A Malefactor by the Side of Christ
Alan Yerkey
Table of Contents
Providence and Provision: The One Great Voyage of Life
Introduction
It has taken me a lifetime to wrap my head around certain of the Lord’s ‘simple’ comforts and the gifts that He has given towards me in times that I had least expected or would not have imagined what was lacking that He felt of necessity. And I am still ever learning of His grace and care. This is neither a teaching or exhortation directly surrounding any given passage of Scripture, it is a personal experience that has been lived and felt that I hope to be of encouragement to others.
Two things to note first: this is not written for those who may be easily offended—there are certain subjects within that are not easily discussed. Second, nothing written herein is purposely meant to either hurt or shame anyone. It is simply sharing the truth of past events, and in honor to the strength and resolve of those so effecting change in their lives in spite of the unexpected difficulties life had thrown at them—the same difficulties that anyone could be forced into.
A Watershed Moment
Our best laid plans for tomorrow are but vanity—a chasing after the wind.
My Dad passed away November 20, 2015. Due to my criminal acts and the resulting trauma I have caused to everyone involved, he had passed without having spoken to me for seventeen years. I loved him then, and I still love him today; I am the one at fault for the reasons leading up to the lack of communication and distance between us. I respect my Dad for his meritorious twenty-year military career, and I would have loved to have known him far better than I did.
One thing that I had hoped to accomplish prior to his passing, was to somehow honor him as my Dad. This I failed at. One of the prayers I had then offered after his death, however, was that I would somehow be able to honor my Mom and hopefully have an opportunity to speak with her before it is too late. I had begun to consider all kinds of actions that I could take in an attempt to bring this about, all by my own reasoning, without any further prayer than a longing, tear-filled cry. In then considering that there was nothing of my own doing that would matter, I left it all in the Lord’s hands. What follows from here is but a portion of the answer to that prayer.
For anyone who is unaware of my situation, I am a man in prison serving a life sentence; I am also a Christian. Though I cannot say that I have always been a Christian, or, even that I have been one for the majority of my life, I can say with certainty that I am a Christian now—by God’s grace and mercy I am.
My first contact from a Christian brother and sister from Oregon, Greg and Sharon, came around December 2015. I had received a letter from them introducing themselves and sharing that they had recently enjoyed an article I had written. They then expressed the desire to come to Colorado to meet me in person, for which I was a bit in joyful awe over God placing within them the desire to do so.
During our first visit the following June, we began to talk about our favorite authors, and whether or not I enjoyed allegorical stories. I stated that John Bunyan’s, The Pilgrim’s Progress, was one of my favorites. Greg then asked if I had ever read a book by John Aston Savage, The One Great Voyage of Life. It had sounded familiar to me, but I had told him that I wasn’t sure. He offered that, should he be able to find a copy of it, he could send it to me, but that it was a very old book (100+ years). I had told him I would love to read it, but that I would most likely not be allowed to have it due to facility restrictions against used books. The rest of the visit with this wonderful brother and sister was a gem cut straight by the Lord.
It was then in August of the same year, while I was at work in the Unit Office, that my life was again graced in love by the goodness of the Lord. Earlier that week, I had talked with Greg on the phone while he and Sharon were doing volunteer work at Bible Truth Publishers in Illinois. Greg had told me that he had found a single copy of the book in the Used Bookroom over the warehouse, and that he had already sent it off to me. I really didn’t believe that the mailroom at the facility would let it in, as I had just previously had another book rejected for being used.
As I was then at work that providential afternoon just a few days later, I witnessed an old friend tumble out onto the desk as the Officer emptied the mail bag. I was then taken back 35 years, to the time when that same green-canvas covered book had become a part of my life.
It had been in October 1981, that my Grandma had passed on to be with the Lord, and the very same book had been one of the many treasured mementos my Mom had brought home to Colorado after the funeral in Ohio. It had first belonged to my Grandpa, whom I had only ever known through stories and in reading his diaries and other books that he had left behind after his death, prior to my birth. Prior to my Grandma’s death, I had only ever seen the book at her house on a shelf, admiring it for the old sailing ships on its cover. I had never gotten to read it at that time.
A Lost Boy
I had just turned twelve years old the month prior to my Grandma’s death, and I was going through major upheavals in all that I had known and understood— and all that I had held dear in life. While my Dad was in the process of retiring from the Army after having returned home from an extended overseas station, the family that he returned to wasn’t the same as when he had first left. Not only had there been a major change in the family dynamics which went far beyond the normal sibling rivalry between my oldest sister and I (a six-year difference in our ages), but it was compounded at the time by my having been routinely molested by two different people from outside the family.
During the years that my Dad had been gone, I had begun running away from home beginning around age eight—hiding everywhere, from storm drains to the trees at the nearby trails—all in an attempt to get away from all that was happening. I would cry, wanting to know why, and wanting things back the way they had been before all the terror had started. My Big-sis had been my role-model—one who had played baseball, liked fishing, and knew all kinds of neat things she would share and teach me. I loved her, and I didn’t understand why or what was going on in her abuse towards me. I had only been told that a neighbor boy had “hurt her”; but I didn’t know what that had meant.
As the running away escalated, and I had been brought home by the Sheriff’s Department on more than one occasion, Social Services had come into the picture for a short period of time, with the threat of removing me from the home. My Big-sis was talked to by my Mom, and things got better with her for awhile in a physical sense. There seemed to be nothing between us for about a year, but then the verbal attacks and mental abuse grew out of control. I was nothing but someone to be cussed at and demeaned as worthless and hated; constantly blamed for everything wrong in the world. And I was haunted as much at night, in my dreams over all that was happening, as I was during the day. My only comforts had come from my dog, Rex, and ever more so, from my other sister, who though I don’t know if she ever knew the extent of what was happening, always seemed to be my defender and help—doing her best to always try to separate our older sister and me, and even standing up for me to our parents as to “who started it” most of the time. She became my hero, and the one member of the family who would come to mean the most to me in the following years.
