But as the meal progresses, I can see that an amazing transformation has taken place. Ryan is totally relaxed, to the point of slouching in his seat. He’s actually smiling. And joking. And laughing.
He starts telling funny stories from his school years. Marcia mentions some of her own humorous experiences. Soon I feel comfortable enough to jump in and share mine too. Once the ice has broken, we’re like a bunch of old friends completely at ease with each other. As we're leaving the restaurant, I realize that I’m sorry to have to say good-bye.
Our background
When Marcia and I had first met many years ago, Ryan had been addicted to heroine for about ten years. He’d been through rehab programs, but he’d always returned to his habit. He’d just been arrested and sentenced to six years in prison for crimes he’d committed to pay for his addiction.
My heart had gone out to Marcia as I tried to imagine the trauma and sorrow of knowing that your child will soon be locked up. The sense of failure. The shame. The fear.
During our next visit, Marcia told me about a conversation she’d had with Ryan a few days before his sentence began. A friend who’d done time had given him tips on how to survive behind bars without the relief that drugs would provide.
The dealers on the inside would make every effort to get Ryan back on heroine. After all, he’d be part of their captive audience, living a dull yet stress-filled life. Once he was hooked again, they’d raise their prices to outrageous levels. If he didn’t pay up, they’d kill him.
Marcia had looked me in the eye as she described telling her own son that she wouldn’t give him drug money. No matter what. If Ryan racked up bills that he couldn’t pay (and he had no resources of his own), he would die.
The years passed. Ryan stayed clean. Every time Marcia and I talked, I tried to picture what his life was like.
He’d become a member of a community made up solely of convicted criminals. He couldn’t close the door on them, he couldn’t walk away, he couldn’t find a new group to hang out with. He was stuck in this dangerous and dysfunctional community until his sentence ended. His contact with the outside world, with those who loved him and wanted the best for him, was severely limited.
In a prison, violence always lurks just below the surface. It doesn’t take much to set it off. (There was at least one riot during Ryan’s term.) Those who are being paid to maintain peace and order can let the sense of power go to their heads. They can become as hardened and abusive as the inmates themselves. How does anyone ever come out of prison without a serious case of PTSD?
One day, Ryan was called into the warden’s office, facing a false accusation. He couldn’t prove his innocence at that moment (as he did later). His temper began to rise. But instead of lashing out and causing himself more trouble, he simply said, “I think I need to go back to my cell.”
As Marcia told me this story, those words, “my cell,” made my skin crawl. They conveyed a sense of comfortable belonging, as in my apartment, my condo, or my house. How does a prison cell become a safe space, a retreat, a home? How does a human being ever become accustomed to spending a large part of his time locked in a cage, and still maintain his sanity?
Freedom
Six years passed. Ryan moved back in with Marcia. His addiction had begun in his teens, so he had no post-high-school education or training. His sentence included a hefty fine. He’d be on probation until it was paid in full. If he fell behind, he could be sent back to prison. His expenses were greater than what other single men his age were paying, and he had fewer job options to choose from. How could he ever make ends meet?
The next time I’d stopped by for a visit with Marcia, she introduced me to Ryan. He struck me as cold, hard, detached. About what I’d expect to see in an ex-con. From everything I’ve heard about living behind bars, people usually come out tougher than when they went in. With every encounter, he continued to be distant, stiff, unsmiling.
Then he’d managed to find a job, and I didn’t see him for about a year. Next came my acceptance of lunch with the two of them. I’d walked in the door of the restaurant feeling uneasy, uncertain about whether I really wanted to be there. Now I’m walking out with a happy heart, thankful for our time together.
Ryan’s and my paths might not cross again for many years, but during those years, as I’m praying for him, today’s Ryan is the one that I’ll see in my mind’s eye. I’ll be praying with greater joy and hope—not just for him, but for any other seemingly cold and hard and unreachable people on my list and in my heart.
And I’ll be remembering God’s truth and grace. His truth: We will face the consequences of our sin. Ryan was guilty of the crimes he’d committed in order to feed his habit. Prison is a terrible place to live. Trying to get his life back together afterward is tough. But he’d made the choices that brought him where he is today.
His grace: God wants to use those consequences to bring us to a better life. Punishment is not His end goal. Ryan had tried rehab over and over without success. It seemed so harsh to lock him up in a cell for all that time. But it looks like that was just what he’d needed. From the day of his arrest until today, he’s been off of heroine for about eight years. It may be that he had to go through a hard time behind bars without his crutch in order to learn how to live a life of freedom.
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