A Prison Christmas Carol

Audio Version--YouTube Website: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uU2j1vuue88

Have You Wondered Why There Is Evil? All Christians have, and "A Prison Christmas Carol" offers a sensitive and encouraging answer to those who struggle with the issue. This holiday season, "Beyond the Bridges Prison Ministries" offers you a touching explanation that will inspire your faith and reassure you in the face of challenges and grief. It may change how you see life, and it is our special Christmas gift to you. 

A young man’s bitter childhood experiences led him to violence, prison, and a hopeless future. Mat Edwards, an inmate at midlife, must now confront the possible end of his own existence. He faces a life-or-death operation, and the prison has arranged for his urgent surgical treatment at a medical center. The night before he goes, he reflects on the injustice and bitterness that have molded his life. Cynically resigned to whatever happens, he lovingly speaks to the worn picture of his dead sister. The revenge he took on the person responsible for her death is the reason he has spent his life behind bars. But late that evening, a Night Visitor challenges everything that has driven his life. That Visitor offers insight that overturns Mat’s cynicism and transforms his life. 

With new insight and purpose, Mat Edwards now finds the strength to forgive. As he leaves for his operation, he asks for pen and paper to write a letter of forgiveness to his mother. What he has received from his special Night Visitor, he now seeks to share with his estranged mother. That forgiveness will be the answer to her prayers and will bring healing to both of their lives. Such a gift symbolizes the true meaning of Christmas.  

You may contact and find out more about Beyond the Bridges by visiting us:

https://beyondthebridges.org/.

“A Prison Christmas Carol.”

An original story By David Richardson created for the Beyond the Bridges Prison Ministries (September, 2018)

It was nine days before Christmas, but in the close security section of a prison, it was just another day—no decorations, no Christmas trees or wreathes, and no Christmas music. Prison administration frowned on that sort of thing. Inmates did look forward to the Christmas Day meal, which was the one day during the year that the kitchen attempted to provide an appetizing dinner. Other than that, the holiday for most faded anonymously into the gray industrial walls.   

An inmate, Mathew Edwards, a man in his late 40s, lay in his bunk. He was not well. The very thought of a special Christmas meal made him queasy. So the coming holiday in prison offered little to interest him. Dr. Stan Bickle, the prison’s medical officer, approached Edwards’ cell, accompanied by a guard. He had a message, but it was not about the coming holiday. It was urgent news. So the doctor was all business.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Edwards? Headaches any better?” asked the doctor.

“I feel like crap,” replied Edwards. “The headaches haven’t gone away, and my left side feels numb and tingly. I don’t feel like throwing up anymore. That’s a plus, or I’d throw up on you.”

“Cute, Mr. Edwards,” said the doctor impassively; he then continued. “I have the results from your emergency room evaluation. You weren’t suffering migraines. That was the nurse’s bad guess. The numbness in your left side and the headaches are from an aneurysm. The scans suggest that is has leaked slightly. And that’s why you passed out. It also accounts for the numbness. I am sorry to give you such news at Christmas.”

“I am used to bad news during the holidays, Doctor Stan,” replied Edwards. “It’s a tradition in my family. But what’s an aneurysm? What’s going on?”

“You have a blood vessel in your brain that has a weakened wall,” explained the doctor. “It has begun to balloon. The fact that it has started to leak predicts that it might burst. Your spikes in blood pressure are an issue. You could have a stroke, perhaps a fatal one, and it could happen at any time.” 

“Really?” said Edwards in mock distress. “Then I have something personal, Doctor Stan, which I would like you to do for me—that is, if I don’t make it, and you don’t mind.”

“What’s that, Mr. Edwards? I will do what I can,” replied the doctor.

“Make sure that they write on my gravestone,” said Edwards, “‘I told you I was sick.’” 

“Again, Mr. Edwards, cute,” replied the doctor, his eyes narrowing to a point as if looking through his patient to the wall behind him. “This is no time for old jokes. I don’t think you see that this is serious.” 

“I don’t think it’s serious?” Edwards countered with an ironic smile. “It took me long enough to see the nurse. I put the request in some days ago; but apparently, I had to pass out first, so I don’t even remember the visit. I was told that she came. And I do know that you’ll charge me for her medical services. Those prisoner co-pays are a real humanitarian reform to prison life. I imagine the Emergency Room was expensive, too. I won’t be able to pay for that either, but when do I get that bill. No, Doctor Stan, what’s serious around here is a matter of perspective.”