Then there was Todd and Ernie—two older boys to hurt me in the same way that I would come to believe had been done to my Big-sis. It was the only thing that I could imagine which would explain her sudden hatred of me. But it continued with me, over and over again for years, and it became the only value I could find in myself in being used. Even moving from the Court where we lived didn’t help, as we had only moved closer to the greater of the two molesters— both of whom I continued to have to face every day at school. I became further and further withdrawn from my friends, ashamed of what was happening—what was being done to me—while also feeling completely abandoned and hated at home. There was nothing bad which happened that I wasn’t blamed for, so there was no reason for me not to believe that I wasn’t to blame for what was being done to me. And I only compounded it further. By the time that my Dad had come home permanently in 1980, I was not at all the same little boy he had left behind.
For those who have a delicate conscience, this may not be easy to read. I was eleven years old when my Dad had returned. During a campout the following summer at our friends’ campground, I had offered my Dad sex in hopes of having him spend time with me. It was his first full year home from overseas after so long, and he hadn’t a clue as to all that had been happening with me. The molestation that I had already been going through had twisted my understanding of what I knew to be wrong. Regardless of any of the shame that I had felt over what had continued to be forced upon me by Todd and Ernie, in my desire of wanting to spend time with my Dad without either being ignored or abused, I saw no difference in offering him the same that my molesters were taking. After all, I had felt that at least the demoralization they put me through had its end when the act was over, whereas I felt nothing but constant fear and animosity when at home. Thankfully, my Dad was not one to ever take advantage of me.
Without even bothering to discuss it with me, or to listen to me about who was responsible for molesting me, my Dad then physically assaulted the man whom he thought responsible—a friend of the family named Doug, who was also a relative to the families who owned the campground. Doug was completely innocent.
Doug was a good man, and a great father figure. Though he and his wife had no children of their own, he would take me and certain of his nephews fishing, as well as teach us all about the wildlife in the canyon where they lived, and where my family had spent most of our time. Doug had spent time with me when no-one else would, and he was completely innocent of my Dad’s accusation and assault. This is very important, as no-one, not even my school counselors, ever cared to ask, nor would listen to me when I told them who it was. Most, simply tried to dismiss it as nothing more than a “rite of passage,” that it “wasn’t a big deal,” and that I “simple needed to get over it.”
As a result of the assault, not only was the friendship between my Dad, Doug, and myself severed, but the relationship we had held with four other families that had been an integral part of our lives was severed as well. Prior to this event, every summer, and nearly every kids’ birthday, and the holidays, our families had spent time together in one form or another for years. If we weren’t in Ohio visiting family, we were in Colorado with our friends. All was gone within a year’s time: a major camping trip cancelled (my family going alone), and worse, even, that Doug and his wife ended up in getting a divorce. The last major function our families shared together, that I was a part of, other than maybe one or two local campouts in 1982, was the house warming party for the house my parents had bought that same year with my Mom’s inheritance.
Not quite a year later, my Great Grandpa died on my Dad’s side of the family, bringing even more stress and grief within the same two-year period from the loss of my Grandma. My parent’s constant arguing grew worse and worse, as my ‘wars’ with my oldest sister escalated and became physical again, culminating in family outings where I was excluded in order to avoid the disruption that I alone was ever considered the cause of—all leading up to my parent’s separation and eventual divorce a little over a year and a half later.
Admittedly, not only had I begun to experiment with alcohol and pot during these years, but I had become extremely violent in my own capacity as well, as yet another molester, Shawn, who was worse than all the others, came into my life in our new neighborhood. Having then ‘lost it’ as a result of a taunt from my oldest sister one afternoon when I was thirteen, I discovered that in spite of the fact that she was still considerably bigger than me, I could over power her and keep her from physically hurting me: I had sat on her chest beating her in the face, as my other sister worked to pull me off of her. I was crying and screaming at the same time, “Isn’t it funny, your little brother can kick your butt now!” (Though, with more graphic language at the time). I had felt empowered for the very first time, but all in the wrong way.
While I am certain that in the taunt that she had made, my sister had no idea as to the terror it had filled me with, my actions afterwards became ones of constant rage in expressing myself. I had even assaulted a teacher at my school in throwing a book at her after she chided me in front of the whole class as to why I couldn’t be more like my oldest sister—a former favorite pupil of hers. I fought constantly; skipped school; stole from my family and friends; took my parent’s cars, broke into houses, and whatever else I could get away with. But I would also find myself purposefully running my motorcycle into trees and boulders at the nearby trails in hopes of hurting myself serious enough that someone would notice and care. I became an absolute terror to all—almost all, as even with the rage, even with no-longer feeling any fear at home other than with my Dad, I couldn’t stop myself from being molested. I would even go to them whenever they called, for the perverse ‘comfort’ they gave in making me feel wanted. And I was still the child first molested, wanting peace and the family back that I had known and had been a part of before all the drama and wickedness had begun.
Ohio vs. Colorado
After my Grandma’s funeral in Ohio in 1981, our trips back there as a family to visit relatives ceased—not even to say “Goodbye” to my Great Grandpa. No more cousins or Grandparents; nor Aunts or Uncles—no more family. Ohio had never been just a family vacation to me, it was home: Where Grandma’s backyard stretched farther than I could run, and was lined with raspberry bushes, blueberry, cherry, and Black-walnut trees—with Lilac bushes reaching to the sky, and a Blue-spruce tree touching towards space in the front yard.
Ohio was Great Grandpa’s farm: with apple trees, bats in the barn, and my Uncle’s snow-mobiles around the lake. It was Grandpa in his rocking chair telling stories.
