Back words
My words came back to me.
I was tired. Overworked. Anxious for the training session I wasn't nearly ready to lead on a subject I really didn't know. I had spent too many hours at work, more than I could count, and I would again in the morning. I'd work at night. I'd get up early and work again from my couch. I'd get back to the office by seven. In between, I really didn't want to volunteer.
Home and couch beckoned. Dinner. Nap. In the lobby, I deliberated before heading out the door that would take me home instead of taking me to the Metro.
On the corner, I paused, wondering which direction to cross and I tripped over my own feet as they headed north instead of east, toward the red line that would take me to the church.
"Just an hour," I thought. "I'll stay just an hour and then I'll go home."
I hadn't been in forever, and still I deliberated. I didn't want to go.
When I walked in the door, though, familiar faces looked up and smiled.
"Kristin! How are you?"
My spirits lifted and I chatted with friends as I slid a letter from its envelope and started to look for books.
"Have you been hiking recently?" I asked, and "How is work?"
"Did you talk to Tracy? Does she need anything else from us?"
"Anybody want to come and help me pack?"
Peanut butter cookies and oatmeal raisin on one table. Pringles on the other. The room was filled with volunteers, some that I knew and others I didn't. Not yet. But there was time.
"Kristin, this one's for you," a friend said, handing me a letter.
"Oh, wow," I responded. "That's my first letter."
"Really?" asked one while another protested, "There's a whole stack for you over there."
A stack of letters from prisoners addressed to me.
Most people I know wouldn't find joy in that, personal satisfaction in letters from convicts, but I couldn't seem to stop smiling. The men in the letters, the inmates, wrote in response to letters and books that I'd sent. They thanked me. They blessed me. One man hadn't even received one of my packages but heard of me from a fellow inmate. Apparently, I was earning a reputation as "cool" in at least one Texas prison.
On some level, it might have been a little intimidating, but they didn't know my full name. My address. Anything about me but the brief notes I wrote, but I did write. I didn't use a form letter. Poor, tired penmanship and all I sent personal notes about the books I picked and packed for these strangers.
Another inmate I remembered. He'd written a letter without response. I couldn't find the original and the follow up didn't include any suggestions, so I sent him some of my own favorite books, ones that I loved, and I sent him a note. Then I discovered that I wasn't supposed to notes with books to Utah prisoners; other packages had been denied for that very reason but he got it. Appreciated it. Wrote back to thank me for the response, the books, for introducing him to authors he'd never read.
And suddenly, there they were. My words. Back to me. Those words, my letters, made a difference in the lives of men I'd never even met.
Tag: Writing Books Prisoners