“Have it your own way, Edwards,” replied the doctor, “but prison social services will look for state and other forms of medical coverage. Right now, your treatment is the priority. I want to transfer you to the Infirmary. The neurologist who diagnosed you has recommended surgery at Eskenazi Hospital in the Indiana University Medical Center Complex at Indianapolis. He doesn’t want to try it here. I. U. has better facilities and a more experienced team. He has already coordinated with the I. U. Department of Neurosurgery. You’ll have to agree to treatment of course. But I want you to know that this is a serious operation. You won’t have guarantees. There are serious risks—very serious.  

“We have arranged to drive you to the I. U. Medical Center tomorrow. I would send you tonight, but I can’t get you out sooner than the morning. So I want you under medical observation in the Infirmary.”

“I’ll go tomorrow morning, Doctor Stan,” said Edwards, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay in my cell. Adding an Infirmary visit to my medical bill doesn’t excite me. I. U. Hospital will cost enough. I’ll stay right here.”

“OK, but you’ll have to sign for that decision,” replied the doctor icily. “I have to prove that I offered it to you. You’ll also have to sign permission allowing us to transfer you to I. U. for treatment.”

He offered Edwards a clipboard and a prison pen. The inmate signed each document where required and then handed the clipboard back.

“The Infirmary--that’s my advice,” continued the doctor. “If you stay here, then don’t exert yourself. Just rest. Get some sleep. The ambulance will be here early tomorrow morning—about 6:00 a.m. I’d say. So be ready. Guards will be here with a wheelchair to transfer you. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Edwards replied. “The signatures I gave you are the best I could do with this pen. And I suppose I should say thank you. Had you let this go for a few weeks, you might have had an empty cell to use.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Edwards,” said the doctor without really noting what the inmate said. “I hope things turn out OK. Good night.”   

Dr. Bickle and the guard turned and silently walked away from the cell. Now alone, Edwards, reached for a book lying on the small stool by his cot. It’s was Bible, but he had been using its pages to protect a worn and crinkled picture of a pretty, teenage girl. He gently pulled the picture out and looked at it wistfully.

“Well, Jaylah,” he said to himself quietly, “we’re getting a little closer. Not like when we were kids, but near enough. I wonder, Sis, what you were thinking those last minutes. I’ve always wondered. Before, when the pain had become too bad, and you cried yourself to sleep, I was there. Right there. I couldn’t help much, but I was there with you. I stroked your hair so you’d know you weren’t alone. Was the pain like that? Or was it worse? Had I been there with you, maybe I could have eased the pain just a little—enough so those hurting thoughts would not have been your final moments. I’m sorry. I let you down.

“That was Christmas a long time ago, Sis, but I still remember. Most others don’t. But I do. I couldn’t protect you. Mom should have, but she couldn’t either. I can’t tell you how much I miss you. The man responsible for what happened to you--I made sure he paid! I did do that, but it took me a few years. That was the only gift I could give you. But I got it done finally, and so I’m here. And I have never regretted it. He won’t hurt anyone else, and no one misses him. But I do miss you, Jaylah, especially this time of year. Maybe I’ll see you soon—wherever you are.” 

“Where do you think she is now? And how close do you really think you are to her?” The unexpected voice shattered Edward’s solitude. No one else could be in the cell with him, but Matt Edwards felt a Presence. Startled, he picked up the stool by his bed to use as a weapon. The image of a man was across from him, but it made no response to Edward’s hostile move. Instead, the image simply looked at Edwards intently. The puzzled inmate seemed blocked in some way. He put down the stool and then looked up with confusion.

“Who, the hell, are you, and how did you get in here?” Edwards asked. “I am going to call for the guards.”

The Presence across from him seemed unmoved by the threat. Then a voice responded, “You have just had some serious news. You have begun to ask some important questions. They are formulating in your head—for the first time in your adult life. The deafening noise of your anger, violence, and bitterness, has subsided just enough. You don’t see their point, so their noise has died down. You can hear me now—at least for the moment. That’s why I have come to you.”

“You must be from Prison Social Services” Edward replied. “You must be looking for ways of covering the bill that I.U. Medical Center is going to send. I can’t help you. I don’t have any money. If that’s a problem, why don’t you let this thing in my head just burst? That would solve your problem, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s not a problem,” said the voice from the Presence across from him. “Jaylah, your sister, is. So is Brianna, your mother.” 

“What do you know about them?” he growled. “I don’t know you. How could you have anything to do with them?”

The voice continued calmly but with authority. “Your mother is in a special program now. Did you open her letter? She wrote to you about it. I directed her to it. I helped her through rehab. Now she has a small apartment. She works part-time with a neighborhood agency and draws disability. She’s diabetic, you know—with liver trouble. She hasn’t had a drink in 12 months. She wrote to you about that, too. She wept as she wrote the letter, begging you to forgive her. I was there with her. Right there. She desperately wants a letter from you. That is the only thing she’s praying for this Christmas. With my help, you can answer that prayer.”

