Travels With Joseph

by Neal Lemery

Freedom Day came early for me. It always does. I arrive at Camp Tillamook just before six a.m., coffee thermos in hand, ready for my buddy’s first day of freedom.

He could walk out the gate for the last time at 6 a.m. sharp. But, like all the others guys I’ve had this day with, he lingers, not quite ready, not finished with his good byes and his last minute errands. There’s a lot of hesitancy in the air, this first day of freedom after six years. This prison has been his home for all that time, the first time he’s had some stability, and a sense of belonging and purpose. All of his friends are here, and all of the staff who’ve helped him through some tough stuff, all the normal teenaged angst, and all the reforming that a convicted sex offender does in this place. This is family, and it’s hard to say good bye.

This is where he’s finished high school, and where he’s earned his associates degree, and done all of the responsible jobs he’s had in his life. Over there is the phone he’s used to call his seven year old son every week, the son he last saw when he was sixteen, and the boy was only seven weeks old. There’s more than a few tears in the room, voices catching with emotion as they say their good byes.

At last, his release papers in hand, he moves towards the door. His buddies pick up his boxed up belongings, he grabs his knapsack and duffel bag, and we head out towards the gate, towards his new life.

His face changes from a weak smile to almost a scowl. Every emotion is running through him now, and he doesn’t know what to do. The summer rain squall cuts short all of the last hugs as my car fills up with his life, and we finally move out.

“Wow, first time going somewhere without shackles,” he says quietly, as we drive away. I honk the horn in celebration, giving all of his going away group a final wave. They were quiet, too, those last minutes. Happy and sad, the enormity of the moment finally catching up with everyone.
Freedom Day. A new life. The end of prison. But, now what?

We know we are going to Bend, and the first stop is the parole office. But, we don’t know where Joseph is going to sleep tonight. It may be under a bridge, for all we know. If all else falls through, I know he’ll stay with me in my motel room. I’m not leaving him to live under a bridge. That’s my mantra for the day.

In four hours, we need to be in Salem, to have breakfast with his good friend, a guy who did this Freedom Day ride with me fifteen months ago. He’s done well, got himself into a university, working hard on his bachelor’s degree. Three weeks ago, my wife and I sat next to him, seeing him inducted into the national honor society, the university honoring him for his 4.0 GPA in business. That young man had led the way for a lot of the other guys here at Camp T. If he can do that, well, maybe they can, too.

Joseph and I drive down the road, coming to the stop sign. Left to town, maybe a bit of breakfast, or some Starbucks; left to the beach, and, after a bit, the road to Salem and Bend. Or, right, go to Portland, maybe. Whatever he wants.

It’s his choice. We’d talked about that, these last several weeks, but he didn’t have any answers, except, “Whatever you want to do. You’re the driver.”

I always take these boys to the beach on Freedom Day. They haven’t seen the beach in six or seven years, and its something they need to do, before they leave town, before they get on with the rest of their life.

Besides, the beach is a place to talk to God, to be away from people, and be immersed in the energy and the cleanness of the ocean. They need to feel the salt on their faces, and hear the waves crashing on the sand, maybe see some seagulls fly by, and be alone with the enormity of the world, wild and clean.

“Where to?” I ask, and I get his standard response.

“I want to take you to the beach,” I say, quietly. “It’s pretty there, and there’s no fence.”

My little joke gets a chuckle from him, and so I know he really needs to go there, and have a bit of time to think through what we’re doing, that we’ve run away from the only home he’s had for the last six years, the only friends he has in this world.

I take the back road, so he can see some cows and green pastures, and drive along a quiet river, so we can see some herons and ducks, maybe an eagle. We drive through the forest, and then by a bay, until we get to Oceanside, so he can see the Three Arch Rocks, and the quiet, deserted beach.

We get out of the car, and I can see a bit of bounce in his step. Yeah, he needs to be here.
I nudge him down the path, telling him he’s on his own, he needs to be by himself now, and just be on the beach by himself. He nods, silently thanking me for just letting him be, to take some quiet time just for himself, and to be with God.

I stand by the car, the salty air fresh with the incoming tide, mist filtering the early morning light, and watch him out on the fresh sand, gazing out to sea. He walks, and then stops, picking up a stick, or maybe a shell, and then looks out into the infinity of the morning.

He’s twenty two, and he’s headed back home today, and he’s finally free.

Joseph’s not one of the guys I’ve come to see these last four and a half years. He’s been around, and I’ve seen him, and chatted a bit with him. But, he’s kept to himself, and not asked me to come visit him, like a lot of the other guys.

A few months ago, I did a workshop with him at Camp T, about what you needed to do to get ready for Freedom Day. He had a lot of questions and soaked up what I had to say, clutching my checklist for the big day.

About two weeks ago, he came up to me, asking me if I could help him out, if I could drive him to Bend when he got out. He needed some help, but he almost choked on the words, hesitant to ask for help, and apologizing for being a bother.

It was a huge step for him, asking for help. He’s Mr. Independent, doing what needs to be done, just by himself.

When these guys leave, they don’t have a wallet, they don’t have a day pack, and they don’t have a duffel bag for some of their clothes. But the big thing they don’t have is a family to come get them, and make them feel at home. There is no home to go to, and there is no one to give them a ride.

When Joseph asked me for help, we talked about his plan, what he wanted to do, where he’d be living. He didn’t have any answers. And, no one else did, either. We’d be calling the parole office in Bend the week before he left, and find out then. The uncertainty, the not knowing, hung in the air, his face blank, emotionless.

Joseph is a guy who plans ahead. He maps out his school work, his degree program, anything that he’s involved in. His treatment work and his academic work are all neatly arranged in labeled binders. He was the guy around Camp T who organized work crews, and made sure everyone is prepared for and is working on what needs to be done, to get something accomplished. He’s co-facilitated treatment groups, been a teacher’s aide and taught classes, led the kitchen crew, and let the groundskeeping and tree farm crews. He likes to design macros for Excel spreadsheets.

He’d mastered the computer network at the camp, and built and reprogrammed computers, and helped start the new computer repair vocational program. Everyone looked to Joseph to get something important around there accomplished.

Yet, when he wants to move on with him life, and plan the next step, there aren’t any answers, there aren’t any programs to organize and complete, there’s simply no information for the questions he has. Those real questions of Freedom Day, such as where he’s going to live tonight, how he’s going to have food tomorrow, where he is getting emotional support for the life he’s wants. He won’t have that institutional support underneath him, for the first time in more than a quarter of his life.

When we first talked, I found out about his passion for computer technology and programming. I mentioned that Oregon State University has a campus in Bend now, that OSU is a great engineering and computer technology college, that he could get his bachelor’s degree in Bend in something he loves to do. I saw light go on in his eyes, and I thought the seed I had planted might sprout.

A few days later, I talked with Joseph again, trying to flesh out some of the details on what we need to do when Freedom Day comes. He handed me another binder, labeled OSU Computer Engineering.

“Oh, yeah, I did some research,” he said softly.

I flipped open the binder, finding his college application, his financial aid application, his transcript request paperwork, and pages of detailed degree programs, course descriptions, and class schedules for fall term. There’s also a list of textbooks for fall term.

“Yeah, it looks really interesting. I’m going to start fall term there, and get my degree,” he said, his voice edging with some pride and excitement. “I’ve mapped out the six terms of schooling I’ll need to get my Bachelor’s.”

A week later, I come in for our phone call with the Bend parole officer and we get him on the phone, along with a couple of Camp T staff and the prison authority transition specialist. Everyone in our room wants some answers and wants to get a real plan in the works. Freedom Day is in a week, and we need to know what’s going on for this young man when he gets to Bend.

“Not sure,” the voice on the phone keeps saying. Housing, what restrictions Joseph will have, job opportunities, treatment, everything is a “not sure” sort of response.

