Back in the spring of 2018, My Co-Director, Beryl Smith and me had an experience that will never be forgotten.  I’m used to prison visits as the Lord has blessed me with more than 150+ visits a year to a number of Northern CA prisons.  Having said that, a trip to someone on death row is an altogether different experience.  How blessed I’ve been to have Beryl as my Co-Director.  He has a heart for prison ministry unlike anyone I’ve ever known.  For the longest time, Beryl was writing to more than 200 incarcerated men and women from coast-to-coast.

 

The following was Beryl's rendition of what we experienced that day...

 

It was about a 110 mile drive from my house in the Sierra foothills down I-80, past my brother’s house in Point Richmond and across the San Rafael Bridge to the large San Quentin prison complex where over 6,000 men are incarcerated—about 750 of whom are on Death Row.

 

My ministry partner, Gregg Harris had suffered a brain-stem/thalamic stroke several years ago. Partially paralyzed on his left side, it was a lengthy ordeal for him to pass through the metal detector for contraband and be thoroughly checked with a hand-wand metal detector. As with most state and federal prisons, in addition to clothes you’re wearing, the only thing you take with you into this huge, sprawling house of anguish is your driver’s license and some cash for the vending machines. I purchased a photo ducat so we could get a picture taken with the man we came to visit.

 

Michael was 57 years old, about 5 foot 8 inches tall, bald, wearing glasses and sporting a neatly trimmed, grey beard around the point of his chin. He was an African-American. Who cared what color race he was? He had become a brother in Christ. We were both sinners. Only our current residence was different. He lived here on the inside. We lived on the outside. What immediately gripped my attention was the smile on his face. Incarcerated for some 37 years, he hadn’t had a visitor in over 12 years. He was as eager to meet us, as we were to meet him.

 

The visitor’s area of the old, large brick building reminded me of an old-time Western jail. You know, there’s where the Sheriff’s desk was, then you take the ring of keys off the wall and go through a large wood door into the back part of the jail where the jail cells are. Here there were about six cells in two rows, opposing each other. The cell bars were painted a dingy white. In the room were a small, very old table and three chairs. Plexiglas covered all of the cell bars completely. You could see others in adjoining cells but you could not easily hear the visitors. Our friend told us it was a very loud ordeal before the Plexiglas was installed; you had to almost shout at the person in front of you in order to communicate effectively.

 

These cells were specially made for visits with Death Row inmates.  Before entering the cell where Michael eagerly waited for us, a small metal door in the center of the cell bars was opened where Michael backed up and the Correctional Officer reached in to put handcuffs on the inmate. Then the padlock on the cell door was removed and we were allowed to enter. The door was rolled shut and a padlock was re-installed. We were locked into the cell with our prisoner. He backed up again to the little panel in the cell door and the guard reached in to remove Michael’s shiny handcuffs.

 

Introductions were unnecessary. Michael knew Gregg and me from the letters we had exchanged. He has read some of our essays and poems. The smile on his face showed his pleasure in finally getting to meet these two men who came as ambassadors of heaven. We had two and one half hours to share the glory of being indwelt by our Triune, transcendent God and to share the Word that bound us together for time and eternity.

 

I think our imprisoned brother wanted to share his faith with us as much as we wanted to share our Lord with him. He knew what we believed. Now he wanted to share truths he had learned from years of living in a very lonely prison cell with his Savior and his Bible. Neither Gregg nor I said a great deal. It seemed as though this gracious man wanted to share with us the truths the Spirit had taught him in so many hours, weeks, months, and years in this part of his earthly pilgrimage. He had become a real student of the Word, a chosen vessel of God, eager to make something of his life in response to redeeming love.

 

Many to whom he witnessed ignored or made fun of his faith in Jesus Christ. But now he could expound on those precious doctrines of grace God had taught him to embrace. He would have years to continue being Christ’s representative in this place. Why shouldn’t a convicted criminal bravely aspire to be a soul winner? Most professing Christians spend little, if any quality time explaining the Gospel to their peers and acquaintances. It took a long, hard time for this man to learn his real vocation in life: Christ chose him to be a soul winner.

 

There’s something very special about learning what the writer of Hebrews meant in verse three of chapter 13. On this day we were beginning to learn it in a very special way. We were temporarily incarcerated in a prison cell but we were not alienated from each other spiritually. We shared what only God’s true children share—the presence of the Spirit of God in our spirits. We were brothers in the “same body” of blood-washed sinners the world over.

 

I sat across the table from Michael feeling a slight, cool breeze through the open widow. The walls looked to be about three feet thick with well-warn bricks on the exterior surface. The building was so old the rain and wind had washed some of the mortar from between the bricks. I could see San Francisco Bay through the torn, worn out screen fluttering between freedom and me. The heavy steel bars impressed me with their captive power.