Ohio was my Great Uncle and Aunt (the greatest in the world!)—a farm with trees and fish, and snow peas picked fresh and eaten with the cool, morning dew as my Great Uncle would tell me about when he was a boy. Ohio was cousins: Susie, Timmy, Tammy and Tommy, too (among so many others); it was grandparents, uncles and aunts; it was holidays and family; it was church—Sunday School and Grandma talking about Jesus, with the Church right across the street from her home. Ohio was family—it was home.
Colorado was where I was born, and a place that I truly came to love in camping with friends and family: hiking, rock hunting and motorcycle riding. It was where we’d visit our friends and have fun, even when we were stationed at Ft. Riley, Kansas. It was playing board games and learning crafts and hobbies with my Mom and sisters. But Colorado was also to become the evil abuse and molestation, and the action of being left out and ignored.
Colorado was being the youngest and constantly bullied by someone once my hero and role-model, who then turned into a violent and vicious alcoholic—one having suffered her own traumas and trying to cope with them the only way she knew how.
Colorado was hours each week stranded in a booth at a bar called Monty’s, left alone to the abuses of drunken men and women, as Dad sat at the bar getting drunk. It was terror in him driving drunk at excessive speeds; or in my driving at only eleven and twelve years old in order to get home safe with him barely able to walk. It was secrets that no child should ever have to experience or burden.
Colorado was being blamed and hit for every possible reason, ‘justified’ or not, and being constantly reminded how worthless and unwanted I was. There were no more country drives after church as a family, as when we lived in Kansas or Ohio—there was no more church. Colorado was confusion over how everything had gone so wrong, and being lost in not knowing how to put it back together again. It was wanting the family back that was lost and not understanding why or how it had become so broken. It was seeing those whom I loved—Mom, Dad, sisters, fractured and lost—each doing whatever they could to survive in trying to figure it all out, and each hurting in their own way. It was the family, all suffering, but in distance apart even when together.
The “Book”
What’s all this got to do with Grandpa’s book—seriously, what meaning can a simple, little book have in all this? It is not as if it is the Bible itself; which, whether one is a believer or not, no other book in history has had as large of circulation, nor has impacted as many lives. No, this is but a simple, old, little book. A drab, olive-green canvas cover, embossed with sailing ships. Nothing special by modern standards. But it is an incredible tale, an allegory of a Christian’s path in life—the same path I had long rejected before being given grace to find my way inside its cover.
When I had first taken the book off of my Mom’s bookshelf at age twelve, I did little more than admire the incredible artwork within and clutch it to my chest in memory of all it represented to me of family back in Ohio, even of my own family in better times. At the same time, however, I would read through a bit of my Grandpa’s diaries, wanting to know the man I had never met, and wanting all those old family times back in Ohio to live again. I would try to read from “The Great Voyage...” but found it too difficult to understand or relate to, or, at least, that is what I would tell myself. It was, after all, written in the same difficult language as the pocket Bible I had, the “King’s English,” and spoke to me the same of my faults and bad behavior, and the need for me to show forgiveness and grace even to those most hurting me at the time.
But I did understand it, I just preferred the swash-buckling ‘rebel’ of the pirates so portrayed within Hollywood movies as the hero, over a redeemed sinner finding their way ‘aboard ship’ on a journey requiring me to take responsibility for my own actions and choices in life. This is the real reason why I believe I had refused its testimony then—my selfishness and the rebellious attitude I held. I wanted vengeance over all that I had been through, what I was yet suffering, not grace and forgiveness to either myself or my enemies. While I would run away and hide in the nearby woods, crying for Jesus to help me and bring my family back together again, I would neither admit to my own faults and failures, nor offer forgiveness and understanding to others for theirs. And I ignored the suffering of my family as well—I couldn’t see past myself to understand the pain and difficult that each of them was going through in all that was happening at the time, or, even that which I was causing further.
As time went on, the book became less of an attraction to me, and more of a haunting reminder of all that was lost. In my parent’s divorce, my feelings of abandonment and being hated increased ten-fold, as all was my fault (so I believed). And my rebellion and violence only escalated further. Even my repeated trips to a Mental Health Crisis Center, as well professional counseling, held little relief—with my Mom and sisters bearing my terror on an almost constant basis, as well as anyone else who would get in my way. I had been as a Malefactor—a pernicious evil doer; someone not content until having done some form of wrong, causing some form of harm to another. It was my identity, what seemed expected of me, and the only way that the things happening to me made any sense. Not all of it had been intentional, and I had done a lot of good things as well, but my subconscious held the helm more often than not as a child wounded and enraged.
Law & Disorder
In all the time that I had spent in some form of counseling, only one person ever truly tried to help in addressing the real issues that I was going through. Unfortunately, however, once I was beginning to progress through several months of sessions (some being for free), I was no-longer able to go. Both with the unwillingness of the other parties involved to participate in therapy, and neither insurance nor the District Attorney’s Juvenile Diversion Program willing to foot the bill, I was “cured” in being told that I would have to get over it on my own.
All of my rebellion and rage had eventually brought me into the Courts, though, admittedly, not to the extent that I should have been held responsible. I was placed on Juvenile Diversion only after attempting to elude a Sheriff’s Deputy on a stolen motorcycle. When I had first begun in the Diversion program itself, I had welcomed it and thought it would help me turn my life around. However, it ended up being a major terror and abuse, where I had been forced to work as slave labor at a mechanic’s shop that turned out to be little less than a chop-shop. My boss had been partners with a Sheriff’s Deputy, who also happened to be his drug supplier. We would tow cars from off the street or from used car lots, which would then either be salvaged for parts or shipped to Mexico via a local Used Car Auction (what my boss would later be arrested for and given probation after the same Deputy testified on his behalf as a ‘character’ witness).