“I’ll know more next week and call you back,” he says, but he never does. It’s not what all of us in Tillamook want to hear, and its not what Joseph, Mr. Organizer, needs to hear as he’s trying to plan for the rest of his life.

Joseph has another option, another Plan B. He’s done the Interstate Compact work to try to go live with his family in Las Vegas. In the last six years, his family hasn’t come to see him. And, they aren’t much help to him with the Interstate Compact. After a couple of months with the Interstate Compact application in the works, the family’s only housing plan for him is that he can stay three weeks with a grandma. Mom hasn’t committed to even buying the plane trip to Vegas. We all know Plan B is going nowhere.

On Freedom Day, I learn more about Joseph’s family. He never really went to middle school, and when the truancy officer and the juvenile court said he needed to go to high school, he dropped out after a couple of weeks. He found a girlfriend, and then she got pregnant. But, he didn’t live with her, and chose to camp in the woods, because she started using meth and he didn’t want to be around that. His family had gone back to Las Vegas, leaving him behind.

On Freedom Day, when we were eating breakfast with his good friend in Salem, they talked about the money he’d earned at Camp T, mostly earning fifty cents an hour, and how he’d sent about $700 back to his mom and his grandma, to repay them for some money he’d borrowed when he was sixteen. He’d been hoping they’d send the money back to him, and maybe send him some more, now that he was getting out and needed to get settled in Bend.

“They kept it,” he told his friend. “I was kind of hoping they’d help me out now, but they didn’t.”

Joseph comes back from the beach, a real smile on his face. “That was good,” he said. “I needed that.”

“Now what?” I ask, and he doesn’t know. Except, he’s excited about breakfast with his friend in Salem. I’ve promised lots of food and great coffee, and a good visit with a good friend.

We head south, along another bay, spotting a couple of herons. I talk about the oyster farm, and logging and some good hiking trails.

We stop in Pacific City, at a great little espresso place, and get some coffee. I get a cinnamon roll, and talk him into getting one, too. He’s loosening up a little on having me buy things for him, and being nice to him. He struggles with that, Mr. Independent that he is.

The waitress brings us our lattes and our rolls, along with a metal fork. It’s his first metal fork in six years, and he plays with it with his tongue, telling me how it feels strange, the metal clanking and hitting his teeth and his lips. But, the cinnamon roll disappears fast, so I think he’s getting the hang of yet another new experience on Freedom Day.

We head down the road another thirty miles and my cell phone rings. It’s one of his buddies, knowing I’m the driver, and wanting to wish him well.

“Here. Answer it,” I say, giving him my iPhone and the pass code to get it to work.

Joseph and his buddy have a good talk, sharing the story of the beach and the fork and the cinnamon roll, and the upcoming breakfast in Salem.

After the call, he starts looking at some of the apps on the phone, checking it out. It chirps, telling us our breakfast buddy just sent a text.

“Well, answer it,” I say. Mr. Technology fumbles a bit, maybe 20 seconds, before he starts texting back, chuckling to himself about all this newness, how easy and quick it is.

I don’t need to worry about the rest of the trip to breakfast. The phone is his new world, and he’s busy connecting with three other buddies from Camp T, others who have moved out and on their way in the world.

Breakfast is fun and chatty. I don’t get a word in edgewise, as the two college students and good friends reconnect, and the advice and counsel flow rich to this young man. We laugh again as Joseph picks up a real knife, and eats real bacon, and the best biscuits and gravy in the state.

Off we head east, down the road, Joseph cracking a joke as we drive by the state penitentiary. We laugh, our bellies filled with good food and coffee, and our hearts filled with the love of our good friend, Mr. College.

As we head up the North Santiam River into the Cascade Mountains, I ask Joseph if he remembers this road, and he says no. He’s lived in Eugene, and Drain, but that was so long ago. He can’t remember. He says he can’t remember much about his life as a kid; it was chaotic, and he was left alone a lot, or left to babysit his younger sisters. He quiets down when he mentions his family, and so I move on, talking about the river, and fishing, and how salmon can’t get past the Detroit Dam.

He stares at the dam, asking a lot of questions, and wonders about the lake, too, and boats and fishing, and logging. After Detroit, we follow the river for a long time, his eyes soaking up the light, the rapids, and the beauty of this misty June day in the Cascades. All that green, and no fences.

It is, after all, Freedom Day, a day when everything he sees is new and fresh and clean. The world of Camp T is a world behind a fence, and now, that fence and that world are far behind.

I let him know he needs to tell me if he has to pee and if he wants to stop somewhere. We don’t have the rule about asking permission to do anything, we just mention it and what he wants to do is what we will do. Yet another new thing to learn. Something else to add to the list of new things in his world.

We get close to the summit, and we see all the snags and devastation from a big forest fire. It’s a good metaphor, devastation, replanting, renewal, a new season for something new and beautiful. I talk around all that, not wanting to lecture, but I sense he gets it, that he’s replanting his own forest, devastated by his own fire, and let the quiet of the changing scenery do my teaching.

Over the summit, and we are back in his home country. The trees change, the showers and misty air end, and we head downhill, Black Butte, a forested volcanic cinder cone, now in the distance.

I stop at one of my favorite viewpoints, looking over the forest towards Mt. Washington. The mountain is hiding in the clouds today, but we need to stretch our legs, and I want him to smell some real mountain air and take a moment to let his soul catch up with him, for him to feel he’s coming back home.

He takes a deep breath and then another, as we look out over the forest below, and the base of Mt. Washington, and the swirling clouds surrounding the mountain.

“I smell roses,” he says, and soon he is face first into a wild rose bush, inhaling loudly, and sighing. “Ah, ah.”

I smell, too, and then grab a branch of a cottonwood, and then a pine, and then a tamarack.

“These smell good, too,” I say, and Joseph follows suit, breathing deep.

It is quiet here, our faces feeling a bit of midday mountain sunshine, smelling the rose and the pine and the clean air, a bit crisp, smelling the mountains of June and all that energy. The only sound is a breeze in the trees, and a hawk calling out in the distance.

Tears roll down his face, as we look out to all that wildness. There are no fences, no locked gates or doors, no more sleeping dorm with the stinky feet and gas of twenty five men, the stale air of prison.

I put my arm around his shoulders, drawing him to a hug, both of us crying now, both knowing what freedom means. I get a big hug back, in silence. Neither of us needing words to say how we feel. Oh, Freedom Day.

In silence, we drive down the road, down into Central Oregon, his old and his new home, his future awaiting us.

Along the way, we’ve talked a lot, about who I am and who he is and what we are doing with our lives, and what it means to have a good life. He’s seen me around the camp long enough to know what I’m about, I think. I’ve become a dad to some of the guys there. He’s been wanting that, too. A week ago, I went to his going away party, a barbecue he and another guy getting out were putting on. He wanted me there, and his close friends of the last six years. His only friends. Oh, he wanted me to bring the steaks and the side dishes, but I think he wanted family there, too.

And, he’s soaking up that dad stuff today. I keep saying how smart he is, and how I’ve seen the goodness about him over the years, about his ability to do the right thing, make the right decisions, about his leadership, and his drive to improve himself.

He’d mentioned something about how his dad wasn’t much of a father to him, and how he abandoned him and the rest of the family. There’s an edge in his voice in telling that, and I don’t ask any questions. I sense a lot of pain in all that, and a lot of deep anger, even rage.

I’ll be a dad today, giving a ride, and being the cheerleader and the leader in our expedition. I have a lot of opinions about how he’s been raised and how he’s been treated, and how a lot of people have failed him. He already knows that, though, and he doesn’t need me to point that out to him. I’m here to be the sounding board, the supporter, the chauffeur. I’m the Morgan Freeman in this movie, driving Miss Daisy along the road.