“What are you talking about?” Edwards responded with irritation. “How can Prison Social Services get involved in answering prayers? Do you know what my mother is? She’s a prostitute, though she’s never done prison time. And she’s a drunk. Jaylah and I took care of her when she came home from the street. She stunk of alcohol. We cleaned her up and put her to bed. That’s how the weekend went. It was the same story on school days, too. 

Edwards continued with growing anger, “She put money in the bank, but Jaylah and I bought the groceries, paid the rent, cleaned the apartment, fixed the meals, and did whatever else was needed. She just brought her boyfriends home from time to time. Then we would hide. That was the story for two teenagers. That was our world—Christmas and the rest of the year.

The voice replied, “I told you, your mother and Jaylah are the problem—your problem.” 

“Jaylah’s dead,” screamed Edwards, “and you said that my mother, if you can call her that, is doing fine. Better than I am. So how can they be problems?” 

The Presence responded to Edwards as if he knew the inmate’s most secret thoughts. “You haven’t forgiven Jaylah for the overdose. It haunts you like a ghost. And your mother? You haven’t forgiven her, either. That was her pimp who molested your sister when she was fifteen. But you blame your mother for your sister’s death. Just as you blamed the pimp—and yourself. You killed the man, yet that didn’t quench the anger or the guilt inside of you. Your mother and your sister--they both deserted you, at least that’s how you feel. Your anger has brought you here, and it festers. It has cost you most of your life. Do you want to feed it the rest?”

“Who are you to talk to me that way?” shrieked Edwards menacingly. “I don’t care if you are Prison Social Services. I am going to put you down. I am going to show you what it’s like to be powerless, at least until the guards come. They can’t hurt me with a few more years on my sentence. Anyway, I’ve got a stroke in my head waiting to happen. Maybe they’ll send you to the hospital with me in the same ambulance.” 

Edwards angrily rose from his cot. With clawing, outstretched hands, he tried to grab the Presence across from him. But Edwards felt a touch on his forehead and the voice commanded him, “Peace, be still!” He stopped cold and fell back on his cot, collapsing heavily in a daze. He looked up to see nail prints and blood on the Presence’s outstretched hands. Then he gasped.

“Your hands! They’re mangled and bleeding. Like the hands my grandmother told Jaylah and me about! That story in the Bible. Jesus’ hands from the cross--the Savior. Who are you?”

“You must answer that question yourself, Matt” replied the Presence. “The answer could lead to your true freedom—even in this place. So, who would you say that I am?”

Edwards replied, “Well, if you are claiming to be the Savior, then tell me why didn’t you save Jaylah before she was raped—or before she overdosed and died alone? Why didn’t you save my mother before she became a drunken prostitute? And why didn’t you save me before I killed that piece of garbage? In fact, there are lots of people you ought to be saving. There’s a lot of human wreckage around. A bunch of it is right here all around us. If you are the Savior, then you’re not really living up to your job description.” 

“I can only save what human beings allow me to save, Matt,” the Presence answered. “I created you with a great gift—the ability to choose. Don’t you remember the picture of Eden? What you listen to determines what you choose. That’s part of the choice. When you don’t listen to me, you listen to the serpent’s hiss that enslaves you. You worship idols. You worship your personal pleasure, your greed, your ambition, and even your religion. So most can’t hear my voice. From the hammering of personal lusts to the clatter of pious self-worship, you don’t hear me pleading. But you readily sacrifice your freedom and your very lives. You embrace those false gods that leave you empty and despairing. My message goes unheard, Matt. The noise of your idols makes my voice impossible to hear.” 

Edwards countered, “Then why can’t you make them listen? Why can’t you make them see the idols for what they are? Why can’t you save them? You have all power. You must know the pain they feel. The pain we all feel. Why don’t you care?”

“That would take away the very gift I gave you, Matt,” replied the Presence, “the gift that makes human beings what they are. I gave you my image. But that gift gives you the power to reject me. You have the power to choose. I do care, Matt, but I can’t make you choose what you don’t want.”

“But there is too much pain,” said Edwards. “It’s just too much. It doesn’t affect you. We live in it. We drown in it. Is this prison something you choose in the name of your image? Is choice worth these wasted lives?”

“I do understand brutality, Matt,” the Presence gently answered. “Look at my hands and feet. See the scars on my head and back. A Roman judge condemned me as a criminal. Religious leaders applauded the sentence. I was tortured and put to death. But I was innocent. So, I do understand pain. I do understand injustice. I know how human beings are broken. And I know their tears. It’s why I came.