In working at the garage, I was supposed to be getting half of my paycheck in order to be able to pay my own way (my therapy being around fifty-dollars a session), with the other half automatically going to pay restitution on the stolen motorcycle. In almost a year working there, however, I had only ever saw one paycheck. They made sure that the DAs Office got its half of the check in order to keep up appearances, but I received nothing. The only ‘benefit’ I had, was in being allowed to ride my boss’ motorcycle whenever I wanted as an incentive to keep quiet about their criminal enterprise. If I tried to object, the threat was not so much against myself, but that something would be done towards my family. I was sixteen years old driving a tow-truck without a license for a drug addicted car thief and his drug dealer cop—this was my ‘Juvenile Diversion’ experience. I am thankful that the job didn’t last longer than it did, and that I had managed to walk away from it relatively free.
I was so lost, and so much a child in my emotions and understanding of life. I was left alone for almost a year until I was 18, and I was even doing good in school and set to graduate, when a new Probation Officer forced me off to Job Corps. It is an over-simplification for me to say that there was a lot of bad stuff that had happened throughout my early years and into young adulthood—both as to my own actions and of the things that others had done to me. However, it would be unprofitable to enumerate or continue further with them.
Family & Prison
My first son was born without my even knowing about him until almost two-years later, when I was just 18. He was a beautiful, blue-eyed, blondish baby, with beautiful light-brown skin. His Mom had been an African-American girl, who had kept him secret from me due to my bad attitude and behavior. He was murdered by her fiancé the same afternoon of the day that I had first learned of him. I had just gotten to hold him for the first time that morning, and had apologized to his mother for the way that I had acted towards her. It is one of my deepest regrets that I hadn’t reached out to her and offered her support after his death—I had felt robbed and so at a loss, I had no idea of what to do or of how to face it all, and I even questioned if I was really his father or not. My prayers continue for her, and also for the man responsible in his death.
My oldest son was born June 1990, when I was twenty years old. He was and ever will be, a treasured gift from the Lord, though admittedly, I have destroyed our relationship with the abuse that I had suffered upon him. How or why his mother ever fell in love with me, I couldn’t say. Why she fell in love with me a second time, married me, and had another child with me, especially after I had been to prison for an assault on a mutual friend, I can only see as grace. My youngest I love every bit as much as when he was first born, but I am responsible for having destroyed our relationship as well.
Prior to the assault and prison, it had been in October 1990, that I had given a public confession of Christ at a Gospel Revival my son’s mother had taken me to. I really had no idea what it truly meant at the time, and as an example of my so-called ‘conversion,’ one of my first acts was in going to my Mom’s house and stealing her Dad’s book from her (among other things I took that day). Great “Christian” testimony, right? But I wasn’t a Christian. There was nothing true in my walk to suggest that I was, and the only knowledge I really held was of a “man” named Jesus, who had supposedly died for me, one that I remembered Grandma had talked about, but to whom I felt no allegiance nor understood in truth what His death really meant. There was no rebirth, no quickening. And there was yet the animosity against Him for all the times that I had cried out to Him in tears as a child for His help and nothing had changed.
I tried to read my Grandpa’s book in the months prior to the assault and arrest, but I couldn’t get into it. I wanted to change; I wanted to understand the Great Voyage that we are all on—but only in my own way. I did good for awhile in making it appear that everything was going well and that I was a success. But Jesus was still only a ‘name’—He was not Lord or God over my life, only if even roughly held as the Son of God. More simply, He was held as an ideal to live up to as long as doing so didn’t interfere with my desires or require more of me than I was willing to give. Yet, even more, all the rage and hurt that I continued to feel, as well the loss, began to terrorize my dreams, and I began to go days and weeks with little to no sleep as a result of trying to avoid the nightmares and depression.
After then hurting a dearly beloved friend in the early morning hours one day in March, I called an ambulance and the Police. I was found in the basement of the house I was renovating, cutting across my chest with a knife—the Police Officer who had found me having talked me away from harming myself further and assuring me that my friend was okay. I later plead guilty to the assault and was given a ‘stay of execution’ on the sentence in order to attend a treatment program at the State Mental Health Institute. As a result of my arrest, in addition to the trauma and assault to my friend, almost all of my personal property that had been in my apartment had disappeared—including my Grandpa’s book.
On a positive note, after my arrest, my Dad and I began to communicate with each other while I was yet in County Jail. I had written a letter to him blaming myself for everything evil in the world. I mean everything—from Vietnam, to his affairs and alcoholism, to my parent’s divorce; to all the arguments and infighting, to his grandpa’s death—anything and everything wrong in the world, I had tried to take responsibility for. I saw myself as pure evil, and one truly meant to be hated and dead.
The most powerful and most impactful thing that my Dad has ever said to me for good, he said through a visiting window: “It’s not your fault, Alan. You are not to blame—and I do love you, even though I have never really been able to show it the way that I should have. I’m sorry.” He also backed it in a letter, admitting more to his responsibility over much of what had been, and giving us new ground to work at in becoming friends.
After then ‘successfully’ completing the program at the State Hospital, I was given four years for the assault, before then having a year taken off for having been in the program. In addition to the program itself, I had also been doing some correspondence Bible studies, and I felt I was a new man.
I went to prison that year at 21, with a confidence I had never had before. I no-longer felt as the child afraid to wear shorts or to take my shirt off in front of others for fear of criticism or assault; no-longer as the child exploding in a rage towards others for any possibly perceived threat or insult; no-longer as wanting to hurt or steal from anyone over what I felt I deserved or that had been robbed from me. My shyness, my constant fear of being criticized and condemned, all seemed gone.