I’m getting him a bike when we get to Bend. It’s something he’s wanted for a long time. When he was living in the woods, becoming a father, about to go to jail, his bike was all he had to his name. And, he’s made another bike for himself at Camp T, finding some parts, scrounging a bike frame from the junk pile. It worked, but it didn’t have any foot pedals. And, we didn’t have room on my car to haul a bike to Bend.

So, last week, I told him I’d buy him a bike, a good bike, one that would serve him well in getting to work and getting to college.

He said, “No, don’t get me anything, don’t be nice to me, I don’t deserve it.”

But, it was what I wanted to do, to help him get started. It wasn’t the money, either. A decent new bike doesn’t cost much, and if having a bike got a bright young engineer to go to college, well, then, the bike is just part of helping a guy get an education.

I reach into the console, grabbing an envelope.

“Here,” I say, “Take this. It’s the money for your bike.”

Joseph gulps and looks away, down, giving me that bad puppy after it peed on the carpet and chewed up my shoe look.

“I want to do this,” I say. “You don’t have to pay me back. But, you can pay it forward someday, to someone else, if you think you owe me.”

He takes the envelope, counting out the money a couple of times, before folding it into his wallet. He gets quiet, and I look away when I see another tear slide down his face.

I get quiet, too. I get quiet when I get angry. And, I’m angry, angry about a father and a family who didn’t show up to help their son get out of prison, angry about how they hadn’t come to see him in the last six years, angry about how they weren’t doing a thing to help him move on, not helping him to get started in college. Angry, too, about not raising him right, not getting him into school, abandoning him to live in the woods, to find love and comfort, and accidental fatherhood with a woman child who was slipping into meth.

At breakfast, we talked about good coffee, and Joseph saying how he really wants to go to Dutch Brothers, a well known drive through coffee chain. As we drove through Sisters, I pull off the road, slipping behind another car.

“Dutch Brothers,” I cheer. “Time for coffee.”

I get a laugh, finally, out of Joseph, and he’s remembering a long time ago treat.

“I wonder if they still make my favorite drink,” he says.

“Well, you order, then,” I say. “They’ll make what you want.”

A cute, blonde barista slides open the drive through window, cheerfully asking us what we wanted. I nod to Joseph, who actually has to talk to a beautiful young woman, and tell her what we want.
It is a a serious conversation, two aficionados of coffee discussing the nuances of the concoction. He laughs, and she flirts, and he laughs again.

As we drive away, he takes a long sip and pronounces it perfect, just as he remembered, six long years ago.

“She thought you were cute,” I say, chuckling.

“Oh, she’s just paid to do that,” he replies, but the look in his eyes tells me something else.

As we came towards Bend, we realize we didn’t have an address for the parole office. I hand Joseph my phone again, telling him to use the map function. He chuckles and sighs with pleasure, as he quickly discovers yet another technological wonder. Yet, the app didn’t give us a good answer, and I pull into the Sheriff’s office, next to the jail, to get directions.

As we walk in, he stops suddenly, taking a big gulp of air, and looking away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“This is the spot where I was arrested. I put my bike right over there. I never saw it again. I was in county jail for almost a year, and then the intake prison, and then Tillamook. Oh, I remember everything that happened here. Like it was yesterday.”

I can’t make this better. I can’t leave fast enough.

In a few minutes, we find the parole office, and Joseph starts filling out an eight page questionnaire. He fumbles with the pencil, and mutters to himself when the form keeps asking about his residence, phone number, and job searches.

“I don’t know. I don’t know any of this stuff.”

“It’s alright. You’ve only been out seven hours. We just got here. It’s OK,” I say, trying to be calm, trying to put normal on a process that was only going to get crazier.
In few minutes, he’s called back by his PO, who is wearing blue latex gloves. I wonder if they’d strip search him, especially after the PO gives me the evil eye.

“Who are you?” his eyes question me, as he motions Joseph back, through the door marked “Private”.

I sit there, a full hour, until Joseph emerges, his face expressionless, his emotions stuffed deep inside.

“Do you have a place to live?” I ask, as we walk out the door.

“Yeah, here are the directions” he says, handing me a scrap of paper with a crude sketch of three streets and the landmark of a Sonics drive-in.

We have no housing voucher or other paperwork, just that sketch of a map.

We have no box of emergency food for the weekend, as Joseph does not yet have his food stamp card. It’s four o’clock on Friday afternoon, too late to go to the Department of Human Services. He’s done the application process on line, but he didn’t have a home address, not until now. No address, so no card, and no food.

There is no other information or paperwork, no services directory, no meal vouchers, no bus pass, no nothing.

Welcome to Bend, your new home, your future.

Five minutes later, we find the place, the Tom Tom Motel.

When I was a kid, my family would come to Bend once in a while, on our way to go camping, for a week of fishing, or maybe deer hunting in the fall, with my dad. Even then, before the Vietnam War, the Tom Tom was the run down motel of last resort in Bend. Built in the 40s, it had seen its better days just about the time I was born, sixty one years ago.

The Tom Tom was built in a half circle, in the motor court style of the 1940s. Today, the courtyard is overgrown in scraggly sagebrush, a dead juniper tree in the center. Old, mismatched kitchen chairs, some without backs, are scattered around the courtyard and against the outside walls of the ten units that are left. Cigarette butts stick out of old rusty coffee cans on the ground.

Four ancient men, dressed in a variety of torn sweat pants and pajama bottoms, and faded T shirts, sit in the rickety chairs, staring either at us or vacantly into the distance from eyes sunken in colorless, stubbled faces. Their teeth are half missing, and the remnants are snags, poking out through ash colored lips and jaws.

Joseph has been told that the motel had a no alcohol clause. I’d say that would be because all these guys had already exceeded their lifetime allotments of booze, and probably, meth.

A rusty metal storage container, closed with a rusty padlock, lies in the sagebrush at the end of the row of rooms. We later learn that this is the laundry facility and that one may cook with a hot plate there.

A few rusty cars and trucks without engines or tires complete the landscaping.

There doesn’t appear to be an office, and we finally approach one man, saying that we would like to check in. He mumbles something and wanders off, bringing back another hunched over, snaggle toothed man, the manager, the Norman Bates of this establishment.

We are taken to Unit 9, and he nudges the door open. A wooden window flower box adorns the window, filled with powder dry dirt and the remnants of flowers last planted in the Bush administration.

“Here,” he says.

“The key is under the mat. You need to leave it there all the time.”

We later learn that, well, Joseph could have a key, but then, he’d have to pay $585 a month in rent, and then you’d get a key. But, if you’re here because Community Corrections is paying the rent, then he’d get a key. Apparently, the thinking is that you’ll be going back to jail anyway, and they wouldn’t have a key then. So, better to just leave the key under the mat.

Joseph would usually have a roommate, but he got arrested the day before. He may not be back until next week.

We each take a deep breath and then go inside. Surprisingly, the room appears clean, with a Pergo floor, two not obviously stained mattresses, an apartment-sized refrigerator, TV, and microwave. There’s a small bathroom with a shower, and a small table.

We are beyond words.

Joseph mentions something about living under the bridge would be better, and I’m thinking that would be a good thing.

He doesn’t have a choice. He’s been directed to live here.

Mr. Methodical, Mr. Organized, Mr. Plan Ahead and Go to College is beside himself. In my car is the new computer he bought with his work crew money. It is his future, his passion, his career.

He can’t leave that here, and he can’t leave his new suit, his nice clothes, his DVD player, his books. He’s got his life savings in his wallet.

I’m wondering if he could even be safe here, not being able to lock the door, living with the burned out old men sitting inert in the courtyard.

We take another look around, and get ready to leave. We need to come back, but its not yet five o’clock and Joseph wants to get his sex offender registration done at the State Police. He’s been dreading that all day, and wants to just get that done, too.