 

The guard came to each cell to take photos of the inmates with their visitors. I handed him the two photo ducats I had purchased when we checked in and we each stood with him to have our photo taken with Michael. The guard used a small digital camera to take our photos through the bars. He later came by to hand us our small photo remembrances of the occasion.

 

A lesson about life on Death Row: Michael advised us that there are three levels or residence accommodations for those on Death Row:  1) “The Hole”—called “Third World Country”: Solitary confinement 23 hours/day lock up, No TV, radio or nice amenities here; a very small, narrow cell; 2) “The Getto”--possibly a small black & white TV or a radio; a little more room, a definite step up from the hole; 3) “The Hamptons”—This is what first class accommodations are at San Quentin Death Row.

 

One can exercise, have a better bed, shower, watch TV or listen to the radio. But no matter the accommodations in Death Row, without a Bible, books, writing materials, and a way to send letters to family, depression is still a constant reminder of the wrong decisions that put you there. Without Christ, you’re in your own little box with all the horrors of prison life.

 

After our visit the egress/exit process was repeated. A padlock was removed from the little metal door in the big, cold, cell door and our brother stood up to have his handcuffs replaced. We stood and I stepped over to embrace this dear, redeemed, saint of God. I didn’t want to let him go. He was my brother. Would I ever see him again? He is 57; I just recently turned 80 years of age. The correctional officer replaced the shiny, steel handcuffs on Michael. Then the cell door padlock was removed from the cell door and the guard led Michael out and down the aisle between the cells. There was no time for a long goodbye or parting words. Michael was gone. We stepped out of the cell and went outside and down the ramp to wait for our ride back to where we had parked the car.

 

Out of the prison complex, back across the Bay Bridge, and the long ride back up the freeway to our homes—our warm, beautiful homes in the suburbs. Michael would stay where he had been and where he would probably die—where 750 other Death Row inmates could spend their last day on earth. Would they rise in spirit to meet their Savior in heaven, or would they descend into the bottomless pit of an eternal hell—apart from the God who had sent His Son to die in their place?

 

Michael will continue to witness of God’s saving grace in Christ. Real glory awaits him some day. Since execution for Death Row inmates was abandoned in California in April 1972, Michael will have more years to spread the Gospel of Christ to his fellow inmates. With his witness for Christ he’ll make the angels sing in heaven.

 

Driving home we could scarcely keep silent. The joy we had experienced in sharing the love of our Christ with this man seemed to flood our spirits; and to simply think that we were sharing together this pilgrimage to an eternity with our Savior and loved ones. An unknown glory awaits those who follow the Lord Jesus.

 

I’m wondering, do you know Him as Michael knows Him, or are you still incarcerated in your little cell of transient life and spiritual guilt and condemnation? Our brother, Michael, may remain in prison until his death; but he is a possessor of eternal life in Christ, for “if the Son shall make you free, you shall be free indeed” (John 8:32).

 

If you are a believer, the Scripture tells us “pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father, is to visit the orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world” (James 1:27).  I wonder if we ever take time to really visit the needy. I wonder if we ever “remember the prisoners, as being chained with them, and those who are ill-treated, since you yourselves also are in the body” (Hebrews 13:3).

 

Life is teaching me that we need to do what God says, if we desire to walk in the steps of Christ, be used by Him, and live a life dedicated to the glory of God. As a police detective, my father put a lot of men in San Quentin State Prison. I ended up in there for a different reason. And what a joy it was to visit Michael—a son of our Lord Jesus Christ and my dear spiritual Brother.

 

I said: “Let me walk in the fields.”

He said: “No, walk in the town.”

I said: “There are no flowers there.”

He said: “No flowers, but a crown.”

I said: “But the skies are black;

There is nothing but noise and din.”

And He wept as He sent me back –

“There is more,” He said; “there is sin.”

I said: “But the air is thick,

And fogs are veiling the sun.”

He answered: “Yet souls are sick,

And souls in the dark undone!”

I said: “I shall miss the light,

And friends will miss me, they say.”

He answered: “Choose tonight

If I am to miss you or they.”

I pleaded for time to be given.

He said: “Is it hard to decide?

It will not seem so hard in heaven

To have followed the steps of your Guide.”

I cast one look at the fields,

Then set my face to the town;

He said, “My child, do you yield?

Will you leave the flowers for the crown?”

Then into His hand went mine;

And into my heart came He;

And I walk in a light divine,

The path I had feared to see.

 

 (George MacDonald, 1824-1905)

 

From: From My Journal – Walking With Christ Down the Byways of Life

            by Beryl Clemens Smith --  5/8/2018