While I was in prison, I had helped teach a computer class for other inmates, and one for Staff. I had also taught myself computer programming, and had written a program that would allow a blind student to take the class. I thought I was ‘good’—that I had somehow redeemed myself through the therapy I had received at the Hospital, and, through the few, simple, Bible studies, I believed that I was a Christian as well.
When I was then released from prison in December 1993, I thought I had it all. Even before I had gotten out, I had been enrolled in College in my home town. The Prison itself, had given me all of the programming software that I had used in writing various programs for them—a simple ‘gift of appreciation’ to help me start out in my chosen career field. I had a job the same day of my release; a vehicle and a driver’s license the second day, and a job within my actual career field in less than a week. Even more important, not only was there a continuing relationship with my Dad, but my son and his mother were back in my life in less than a month’s time. My friend also, whom I had hurt and still felt grief towards, came back into my life as well—encouraging me, forgiving me.
In truth, I was headed downhill before I had even taken a step on the street. My ego and pride over all that ‘I’ had accomplished while in prison, left me thinking I had all of my past problems solved, and that I had somehow mastered the relationship skills that I had never previously had. I left prison thinking I was ‘a man’ for the first time, without ever having truly addressed the broken child within me, nor the monsters that still haunted him in his dreams at night. All that I truly had accomplished in the two years that I had been in, was in learning how to put on a better face, while yet hiding the trauma that still reigned within me.
Most tragically, I had left God almost completely out of the picture—without any form of consistency in praying or in reading the Bible for the last year that I was in, and only making selfish prayers in times of loneliness and sorrow. Once I was released, other than in offering a few selfish ‘praises’ of thanks for the blessings coming into my life that I had once prayed for, the Name of Jesus was only of reference in situations of panic. Though I had played upon having ‘become’ a Christian towards certain relationships, as a sign of my having ‘bettered’ myself, there was no truth of it in relation to my walk.
In less than a year, I was robbing houses for electronics with two new ‘friends’ I had made. Worse yet, even in having a wife and a son who genuinely loved me, and a second son born later that year, I was quickly becoming an even greater monster than I had ever been. I abused my wife and children, especially my oldest son, and I engaged in activities that were both a harm to others, and that which should have left me dead. In 1998, I was then arrested and sent to prison for murder.
In addition to all else that I am responsible for having done in my life, I am guilty of murdering two innocent people, and of having turned the lives of both their families and friends, and that of my own family, completely up-side-down. I had struggled, even suicidal at times, in seeking some form of understanding and justice over what I alone am responsible for having done. I cannot return the lives that I have taken, nor can I heal all the wounds that I have caused. It is a horror that I will always feel grief and sorrow over; and I know it is a constant grief and sorrow to all the families and friends of those I have harmed and taken the lives of. I can’t help but think that my actions have tainted forever the memories that are held of them—all the hopes and dreams their families had for them. I know of no way to apologize that would be of meaning; my only hope is in living a life that would honor them.
A Brotherly Embrace
While I had been awaiting trial in 1998, I had written Bible Truth Publishers asking for a Bible and a pen-pal. Theirs was one of over a hundred names on a list passed out by the jail that an inmate could write to and receive a free Bible. My request was answered by a brother named Maurice, who offered me his friendship and love in Christ. Maurice went on to be with the Lord in 2006, and the Managing Editor at that time, Don, then took up the pen in correspondence.
Don quickly became not just a pen-pal and friend, but more so, a father to me—both as seemingly adopted and spiritual. His constant encouragement; his guiding my studies by involving me in proofreading Christian manuscripts; his visits and weekly phone conversations, and his introducing me to brothers and sisters from all over, who then began to visit and fellowship with me as well, is still a gift of grace and love that I would have never imagined experiencing (all a family I could never have imagined). They have all been a testimony and witness to God’s mercy and care, especially, even, three couples in particular that have seemingly adopted me as one of their own.
In 2003, in a further witness of grace, the actions of my friend’s Mom given towards me in a visit are also an undeniably huge part of the testimony that had helped lead me in the faith I have today. Her daughter had been one of the lives I had taken, and seeing Christ and His forgiveness exercised through her in faith towards me in such an active and personal manner, brought His truths to life in an undeniable and powerful way. There is a special glory to the Lord for the faithfulness of His children in this. However, I also believe that there is a certain grace and understanding held out to those who either feel unable to, or who struggle inside to forgive under such conditions, where God awaits to comfort and bring a sense of ‘peace’ as they are able to trust Him to do so. It is not a criticism against anyone in such loss or suffering, but a prayer and hope for their consolation and comfort. Whether it is ever expressed directly towards the offender or not, to learn to, or to be able to hold forgiveness in our hearts for those who have hurt us the most, brings both a sense of resolve and a certain peace that better enables us to live each day looking to “brighter skies,” even though the storms may yet come and go. It helps strengthen us for tomorrow; and if we are believers, it models the same grace, mercy and forgiveness, that we have received of God.
The One Great Voyage of Life:
The Witness of Providence and Provision
To return a bit... As I was then at work that providential afternoon just a few days later, I witnessed an old friend tumble out onto the desk as the Officer emptied the mail bag. I was then taken back 35 years, to the time that the same green-canvas covered book had become a part of my life.
“That’s my book!” I had told the Officer processing the mail.
“We’ll have to see what the paperwork says,” came his reply.
“No,” I continued. “You don’t understand—it’s my book. That’s my Mom’s book—it’s my Grandpa’s.”
I hadn’t even seen the front cover, but a light had shined to open both my eyes and my conscience as to exactly what it was. After then checking the paperwork that came with it, the Officer handed me the book with a bit of curiosity on his face over how I could have recognized it from only a glimpse. I took it, clutched it to my chest, and went off to my cell to pray. It was truly my Grandpa’s book—not just a copy of the one he had, but the exact same book— all the inside markings, as well the water damage that I had personally caused, all exactly as they had been. I praised the Lord—and I cried, both of sorrow and of joy.