We head off, and I make Joseph laugh as I scream “F***”. He screams too, and we both laugh, not knowing how to process what we’ve just seen.

I take some deep breaths and we arrive at the Oregon State Police office to get this boy registered.

I’ve done this routine with about a half dozen other guys, and it’s not a big deal. The receptionist is always nice, and very matter of fact. It takes ten minutes, and then it’s over. The Youth Authority has already got them in the system, so its just a matter of updating information, with their new address.

Yes, what is the address of the Tom Tom, I wonder. Well, there was no nice street side sign with that information, and as we never formally checked in or registered, or even have a motel key… Amazingly, Google knows the Tom Tom and so we find a street address to make the OSP lady happy.
As we walk into the state police office, Joseph gets behind me.

“You ask her. I can’t do this,” he says.

So, I ask the lady to help us register and we get the process done in a few minutes. Joseph is angry from the Tom Tom Motel experience, and now he has to deal with yet another process that tells him he’s a failure, a sex offender, worthless.

He needs time to process, and doesn’t have a plan. He’s a guy who always needs a plan, some direction.

“Give it time,” I say. “We will come up with a plan, but we need some time to work on that.”

I head to the college campus, thinking that I need to show him something good in his life, and then take him to dinner.

We’d been planning a celebratory drink, a beer, maybe a Scotch. He’s never had a drink, and missed out on celebrating his twenty first birthday with a drink. And, Freedom Day is worthy of celebration, as well.

“I can’t even have that drink with you tonight,” he says, his voice edgy. “My PO says no alcohol. I don’t have a problem with alcohol.”

I try to calm him down, saying that we will still celebrate, that someday we will have that drink together. All in good time. I’m testing out my Pollyanna voice and attitude, but even I know I’m not pulling it off.

I find the campus, and we spend fifteen minutes driving around all the new buildings, the new technology center, the commons, the gym, the bookstore. Its five o’clock on Friday in late June, so we have the place to ourselves. But, Joseph starts talking about college and courses, and how he could get to campus. We talk about me coming back and going to talk to his advisor in a few weeks.

Joseph starts talking about his plan. I keep his computer, his good clothes, his books. He keeps his DVD player in his day pack. He’ll look for another place tomorrow. He might even tell his PO he’ll live under the bridge. He’s looking at some options.

He’s got sheets and a blanket, stuff he’d brought. I’m amazed. I wouldn’t have thought of that. I guess I’ve never had to think about being homeless.

He can microwave TV dinners. He has his French press coffee maker. He brought a movie to watch tonight. He can make this work.

I’m still mentally back at the Tom Tom, still angry, still seething. All this is not what Mr. Engineering Student needs on Freedom Day. But, then, Freedom Day always has more than its share of disrespectfulness, cold bureaucracy, and emotional disaster.

We head to dinner. He’d like to drive through downtown. Dinner at the Old Mill District along the river would be OK. Good. Let’s do something nice. Let’s celebrate the good things in Freedom Day.
The nice hostess takes us to our table, overlooking the river. There’s linen napkins, and a table cloth. We get fresh bread and salads, and a nice dinner. The waiter is attentive and polite, and calls Joseph “sir.”

We take a breath, we regroup, we plan tomorrow, getting the bike, groceries, the bank. Yes, I’ll stay as long as it takes. I’m not leaving Bend until you are settled.

I’m having breakfast with my old college roommate. I’ve already invited Joseph to that. He still wants to do that. My old roommate works at Goodwill, can be a link for housing, jobs, settling in. He can be a support system.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to meet him. Yes, this is doable.”

“Are you OK alone tonight?” I ask. “Yes.”

Mr. Get It Done is back in charge.

After dinner, we head to Fred Meyer, Bend’s version of the big box variety store. It’s cell phone time. We had to wait until the PO approved it. He’s limited to a Trac phone. No internet connection. Joseph will put up with anything, anything to make his PO happy, anything so he can move on with his life.

It’s his first time in a real store for the last six years. He’s taken aback, and I can see the shock in his face as he realizes a lot of the folks in the store are kids, and they walk past him, and are around him when he is standing there.

I tell him to breathe, that this is normal, that this is fine and safe.

We head to the bathroom and he is fine. Fine until a boy walks in as we are washing up.
“It’s fine,” I say. “This is normal. Follow me.”

Joseph picks out a phone. We look at bikes, and he finds one he likes. We talk about food to buy for tomorrow, and some other stuff. When we get back to the car, I start a grocery list. Ah, a list. Joseph likes lists. There is order, calmness, purpose in lists.

Back at the Tom Tom, we get Joseph settled in. He makes his bed. charges his phone, finds his movie, and his toothbrush and towel. I give him a hug, saying I’ll be back at eight and we’ll go have breakfast, then get his bike. He’s OK.

I’m not. I leave the Tom Tom, the old men still hanging around the courtyard, the same vacant stares. I guess they won’t rob Joseph tonight. I’m not sure they have enough energy to get out of the chairs and go to bed when it gets dark. Maybe they are already zombies, and will just turn into dust at sunrise.

I check in at my motel. I get a key. I sign a registration form. I have a place to park, and the room is nice, clean, and has a dead bolt. I use the dead bolt and the chain, just because I can. There are no zombies in the parking lot, no dead plants in the flower boxes.

The next morning, Joseph flies out the door as I drive up, ready for breakfast. He’s fleshed out his plans for the day, for finding a new place to live. He mentions other options he has for this place, the Tom Tom. He thinks he could pay $585 a month to live here. It might work.

I am dad again. I say “No. No son of mine should live here. You need to find another place.”

He nods. “I know. You’re right. I was just trying to make the best of it.”

We join my old college roommate for breakfast. It is old home week, and my buddy and I have a great time.

True to form, my college roommate engages Joseph in our conversation, asking about our adventures, his plans, his education, his interest in work.

My buddy brings Joseph out of his shell, and the old Joseph, the old get it done, be organized, be purposeful personae comes out. I see him talk about homes and dreams and possibilities.

My buddy gives Joseph his phone number.

“Call me. If I hear of something, I’ll call you.”

Joseph gets connected with the Goodwill guy who is the employment expert. He’ll see him first thing Monday morning. They need folks with computer skills.

My buddy refers Joseph to a bank, a bank that is open on Saturday. We stop in and soon, Joseph has a bank account, a debit card, and a sense of acceptance, being normal. The bank lady was nice, accommodating, not batting an eye as Joseph hands her his inmate ID card as a form of identification. She waives fees and gets him a free account. She gives him the form so he can complete his student loan application and have his money be direct deposited. She wishes him well, and gives him a lead on some low income apartments.

We head to Fred’s and get his food, an alarm clock, a room deodorizer, a setting of silverware, a glass, coffee, even some dish soap.

Back at the Tom Tom, we unload his groceries, spilling the sack of TV dinners and the coffee on the ground, so that the toothless men in the old chairs can see.

On the way back to Fred’s, to get the bike, and to say my good byes, we mention that.

“Now that they see you have food and coffee, you’ll have to invite them over. A housewarming party,” I joke, making Joseph laugh.

“I’ll never have a life without a purpose,” he says.

Before we left the Tom Tom, he asks me to take a picture of him, using his new phone. He sends the photo to his mom in Las Vegas. A few minutes later, the phone beeps, giving him her reply.

“Shave the beard.”

Joseph sighs, his voice telling me he’d like a little different kind of response. “Mom”, he groans.

Where’s the “Good luck, son. You look so handsome. I miss you,” response, I wonder.

“Well, I like your goatee,” I grin, stroking my own beard, and Joseph laughs.

“You would.”

At Fred’s, he finds his bike again, happy now, no longer having that bad puppy look, accepting a gift from me. He finds a bike lock, one with a key.

He’s changing, right before my eyes.

