Father's Day in Prison is Difficult to Celebrate

It's Father's Day morning, and as I'm working out on small yard, I notice that a phone is open. It strikes me how strange it is to see a phone open at all, but especially on a holiday. How sad is it that on Mother's Day one must wait almost two hours for a phone, but on Father's Day there are open phones. That says a lot about the lack of influence dads have had on so many prisoners. It also says a lot about the broken relationships (or complete lack of relationship) many prisoners have with their kids. 

My dad died a couple of months ago, and although we were not close, I acutely feel the loss of hope for a better relationship with him. Still, I know my dad loved me, and I miss him a lot. But my dad isn't the only father-figure I've lost this year. It's been a tough year for the dads in my life. 

My former father-in-law also died this year, as did a very good friend who was much like a father to me. And every July I remember and honor Don who was, perhaps, the best father figure I ever had. I miss each of these men tremendously. 

I suppose losing people we care about is a natural part of growing older, but it's not easy. It's especially not easy in prison where one must mourn without those who also knew the person who died. But growing older also means my role is shifting. 

I have been immensely blessed to have several men who have been fathers to me. Not many prisoners can say that. Most prisoners either never knew their fathers or have never had a relationship with them. Of course, there are exceptions. I'm so grateful that I am one of those exceptions. I am deeply grateful for the men who poured into my life. And now, I find myself more and more in that role. In prison, they call those "old heads," even though I'm only 44 years old and clearly NOT old. 

Sometimes old heads "father" the younger prisoners into prison etiquette and unwritten rules. But I find my role to be more of an encourager, which I guess fits my personality. It's very fulfilling to talk with younger guys as they try to figure out their lives, so I look for organic opportunities to do so. 

Ever since one young prisoner started calling me "dad" (we look somewhat alike), I feel both pride and shame every time he calls out to me. It's been more than twelve years since I've been called "dad," and it feels amazing to be called that, even jokingly. But it also stirs up shame at my terrible failures as a father.

Despite the handful of amazing men who poured into my life, I still made some epically stupid decisions. I remember that as I talk to younger guys and then see them go and make stupid decisions anyway. It must have broken the hearts of the men who cared about me when I did the same. They deserved better from me. But my children especially deserved better. 

Today, as I commit myself to living a transformed life, I do so both because it's the right thing to do. I also do so because I want to honor the men who poured into my life and to honor my children who deserved better. 

Here's to my children, and to Don, Duane, Dad, and Marion. My life is better because of each one of you.