After I had finished praying and had composed myself, I went back out to the Office and explained to the Officer about the book I had stolen and lost. I showed him all of the different markings that I knew by heart, and I showed him the various pictures within, explaining each of the meanings behind them and their relation to a believer’s walk. Even more, I confessed my sin to him in the theft of the book, and of the further sins against my family and all the pain that I have caused to them. Though he wasn’t a believer, even he could see this answer to my prayer as nothing other than God’s hand.
Sin & Salvation
I was an unruly, disobedient child; a rage-filled and violent teen; an abusive and wicked father, a sly and murderous fiend: I was as the malefactor on the cross. When nothing and on-one else could do a thing to save me, nor could I raise a hand to save myself, Christ’s blood came in to bring me down and cradle me in His and His Father’s love. He has taken my cross as His own, being crucified for my sins (Luke 23:33-47).
God saved me; Jesus saved me. For over seventeen years now, though admittedly having had a stumble or two with my attitude and depression, I have been a Christian—and I have done all I can in truth to that fact by His grace in living an active walk of faith. This is not being stated to try to make myself seem better than I am, but for His glory in making me as I am. Nor has anything herein been purposely meant to hurt or shame anyone.
It is all of God’s glory, and only by His grace, that I can both admit to my sins and hold myself accountable to them for the harm that I have caused. If it were not for Christ’s intervention and involvement in my life, I would never have made it this far. My purpose is to live for Him, and to be of service to others however He would have of me in walking by His Spirit. It is with this, that I also hope to somehow honor all those whom I have hurt or caused harm to as well.
There may have been multiple influences working in my life leading up to my crimes, but I alone am responsible for the choices that I have made and the chaos resulting from them. I alone am responsible for having given the demons that I felt I couldn’t face, an outlet to harm others. And I am responsible for that harm. I could have done far more in both learning to deal with all of the abuse and trauma I had experienced, as well as to better consider the impact that some of those same traumas had on all those around me and the struggles they were going through themselves. My family had suffered upon them years of chaos and rage that no-one could ever deserve; my adolescent rage manifested as an adult, destroyed two innocent lives, and the hopes, innocence and dreams, of their families and friends—I am responsible for this.
How
It may sound silly to some, impossible to others, how I could hold of my Grandpa’s book and its return to God’s providence. But how, how do you explain an extremely rare, antique book—one that disappears as stolen in one state, and belonging to one family, reappearing 25 years later in another state, then being returned to the same family under the conditions that it has? Even that, the couple being sent, coming from yet another state far distant from the other two, who were ‘messengers’ to bring the book home in having gone out to Illinois to collect it and put it into the mail? Or, simply, that of the relationship developed and held all the years before, between myself and those at Bible Truth Publishers, with my Grandpa’s book in their warehouse for how long?
The book is a voyage—truly, The One Great Voyage of Life—an allegorical journey of human life, and that of a Christian, in comparison to a voyage on the sea. In it, the trials and afflictions we face in life, the suffering and pain, are all brought out in likeness to the storms and tempests of the ocean; the perils and hazards of the deep, the rocks, shoals, and sinking sands—all that which we find ourselves so easily, and far too often, cast upon and feeling hopeless—all as metaphors of moral danger and sources of ruin. But it also brings light to anyone willing to heed its tale, as it reopens Jesus’ teachings and heart.
I hadn’t even given my Grandpa’s book a second thought as to its whereabouts, when I had first been arrested in 1991. I simply believed it to be gone forever, as with all my other worldly possessions. I never looked for it, or even thought about it, when I had gotten out. The fact being, it had been of so little worth or concern to me at the time, that I had forgotten about it to begin with.
At the time of its return, with my Dad having passed less than a year earlier, the book was the last thing I could ever have imagined in answer to my simple prayer in wanting to somehow honor my Mom before it was too late. I could never have imagined it. But it was given to me as more than what was simply needing returned—it was a needed redirection in my life: both an encouragement and a new responsibility to face in making reparation for my past in a more meaningful way than just saying, “I’m sorry.”
My family is new and different—each with their own successes, each their own person and each a new responsibility I hold in helping however I am able. I love them all, and I hope and pray always for their good. Plus, I have an even larger family, made by Christ, who love me and care for me in ways that I thought no-one ever could—especially in light of my crimes. I am to live the Christian life in honor to Christ, for His glory, and to honor all those whom I have ever hurt or done harm to as well. This is not in any way in question of His forgiveness and grace towards me, but in honor and joy in love to Him in knowing the liberty and life He has granted me by His sacrifice alone.
In further testimony of God’s grace and purpose in all this, as well His sovereignty, a second copy of brother Savage’s book was also gifted to me—and that after a selfish faux pas on my part.
Upon returning my Mom’s book to her, I had included a letter explaining my guilt in its disappearance, as well a bit of why it had been so important to me. I had also asked, however, that she would consider possibly leaving the book to one of my sons in her will. This I had no right to do, and admittedly, was in poor taste and judgment—something I had realized only seconds after placing the package into the mail.
While my Mom then expressed her happiness over getting her Dad’s book back to my sister to pass on to me, she gracefully made no mention of my request to her. I wasn’t going to repeat my mistake. I had made the request due to the importance I believe the book’s message has in its testimony, and I had wanted to share that testimony with my children—but in my request, at her expense in asking her to give up a cherished memento of her Dad.
Even in understanding the “simple” purpose to return it, I failed in understanding the ‘how’, by failing to bring it back before Him for His guidance in grace. I saw it as a way to show God’s testimony in my life to my Mom, in hopes it may open a path of reconciliation between my family and I, instead of looking in prayer and worship as to what form of witness He would have it to be—and how to then go about returning it to her.