“I need a lanyard,” he says, as he’s wheeling the bike through the store, one hand filled with his lock and a Camelback drinking water bag for his day pack. I’ve learned his nickname at camp was Mickey, and we’ve been hauling a Mickey Mouse doll in the back for the last day. At the lanyard rack, there are not a lot of choices, but there are Mickey Mouse lanyards and there are Oregon State University lanyards.

He holds up both to me, asking for my opinion. I’m thinking Mickey, the guy he’s been for the last six years.

“I’ll go for Oregon State,” he says. “I’m a Beaver now.”

In my last few minutes with him I try to impart a bit more fatherly advice. I don’t want to let him go. I’m being protective, fearful of what is out there in the world for him to deal with. Yet, as we drove to get his bike, he pointed out restaurants he’s worked at before, places he’ll go to check out job openings. Monday morning, he’ll see my friend at Goodwill, get his food stamps, go to the employment office, and do the other things on his already growing list.

“In two weeks, I’ll get my life in order,” he says, reading my mind, knowing I’m worried, knowing that I care.

The day after I get back home, he texts me, checking in. Its Sunday morning and I’m still reading the paper, sipping the last of my coffee, being lazy.

“Job interview on Tuesday. I’m setting up a college orientation, too.”

I guess I won’t need to worry, at least not so much.
——— 7/7/2014

Cleaning His Basement

The lock on the door is rusty, his key barely wanting to fit into the hole. An awful screech fills the air as he turned the key hard, his hand trembling, his heart pounding. For most of his life, no oil has seen its way into the lock or the dead bolt on the door, or the rusty old hinges. The door screeches its reluctance to his visit here today, a place he seldom visited. There are too many memories here, too many monsters to wrestle with.

A puff of stale, moldy air seeps out of the darkness below, filling his nose with the dark, fetid stench of a place he’d always been terrified to enter, let alone even acknowledge that it exists, deep below the rest of his life.

He’s lived here all of his life, and all of the other rooms, finally, are fixed up and remodeled, reflecting his idea of what a happy house should be. It has been a long journey, but, finally today, he’s ready to tackle the basement. Until today, he wasn’t ready to take this on. But, now, at last, he is.

Large windows, often open to the fresh outside air, and the bright sunlight of happy days, polished wood floors, and the fresh green of house plants fill the rest of the house with brightness and contentment. Cheery art work, and vases of fresh flowers brighten his living space, where he plays his music, read his books, and fixes meals for his friends and family. Books and pictures of family and beautiful places he’s visited crowd the bookshelves, and the shiny floors brighten his heart as he sips his afternoon tea, reads his books, and visits with his friends who drop by.

He’s worked hard to make a good life for himself, to bring the sunshine into this house, brightening the rooms and sweeping away the darkness and gloom of his childhood. He’s landscaped the yard, planting beautiful flowering shrubs and annuals, taking care to arrange secret little refuges under the trees, places where one can simply sit and enjoy the day, soaking up the quiet of the neighborhood, taking in the fresh air and birdsong.

Others come here, too, neighborhood kids and young lovers, looking for a place for some solitude and communion with all the plants and the birds and the squirrels, creatures calling this place their home, their place of safety from the chaos of the world. His friends and neighbors tell him he has a beautiful life, that he inspires them to be happy and fulfilled. Yet, the dark, scary basement is still here, underneath all of the beauty and peace.

It’s taken most of his life to re-order this place, this home of his, to truly make it his space, a place where he can relax, a place he can finally call his own
.
Every time the trash man came, he managed to fill up the trash can with the results of his remodeling, his sweeping of the trash, his emptying of closets and shelves, sometimes the remnants of entire rooms, as he cleared away the old, the mildew, the unpleasantness and the dirt of days past. He’s brought in new wood, new sheetrock, windows, and cans of bright, cheerful paint, covering the old and remaking this place into what he really wants, a home, filled with real love, a place where his soul can be, at last, at peace.

Yet, late at night, in the quiet of moonless nights, or when a storm moves in and rattles the windows, rain beating on the glass, he hears the old monsters, the old memories, the old ways, lurking in the darkness of the basement. In the dank of the sunless space, where cobwebs and the occasional rat lurk, the old thinking, the old way of childhood life, still linger.

“It’s always been this way,” they whisper, in the black hours before sunrise. “You’re not good enough,” is the response to the emptiness, the quiet. “You can’t change. You are a failure.”

Even before he could remember, even before he’d thought about arguing with those thoughts, those voices, those words of doubt, those thoughts of worthlessness, those horrid voices filled the house, finding a place in his soul. They ate away at his young heart, even when he was so wanting to find love and acceptance. Yet, that is what he heard, all that he heard, and so, he believed those voices, taking their messages deep into his soul, believing that such words were the truth in his life, the way it would always be.

Part of him knew the truth, yet, he could not escape, not then. And, when he failed in his efforts to leave, the dark voices laughed, reminding me once again that he was a failure, that his despair was just the way life would always be. Hoping for happiness was just ridiculous.

Yet, later on, when he found love, and there were people who came into his life who would love him for what he really was in this world, he began to hear other words, new messages. He began to learn new ways of thinking, new ways of feeling, learning that he wasn’t who he had been, not who he was expected to be as a child, a person who could only know shame, and guilt, and looking at what he wanted to be only as a failure.

Other people opened up the blinds, and washed the grime from the windows to his soul, bringing flowers and sunlight into his life, asking him to breathe the fresh air, and to drink from the pure waters of sacred springs, asking him to truly live.

At first, he hid from those loving people, knowing deep inside that he was a failure, that he wasn’t good enough, not worthy enough to sit in sunlight, and sip rich, sweet tea with others, to think new thoughts, and to actually know love. The old voices were strong, and they had always been there. And those who should have loved him told me that the old voices were right, that he wasn’t good enough to live any differently. It was just the way life was. He should just accept that, accept that he wasn’t worthy of anything else.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened the door to the people who came into his life, the people who loved him, and who talked about love, and acceptance. He finally heard them speak, as they told me the idea that life can be filled with joyfulness and with purpose, that we are here to love others, and to be loved, that we are truly children of God, and that the God we should know is a God of love, and acceptance.

He breathed in that fresh air, and soaked up the sunshine they offered, his soul craving the goodness that was offered to him, freely and with love.

His doubts and his wounds, always bleeding, and always painful, soon began to go away, and he began to heal. Life without pain and self loathing was still new, but he began to know what a minute, then an hour, and then a day could be without that darkness hanging over him that life could be more than breathing the fetid, dank air of despair and worthlessness.

And, he began to grow, and to hold his shoulders back, taking in the fresh air, finding strength in the act of loving others, and of being loved. The anxiety, the ever-present cloud of worthlessness began to leave him, then, and he saw life in a new way, in a way of hope and joy, and real purpose. He had something to offer the world, something more than being the sack of rotting garbage, getting in the way of others, no longer being the putrid, worthless trash that the rest of world simply had to tolerate, until he finally died of terminal worthlessness and self-pity.

Yet, the old ways were still there, still living in his basement, still whispering their hateful message to him in the darkest moments of the night.

Today, he opened the lock, pushing open the door, letting the rusty hinges creak and moan as the door swung open, the old spiderwebs and dust of those old years now lit up in the bright sunlight of his new life, his healthy, vibrant life, a life filled with purpose, and meaning, and the intention of doing good works, being a part of the real world.

His friends came behind him, their hands filled with brooms and mops, and fiery torches, following him down the steps into the darkness, into the basement of all of his fears and doubts, and the old voices that still called to him in the dark times in his life.

They set to work, sweeping and cleaning, and sacking up the filth and the grunge of the old times, the old voices. The dumpster outside was soon filled with old, stinking trash. They ordered another dumpster, and then, another, filling them up with all the old memories, and the old ways, and the old, poisonous litanies that had filled his childhood with all of its anger, and rage, and degradation and loathing that they could find.