“Do you remember, Matt, when you were nine? One evening, you fully realized what your mother was doing. That was a body blow to you, and you cried. You wept into your pillow until it was wet with your tears. Could you have stopped your mother from making the choices that she made?”

“Where were you then?” Edward challenged. “I wanted to stop her, but I couldn’t! I didn’t see you!”

“I can’t stop human beings from making their choices, either,” replied the Presence. “But I keep pleading with them throughout their lives—day in and day out. But the idols they make—the idols you make—drown out my offer of grace and love. And I weep over human deafness. If they all would stop and let the noise abate, then they could hear. This world would then be a different place—a better place.”

Edwards fought tears as he replied, “It is still too much. I have done too much. Even in this place, I have made myself feared. I would not have survived otherwise. Outside of prison, people pretend that they should care for one another as brothers and sisters; race and origin should count for nothing. That’s a lie! Prison taught me that all races are out to get you. You never really have friends. Justice is for those who can afford it. And anyone—I mean anyone—can be corrupted. Those are hard lessons to learn. I was forced to learn them. Where were you when I did?”

“I was right there with you, Matt. Right there,” the voice gently replied. “When your pillow became wet with your tears, I was right beside you weeping. I never left you. And I never stopped loving you. And I am here now. I will never leave you or forsake you. That promise is for you, just as it was for my disciples 2000 years ago.” 

“Well, where were you when Jaylah overdosed and died in her own vomit?” Edwards sobbed, no longer able to hold back his tears. “That was early Christmas morning. She could have used your help, but she died alone. Where was your compassion? She deserved it more than I do. So where were you? And now, suddenly, why am I so special?”

Jaylah is with me, Matt,” said the voice, soothing his tears. “As the noise abated in her spirit, she heard me in those final moments. The grace and love I offer you now were her last thoughts, not the painful ones you imagined. She reached out to me in desperation. And I was there. Right there. I reached out to her in forgiveness and acceptance. Her body was finished, but her spirit leaped to me, and now she is safe. That was my gift to her; the one I offer to you now.”

“But what’s done is done,” Edward said, turning away. “How can you undo all the horrible things that have happened? How can you make all of those things right? Its stench covers the world! It covers me! I have blood on my hands! How can the earth ever be clean? How can I ever be clean?”

“I have promised a new heaven and a new earth,” the Presence gently replied. “I created time, and I will recreate it, redeeming it from the evil that’s been done. You will see it. That is what I promised your sister. Now, I am reaching out to you with the same promise. Let me redeem your history, your hurts, your hatreds, your despair, your anger. I bore them on the cross. So accept my forgiveness and let go of your bitterness. I have paid for them so that you can live. You have come to a moment when you can hear my voice. You can rethink your life, and you can reach out to me for a new one. Do it before that deafening noise returns.” 

“If you can take this old life, with its violence and anger, and make it new, please give that to me,” Edwards pleaded. “I have wasted the years. In what time I have left, even if it’s just moments, I need to have what you promise. I have known a prison all of my life, even when no walls surrounded me. I don’t know what real life is like. Lord Jesus, help me.”

“Matthew Edwards. It’s time to go. The ambulance is waiting, and it’s a long trip.” The voice was familiar. It belonged to a prison guard who had just unlocked the security door.” A second guard now rolled a wheelchair into the cell. Edwards roused himself, as if he had been sleeping, and then turned to the two guards. They secured him for transport, and then Edwards sat down in the wheelchair.

“Matthew,” said the guard pushing the wheelchair, “I do hope everything goes well. My wife and I prayed for you last night—that the operation would go well.” 

“Thank you,” Edwards replied. “I appreciate that. I have it on good authority that I am going to be all right, no matter how my operation goes. But could you do me a favor?”  

“What is it, Edwards?” the guard replied.

“Could you get me a prison pen and some paper?” he requested. “I need to write my mother. She sent me a letter. I have it here. I must write her back.” 

“I’ll get them for you, Edwards,” the guard replied, “but are you sure you want them now? You’re on your way to the hospital and surgery.” 

“Yeah, I need to do this.” Edwards said. “It’s that important to her—and to me. She’s been praying for a response, so I can’t keep her waiting. I need to tell her that we’re both going to be all right. And my sister, Jaylah, too. I realize that now. I also have to tell her that I forgive her. A special visitor gave that gift to me last night. And he told me to share it with her. He told me to be the answer to her prayer. And I trust what he says. If anyone knows what Christmas is for, he does.”