Over the next four to six months after I had returned my Mom’s book to her, I did everything I could to locate another copy of The Great Voyage..., only to come up empty handed each time. The incredible Staff we had at the Unit at that time, even two who had fully confessed to be agnostics—but yet held that there had to be something ‘special’ in the return of my Grandpa’s book—would help by routinely checking on-line to see if a copy had come up for sale. Nothing; day after day, week after week—to no avail, our searches came up empty.
I had reserved (foolishly) not to ask the brothers and sisters at Bible Truth Publishers for help, as I already had felt overwhelmed by their grace and love to me over the years in all the encouragement and support they have given. The same to be said of all those who have embraced me in fellowship in the local meetings and beyond. There was nothing “bad” in this that I thought at the time—I just felt I had to do this—so I thought.
After months of getting nowhere, however, I had become anxious that I would never find a copy to pass on to my sons myself. It was then on a Monday, as I made my weekly call to Don at BTP, a brother I had only ever briefly talked to before, answered the phone and asked how I was doing.
“Well,” I had begun. “You remember my Grandpa’s book—The One Great Voyage of life...”?
“Yes,” John replied. “By Savage, right?”
“Yeah. Staff here have been trying to help me find a copy that I can send home to my children, but we can’t find one anywhere.”
“Where do you want it sent?”—it was that simple. Even as we talked, John had gone on-line and found a copy.
“I—don’t have any money right now to pay,” I answered, a bit in blissful amazement.
“It’s okay. I already ordered it—where would you like it sent?”
That following Wednesday, as shipped all the way from a Christian Bookroom in Hong Kong, a second copy of The Great Voyage tumbled out of the mail bag onto the desk—the same Officer standing as puzzled as before.
“We couldn’t find a copy of this anywhere!?!” he said. “But it’s different—why’s the cover on this one orange?”
“I don’t know,” came my response, while choking back tears. “That’s how God works at times.”
That’s how God works at times—a simple, unconditioned admittance in marvel over God’s abounding love even in the ‘simple’ things. The color of the canvas I later learned represent the year or edition of the copy. But it is of greater testimony than just that. The “green” edition was my Grandpa’s and my Mom’s, belonging to her in testimony to her Dad and his faith—and that which I had coveted and stole when I had no right to it at all.
The “orange” edition, carried its witness for me, as well as to the different Staff here at the Facility who had worked to try to find me another copy: it was neither by my will, nor by man’s (Staff), but by God’s grace and provision these ‘simple’ things were to be. Just as my Mom’s book was to be of His providence, so was my sons’.
It is all God’s providence in action. Please understand, in no way am I suggesting that God had made me commit my crimes in order that I would someday be given my Mom’s book to honor her with its return. Though I have met far too many people who believe our every action and thought is ‘predestined’ by God, to include each sinful act or evil thought—that we are but “marionettes” being controlled by a great puppetmaster—which is nowhere stated or taught in Scripture as being the case. It is a blatant misunderstanding of what predestination is. We are each responsible for our sins. I am responsible for my sins. God’s sovereignty is not that as a “great puppetmaster,” but is that which allows for those within His creation to exist and operate in such a way, that, even in their best attempt, or their worst condition, there is nothing that would be of threat to Him. It is the same for His grace.
God’s providence in having made provision so long ago both to protect my Mom’s book, and for me to someday be able to honor her with its return, has nothing to do with my crimes themselves, and would yet have been accomplished even if I had never committed them. It would have just been accomplished some other way. It was of His providence for me to someday do so, and that of His faithful children, Greg and Sharon, to be involved in its return in their witness of His love and grace towards me. I also believe it was of His purpose to use the book as witness in the way that He has towards others as well—just as He did the copy that was meant for my sons.
In wanting the beautiful allegorical journey to have a new life in being able to once again appear in print, I later asked Don who might own its copyright. It was to my delight to find out that it had become Public Domain—meaning anyone could publish it without fear of copyright infringement. After sharing my desires to see the book again in print, though not going into much detail with Don over it, nor making any further attempts of my own in trying to resurrect this beautiful tale, I let it rest in prayer. To my absolute delight, as I looked through the 2021 Bible Truth Publishers Catalog, my heart skipped with joy as I found my Grandpa’s book—my Mom’s book—within its pages. Thank You Jesus!
Afterwards
Writing this has personally been one of the hardest, yet most meaningful things for me to write. It has forced me to take a hard look at myself, at my past, and to not only admit of the things that I have kept hidden within myself for so long, but to take responsibility for them as well. As I have previously stated, I could have done far more to deal with the issues that I was going through in order to prevent them from getting worse. I had simply given up and given in to despair. I had taught myself other ways at playing “pretend,” at making a good show of it, in order to convince myself and others that I was as well-adjusted as anyone else. I wasn’t.
I was so wrapped up in my own loss and pain, that I had never truly considered the losses and pain that either my family or those closest to me were going through as well. I had never honestly considered their struggles in any way as being comparable to my own, nor the demons that may have haunted them over the things they had been through in their own lives. The understanding and empathy that I had sought from others, I far too often kept back from the people I should have extended them to the most.
My Dad had been a great military man: having earned multiple awards and commendations for his integrity and valor throughout his twenty-years of service—to include five tours in Vietnam that garnished him with multiple Bronze Stars. He was a good provider, teaching us the importance of hard work and patience in saving for the future. I know he loved each of us, as well all his grandchildren.
Even in my having helped as a teen in taking care of a friend’s Dad, however, one who suffered from PTSD and would often run out at night, hiding from “Charlie,” in desperation to escape the visions haunting him of his time in Vietnam, not once did I truly consider the demons my Dad himself may have carried. Never had I thought upon the impact of the horrors he’d seen, nor how they might relate to either his distance or his alcoholism.