As he and his friends worked, they sang, their voices filling the rapidly changing darkness with hope and love and community, songs of love and happiness filling their hearts with the satisfaction of getting a dirty job finished, of cleaning out the cesspools of one’s old ways, and bringing into his life a basement filled with purpose, with joy, and with the love that a good life has, a place of contentment and vibrancy, a place where good things are nurtured, and allowed to grow into their full potential.

Soon, the dark, moldy basement of his house, once filled with those old ways of looking at life, the nightmares of despair and hopelessness, was transformed into that last room in his house to know the sunlight, the music, and the warmth of love and satisfaction of a happy, productive life.

Their work done, they climbed the stairs, ready for their feast, their celebration of a great day of cleaning, of the purging of the old ideas, the old ways, the old voices of disapproval and bitterness.

Surrounded by his friends, his heart now filled with love and happiness, he said goodbye to all that, all that darkness and voices in the past.

“Begone,” he yelled. “You no longer run my life. You are released, and I now let you go.”

He took the old lock, rusty and seldom used, no longer needed, and threw it in the last of the dumpsters containing all of the trash, all of the bitterness of the old life, knowing he didn’t need to lock the basement anymore. All of the monsters, and all of that evil was gone. Instead, his basement now was truly part of his home, filled with all of the love in the world, and all of the happiness in his heart.

6/23/2014
Neal Lemery

Three Cups of Joy

“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”
― Rumi

Three amazing experiences and celebrations in the last few days have blessed my life and filled my heart with joy. Each has reaffirmed the power and the gifts that love brings to my life.

I was honored to attend the wedding of a dear, long time friend, and to celebrate not only her marriage to her beloved, but also a welcome change in the law in my state, a law that now holds that marriage is a relationship, and a commitment that any two adults can share. Love, I realized again, is such an amazing force. Love in marriage, and the ability to share that love in this world, is the essence of our humanity.

Love filled their house, and we feasted on the sweetness of commitment, dedication, and respect to who they are, their marriage. We celebrated that love is the amazing and healing light in a person’s life, the basic reason we are here on this planet.

“Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go. You have made my life complete, and I love you so,” were the words Karen sang to our friends, my guitar adding more sweet notes to the occasion.

The second cup of joy was listening to a speech given by one of the young men I mentor in prison. He spoke before a large audience of fellow inmates and their families, gathered for the annual family day celebration. He spoke of courage and determination, and the super heroes in his life.

His speech was a month in the making, the words coming hard to him, as he focused on who he is becoming, and where he wants to go in his life. He’d practiced, and rewrote, until the words on the pages held by his trembling hands in front of the crowded room were just right, just what he wanted to celebrate.

We marveled at how he has grown, and the wisdom in his words. His road in life has not been easy, yet he is seeing the fruits of his hard work, his decision to make real changes in his life, and to move ahead. Now, he truly loves himself, and believes that the good things in life come about through the power of love and self respect.

His confidence, and his powerful message of self actualization rang across the crowd, inspiring all of us to love ourselves just a little bit more, and believe in our dreams.

The third cup of joy was watching a young man be recognized for all the hard work he has been doing in his first year at a university. A little over a year ago, he moved ahead in his life, taking big steps, working hard to attend a respected university. Now, he’s studying to earn his bachelor’s degree. He is Mr. Determination, and diligently works to balance a full life of school, a job, and family.

He dove into academic life, studying hard, asking questions, being active in study groups and class projects, going out of his comfort zone to succeed in college. In that new world, he achieved, and he grew, and he’s heading in some great directions in his life. He’s achieved a 4.0 GPA and was tapped to join the university’s honor society.

We sat next to him this weekend, joining all the other honorees and their families, listening to the presentations and all the congratulations. These students are the best and the brightest, and he fit right in. Looking into his eyes, I knew that he knew that, that he really was one of the best and the brightest, that he was living his dream, and he was achieving his goals.

He beamed with pride, and satisfaction, proudly showing off the plaque bearing his name and the title of University Honor Society Member. I could sense the light in his heart, that flame of passion and self confidence that, a couple of years ago, was only a flicker. Now, nourished by his hard work and his determination, and the recognition of his professors and fellow college students that he was smart, capable, and especially talented, that flame burns bright and clean. That flame is hot with passion, and lights up his world.

We, and a number of other folks, helped him keep alive that flicker of passion and desire for a better life, back when he was facing some tough challenges. Some of his past was telling him he couldn’t do it. We all slowly added some fuel and blew on the embers when there were times we thought the flame might go out. And, now, his determination and his ambitions in life keeps that flame ablaze on its own, with our quiet words of encouragement, our belief that he can do anything he puts his heart and mind to. He knows that his future is what he wants it to be, and there is no stopping him, in pursuing his dreams.

Three events, three times of sitting there, letting tears of joy flow down my face, three times of feeling the power of love in the room, knowing that love is what changes the world, overflowing my heart with hope and joy.

—Neal Lemery 6/2/2014

The Power of Listening

“Concern for others is the best form of self interest.”

—Desmond Tutu

I talk a lot. I’m pretty opinionated, and I usually have something to say.

Yet, this week, I learned, once again, the magic of being quiet, of listening to others, and just being there, so that they could say what was on their mind. In doing that, I learned a lot, about them, and also about myself.

I had lunch with a man I’ve known for quite a while. I don’t think we were friends, but now we are. He needed some help in his life, some advice, some direction. He needed a bit of my time.

We talked, or rather, he talked, and I asked a few questions along the way. He had quite the story to tell, and needed some direction. Not many people had been listening to him lately, and life had gotten out of hand. He was living in chaos and things that needed attention weren’t getting his focus. He was overwhelmed.

The more I listened, the more I realized he really needed some medical care. That wasn’t on his pretty long list of the crises and dilemmas in his life, but, the more I heard him talk, the more I realized that the solutions were to be found in him getting some medical help.

Thanks to the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare), he’d just been accepted into the Oregon Health Plan. For the first time in about fifteen years, he had health insurance, and didn’t need to rely on the emergency room as his only source of health care.

Up until this year, he hadn’t been able to afford to go to the emergency room, and so, when his thumb got cut pretty deep, he sewed it up himself. He showed me his thumb, and the decent job he did. I winced at the thought of his pain, and his determination, to take care of himself, no matter what he suffered.

He wanted me to wave my magic legal wand and solve his legal problems. Yet, the real issues were rooted in his health. If he could become healthy, and address his medical issues, then he could manage and resolve the things he said were troubling him. Soon, he’ll need a lawyer, but today, he needed a doctor.

I drove him to the health clinic and made an appointment. A few days later, we met there, again, and we filled out the long questionnaire about his medical history, and a survey on depression. Bingo, he self scored a 100% on the depression survey. I admired his honesty in answering all the questions with an open heart. It’s tough for anyone to be brutally honest with themselves when it comes to your health, and that challenge is doubled or tripled when it comes to looking in the mirror and saying the word “depression”.

We met with two amazing, compassionate staff members of the clinic. In a few minutes, they were doing tests, asking more questions, and engaging my friend in a frank and respectful conversation about his health. He could see the entire picture, and the collision in his life of genetics, diet, exercise, addictions, and the stress of his life.

We talked about remedies, and new choices to be made. More tests were scheduled, and a follow up visit was set, to check on how he’s doing on his depression medication, and to begin work on some of his other long term problems. They offered him hope and professional competence. More importantly, they offered him respect.

It was a hard day for him, hard to show up for the appointment, hard to have a real conversation about the realities of his life, and hard for him to accept the help he’s needed. Everyone in the room was concerned about him, him as a person, as a human being. There wasn’t a word of judgment, a word of criticism of his choices and the way he’s chosen to self medicate.

At last, he could get the medical care he needed, and to gain the tools he needs to move on with his life, and regain his health.

Our country is having a big discussion about medical insurance and health care. A lot of folks grump about the costs of medical care, and the pros and cons of subsidized health insurance for people in poverty, and the working poor. I’m overwhelmed with all the statistics, plans, and arguments on all sides of the discussion.

All that quickly gets intellectually confusing, with lots of rhetoric and politics, and, I suspect, a lot of propaganda. There’s money to be made, and lots of self interest, and self serving posturing going on.

Yet, for all that talk, I sat with my friend, seeing him get first class health care, seeing him get the services he’s needed, and to be able to work on restoring his health. Soon, he’ll be able to work, he’ll be able to get out of bed and feel good about himself, and to be the kind of father he needs to be to his kids, and be an active, healthy member of the community. If there’s a price for that, I think we’d all think that would be a pretty good investment, especially if you could see the tears of relief and validation that flowed down his cheek, as we sat in that exam room, and he realized he’s on the road to getting well, and he had hope for his life.

The next day, I visited a young man in prison. He’s asked that I come visit him, to mentor him a bit, and have some conversation. I’ve admired his art work, and some of my other buddies out at the prison thought it would be a good idea if I came to see him.

I brought some coffee and doughnuts, not sure what he would like to enjoy, as we got to know each other.

“You could have brought anything,” he said. “I haven’t had a visit in a year and a half, so, …anything’s fine with me.”

He gets out next year, and is working hard on the work crew, earning a bit of money so he’ll be able to find a place to live, and get settled into adult life. After seven years, it will be a big change, and he’s ready to make a fresh start in life.

He had a lot to say, once I asked him a few questions. I shut my mouth, and gave him the space to talk. His family only came once a year to visit, and now that they’ve got some serious health problems, they haven’t been able to see him for a year and a half.

He sees his younger brother going down the wrong path, and wants to be there for him, to help him turn the corner, and live a decent life. My buddy knows the drug and alcohol road, and the road of anger and not having a healthy father as a role model in his life. He’s done his work behind those walls, and is walking on the straight and narrow path now. And, he’s not afraid to share his wisdom.

I heard him tell the sad tales of his life, the struggles of his mom, raising kids on not much money but a whole lot of love. I heard him speak about his anger about his stepdad, and the hunger he’s had for some good role models, and some direction in his life. I heard him speak about the fights he’s started, and how being a gang member addressed his hunger in his life, until he realized that punching someone out and being angry at the world wasn’t doing much for himself. He wasn’t being the person he wanted to be, and he needed to change.

He showed me the violin his grandfather sent, and he grinned as he told me how he’s learning to play it, and how it gives him a voice for all that he feels in his heart, about who he was and who he is now, and where he wants to go.

He wanted to hear a little bit about me, who I am, what my life is like. And, sometime soon, we’ll have that conversation. But, yesterday was his turn, his opportunity to speak his mind, and tell his story. He needed someone to just listen, to take the time for him, to let him be the focus of a conversation for once.

His story is a sad story, but also a story about courage, and determination, and the power of a person to reach down deep inside of themselves, and realize that they need to make a change. It was a story of reaching out, of finding some resources, of seeing hope when you are at the very bottom of your life, and of deciding to climb out of that hole, and to move on, to seek the destiny of your precious, wonderful life.

These two men, these two encounters this week, are teaching me a lot about courage, and determination. They are teaching me that there is hope in this country for men deciding to summon their courage from deep inside of themselves, to face what they need to face, and then to step out, to move on, and change their lives.

—Neal Lemery, March 9, 2014

Taking Flight

Young eagle in flight,
soaring on the last of the storm winds,
the end of the hurricane that shook his soul,
that darkness testing his manhood to his sweet core.

Today’s sun rises bright, fresh with promise,
of all his possibilities, all of his hopes;
challenges push and pull,
testing his heart, his young wings.

He looks deep into his heart, finding his direction,
and faces life head-on, confident in
direction, rich in determination,
rich in possibilities and well-chosen dreams.

He takes the best from the past,
and plots his course with care;
moves ahead, heart filled with love,
focused, loved, and whole.

Neal Lemery 1/29/2014

A New Start

A new, strong day, being with a young man’s first day of freedom, after seven years of prison. He, bravely stepping out, moving on, as he sees the ocean for the first time in a third of his life.

We stop to pray in the forest, me blessing him, asking God to let him move ahead, now free and clean of past teenaged mistakes, to move on, being healed, forgiven, loved. We find no words to speak, only hugs tell our feelings, the winter quiet catching my tears.

We journey five hours, back in time, but also new possibilities, back to his roots, him ready for a new start, new beginnings. We marvel at geese overhead, sunlight on the beach, possibilities of work, new friends, life without walls, anything being the dreams he has.

Hope, love, forgiveness now real words, real potential of his tomorrow. He steps away from me, one last hug telling me he is ready, now, to really fly, my young eagle.

I leave him, all his possessions at his feet, in the new rain, halfway house a big first stop on this, his first day of freedom.

Young eagle, wings outspread, flaps slowly forward, leaving me, wet cheeked, driving away, now alone, me, a witness today, to courage.

Being Thankful

“Let us remember that, as much has been given us, much will be expected from us, and that true homage comes from the heart as well as from the lips, and shows itself in deeds.” ~Theodore Roosevelt

Yes, the Thanksgiving dinner table will “groan” with an abundance of food, and a delightful gathering of family and friends, and rich conversation will mark the feast. We will pause to hear each of us express what we are thankful for in the past year, one of our favorite traditions.

And, in that telling of thanks, there will be a few tears, and a few laughs, and my heart will be filled with gratitude of what I have in my life. People new to our Thanksgiving table will remark about the goodness of speaking about what we are thankful for, and sharing that with others.

Yet, I try to express my thanks in more than words. As Theodore Roosevelt said, truly giving thanks is putting our gratitude into action, into our deeds.

This week, I sat with two of my young men in prison, each of them at a crossroads in their lives, each of them struggling to move ahead, to grow, and to steady themselves on their paths. Their particular challenges were different, but each of them steeled themselves, dug deep inside of their souls, drawing on their resilience and their growing self esteem, and moved ahead.

I marveled at their strength, and at their insight into their challenges and dilemmas. In the short time I’ve been privileged to be in their lives, I have seen them grow into healthy, strong men, gaining confidence and perspective on how far they’ve come, and what potentials they have to make it in the world.

I found myself giving thanks for the privilege of simply being present, as they worked on their problems, seeking solutions, weighing alternatives, and doing the gut work they each needed to do in order to move on. What each of them were working on, and what each of them accomplished was bloody, gut wrenching, soul challenging work.

There was old ugliness and pain, stuff all of us would probably want to find easier to ignore, and keep buried deep inside. Yet, they plunged in, dealing with the ugly past, the old patterns of thinking, and simply did the work. They tried out their new tools, and embraced the light they want to have in their lives, leaving behind the dark, sad past.

Their challenges, and their deep, thoughtful, soul changing work, brought tears to my eyes. Their stories of their childhoods, and their heart wounds, and search for love and acceptance in this world, tore at my heart. Yet, they accepted who they had been, and embraced who they are becoming. They are moving forward, with courage and with love for themselves, at last.

Being a witness, and a cheerleader at times, I was humbled by their perseverance, their determination to move forward. They faced change, and moved on. They faced uncertainty, and complex choices, yet each of them knew where he wanted to go, and what they wanted to accomplish for themselves.

I learn from them all of the time. They inspire me, they mentor me, in how to live a healthy, productive life. They teach me that one’s past is not necessarily the predictor of one’s future, that one can change and move away from disaster and bitterness, and into a life of sanity and unconditional love.