It was only after having had my friend’s Dad attempt suicide, that I had even began to consider my own Dad as a person with ‘baggage’ of his own—but it wasn’t enough to truly get my attention to better reach out to him or to give him the respect he deserved. I had made but a brief attempt to get to know him better, but not with enough of an effort to see beyond myself and focus more purposefully on him.
My Mom is a brilliant and talented woman, one who managed to keep us all together all the years she had. She is a Mom who not only worked to keep food on the table, but who had taken time to keep us kids engaged in learning various arts and crafts, while yet continuing to challenge herself in ever learning new things as well. She loved us, doing all she could to show us that love on a daily basis by engaging with us however she was able to.
What of her heart, and the pain and struggle she had experienced in being left and abandoned, forced into raising three kids on her own—especially with having two of them so at each other’s throats that every day was a new conflict for her to somehow try to resolve. I love her, and I only wish I had known how to love her and respect her the way that I should have when she needed it the most.
My sisters. My children. My ex-wife. My friends. The families and friends of all those whom I have hurt. There is nothing that I could ever say or do to change the past and relieve them all from the hurt and pain that I have caused. But I can live today in the grace God has given me to understand and learn of Him, that, by His grace and love, I may live to honor both His Son, Jesus, and all others whom I have ‘sacrificed’ in my life through the abuses and evils that I have suffered upon them. Again, it is no way of thought to somehow ‘merit’ His grace, nor is it in denial of it in an attempt to ‘prove’ myself forgiven. It is simply in love towards Him, and in testimony to the new life I know and have in being His.
God gives grace, He gives love and life to those who seek Him. He brings peace and joy unimaginable. This is His promise through His Son Jesus. There are no righteous acts, no charitable deeds, no acts of our own kindness or mercy, which can earn us a standing before Him, as it is His righteousness He both commands and provides for on our behalf. But there is also nothing that we may be responsible for, however wicked or evil it may seem to us, that His grace cannot find a way through to bring us into His love.
God seeks us as a Shepherd seeks for his lost sheep, and He cares for our good beyond anything we could ever imagine for ourselves (John 10:7-18). But we have to believe. We must be willing to humble ourselves and submit to the truth that He gives us in His Word, of Jesus, His Son, and of the grace that we have been given through His sacrifice on the cross. But there is more in this for us, the resurrection side. My testimony, my identity, just as anyone else found in Him, is not of all the evil of my past—neither of those things which I have committed, nor those which had been committed against me—it is living the life of grace and love that He has granted me through His life, sacrifice, death, and resurrection. It is of looking to His return, to be with Him, to be present in His and our Father’s home for eternity (1Cor. 15:51-58; 1Thess. 4:13-18).
“Even the righteousness of God, which is by faith of Jesus Christ, unto all them that believe: for there is no difference: for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:22-23). Whether by act or by thought, all have sinned against God—an unkind word, the bullying of another, a ‘white-lie,’ each is sin in God’s eye, the same as if one was to commit adultery or murder (Matt. 5:21-48).
“Do you not know that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: no fornicators, no idolaters, no adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, no thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God. But SUCH WERE some of you: BUT YOU ARE WASHED, BUT YOU ARE SANCTIFIED, BUT YOU ARE JUSTIFIED in the Name of the Lord JESUS, and by the Spirit of our God” (1Cor. 6:9-11).
“Being justified freely by His grace, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: Whom God has set forth to be the propitiation through faith in His blood, to declare His righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God: to declare, I say, at this time, His righteousness: that He might be just, and the justifier of whosoever believes in Jesus” (Rom. 3:24-26, mod.).
“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved. Whosoever believes on Him is not condemned: but whosoever believes not is condemned already, because they have not believed in the Name of the only begotten Son of God” (John 3:16-18).
“But the righteousness which is of faith speaks...that if you will confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus, and will believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes unto righteousness; and with the mouth, confession is made unto salvation. For Scripture says, Whosoever believes on Him will not be ashamed” (Rom. 10:6a, 9-11).
“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the Holy City, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And He that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And He said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful” (Rev. 21:1-5).
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“And furthermore, that the children of God may be cheered and encouraged by the perusal of these allegorical illustrations of the incidents and experiences of Christian life, while passing through the numerous trials and perils of their life’s voyage; and above all, that the wisdom, justice, righteousness, love, and abounding grace of God may be more clearly seen, and ever magnified, by all His saints” — John Aston Savage, The One Great Voyage of Life.
Why can’t I be more like Him,
Who walked in love and grace:
Reflecting towards my fellow man,
The glory of my Savior’s face?
Why the struggle of kindness to give,
The same peace and joy I’ve received;
Why the angst and want of revenge,
For the slightest insult perceived?
Why do I yet scream within—
memories of past violence—
When if my heart would truly forgive,
Vengeance and shame be silenced:
If my attention’s drawn away from Him;
If my eyes refuse to see;
If my heart no-longer yields,
Unforgiveness is what shall be—
The angst and the shame,
shall rule within;
the rage and the abuse,
demand:
a gallon of blood,
for each offense,
suffered under their sin—
but why should this be?
I need not carry my sin or theirs,
But to place them in His hands;
At the foot of His cross,
I need not remain—
Resurrection’s side I claim.
Christ has suffered all for me:
My sins AND theirs He bore—
He fully met the Father’s demands,
And Satan and sin destroyed.
Thank You Lord Jesus, my Bridegroom and life!
Many of us are fast to see Christ’s suffering on our behalf—we eagerly place our sin upon Him in our desire of redemption’s peace. But how many of us are truly willing to see that, when OUR sins are spoken of, it necessitates within them that He bore those we carry of all those who have hurt us as well? Learning to let Him carry those hurts, recognizing them for what they are—sin—frees us of their burden and allows us to look upon those responsible with the same grace our own eyes met upon the cross.
9/18/21