Outside the prison walls, our society faces challenging problems, and dilemmas that seem to defy solutions. And, soon enough, these young men will be leaving prison, and living their lives as free men. I am excited that they will soon be free, and will soon take an active part in our country’s life and culture. They are strong, capable, and determined men, men with brains and a healthy way of looking at life, and who they want to be. They will be rich, productive assets for the rest of us. They have much to teach each one of us.

I am thankful for them, for being able to be a small part of their lives, and, in a small way, help them move on and be strong, loving, and amazing young men.

—-Neal Lemery, 11/27/2013

A Courageous Dilemma

We often think heroes are the folks somewhere else, the people on the front page or on the TV news, people who have done something amazing. They’re the people meeting the President, getting a medal.

But, we have heroes here, right in my town. And, sometimes, I get to be a witness to some amazing acts of courage and determination to just do the right thing.

A friend of mine is facing a serious dilemma. Their work, and their values and morals, and what is truly in their best interest are now at loggerheads. Life isn’t working out the way they want it, and there’s a lot of conflict, a lot of strife.

And, it’s becoming clear that the right thing to do is make some big changes, and to move on. That means giving up some things that are near and dear to their heart. Yet, they aren’t able to fully live their morals and values the way things are now.

They are at the crossroads, and the road is muddy, and there are a lot of questions, and not as many answers.

My friend has wrestled with all of this, and keeps coming back to thinking they need to live their morals and values, and be true to themselves, to honor their core values. And, when they’ve looked at their dilemma in that way, the choices become clear, and the path ahead opens up, and they can move forward.

They’re unstuck, now, and they’ve figured it out. Do the right thing, be true to their values, and find the courage to move ahead, to embrace change. Once they’ve come around to living life according to their beliefs, the choices are a lot easier, a lot clearer.

This conflict hasn’t been easy. There’s been a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of conversation over coffee with friends, a lot of wandering in the desert of uncertainty and doubt. And, in that darkness, they’ve found their stars again, and they’ve refocused on their beliefs and morals. Their compass has found True North again, and they are ready to make their move.

I’ve helped, just a bit, in that journey. I’ve listened, and put my judging and second guessing to the side. My role as friend in all this has been to listen, and to repeat back to them what they are saying, so they can hear their own words, their own values, through another voice.

My friend has figured it out. I don’t need to decide for them, and I don’t need to analyze the dilemma through my own values and beliefs. I just need to let them hear what they are saying, and let they say and hear their own advice, their own solution to their dilemmas.

I’d want that for me, when it’s my turn in the box of paradox, dilemma, and conflict. Someone to hold up that mirror, and let me see myself for what I am, and for what I believe in, and want to achieve. We all need that person in our lives to give us permission to get out the compass, and find our True North.

My friend is moving on, taking steps now in the direction they’ve chosen, and feeling pretty happy about it. They aren’t expecting to get a medal from the President, but they deserve one, for being courageous and for doing the right thing.

Neal Lemery 11/5/2013

Living In the Midst of Courage

I live in the midst of courageous people. Oh, I laugh at the funny things about my little home town, the log trucks and milk trucks rumbling through downtown, taking up a lane and a half, the cow manure fountains spurting their stink, attracting seagulls and puzzling some of the tourists.

“What’s that green fountain in the field?” they ask, until they get too close.

Our high school teams are the Cheesemakers, and our big tourist attraction is the cheese factory, where people line up for ice cream cones, and carry out big bags of “squeaky cheese”, what my grandmother used to call cheese curds, and fed them to the hogs. At $5 a bag, I bet today she wouldn’t be thinking hog food.

Our biggest celebration is the June Dairy Month Parade, led by our dairy princesses, and finished up with big hay trucks and the town’s biggest fire truck. At the county fair, the most popular events are the “Pig ‘N Ford” races (Model Ts and greased pigs), and the Saturday night demolition derby.

Yet, serious things go on here, people taking on serious, tough issues and moving ahead in their lives.

This week, the local paper features the lives of young women, rebuilding their troubled, addicted lives in a women’s rehabilitation house, finding a healthy routine, and real normalcy. The paper printed their pictures and their names, at the top of the front page, along with their stories of drugs, violence, child neglect, and jail. They are stepping forward, claiming their sobriety and their changes, and proud of their journey.

A mentally troubled lady buttonholes me in the library, venting her political views, and urging me to gather food for the coming apocalypse.. The librarian and I later compare notes, on how we both look after her, in our own ways, knowing that the resources for helping the mentally ill are stretched thin, and the best thing we can do is keep an eye out, and sometimes offer a kind ear for the demons in her head.

I chat with a contractor outside of a cafe. He’s up to speed on how our jails are our mental health clinics, that most folks in jail are addicts, and that this country has the highest per capita rate of prisoners. And, how that doesn’t work. He tells me how he hires guys getting out of jail, knowing that they need the work, and more than a little guidance and fathering from him. He says he’s changed some lives, and that he makes a difference.

“I take a chance on people, but folks need a break, a chance to be successful,” he grins. “Been there, myself, you know.”

A young man here in prison talks to me about his release in a few months, how he’s going to move back to his small town, back to where people know him for his crime and probably aren’t in a forgiving mood. He takes a deep breath and calls his journey “stepping out” into his future. He’s not looking back, and will find new friends, and negotiate a new way of living with his family.

He talks frankly with me about his sexual crime, and how that affected the victim. And, he talks about how he was abused, and beaten and how he was going down the dark road when he was a teen. Prison changed him, he says, and the treatment there was the best thing he’s doing for himself and for his future.

A grocery clerk takes a break outside, looking up at the sky. Her daughter’s back in jail—drugs, again. It’s a tough cycle, and there’s a tear in her eye that slides down her cheek, as she thinks about her daughter, and the granddaughter now back in her care, and what lies ahead. Yet, she’s here, working, and taking it on, again.

Courage. Courage to move ahead, the past be damned.

The local AA groups proudly fix up their meeting house, putting up a sign announcing their presence, and their mission in this town, where the bars nearly outnumber the churches.

“We are here, and we are working our plan, one step at a time.” Not that long ago, there was a whole lot of shame and denial in addiction and recovery, and the biggest voice about it was just a whisper. Now, that work is something people are proud of, even letting the local paper put their names and pictures on the front page, talking about their recovery, and the work they’re doing to stay clean and sober.

We can talk about domestic violence now, too. The local group that offers counseling, shelter, and a lot of support is out in the community, accepted as an important service and a vital presence in our lives.

Not that we are putting an end to domestic violence. It still rears its ugly head in so many ways. But, a lot of discussion goes on about domestic violence now, and we aren’t so afraid to talk about it, and the impact it has on people’s lives, and how complicated it is to help someone who is dealing with it in their lives. There’s some turning points, and people’s thinking is changing. And, people who are dealing with it are being admired, admired for being courageous.

I take an evening class at the community college, During my break, I saw a woman writing on a tablet in the student commons. She writes slowly, thoughtfully, her pen poised above the paper, as she carefully chooses her words. She opens a book, a text on communications, and reads a paragraph, her brow furrowed in concentration, and picks up her pen, and starts to write again. She’s still wearing her uniform from work, and her face tells me it’s been a long day. But she’s here, working away, making progress in her life, getting an education.

My teacher is working hard, too, spending time with each of his students, making sure everyone is challenged, and everyone is learning something useful, something to make them better guitar players, better musicians, and, most of all, better people.

He’s building a house, from the ground up, learning as he goes. Today, he put in a window, something he’s never done before. Not that that would stop him. He loves a challenge, he loves building his future, one board, one sheet of plywood, one window at a time.

At night, the college parking lot is full. Every classroom is busy, people listening, talking, working hard on learning, on moving ahead in their lives.

People moving ahead, working on what needs to be taken care of, people living their courage.

Neal Lemery 10/30/2013