BY MYRNA TETZ

E WERE LIVING IN COLLEGE Heights, Alberta, when some good friends stopped by to share with us the awful news that their son, Rick, was in jail. We knew Rick well, for he had lived with us for several weeks one summer in Vancouver, British Columbia. His occupation at that time was selling products at provincial/state and city fairs all over the United States and Canada, and he was working during the Pacific National Exhibition in Vancouver, British Columbia. I was in charge of a booth sponsored by the churches in the city, and when I needed a break I’d race over to his exhibit space and stand with the crowd to watch and listen to his sales pitches. He was good. We liked him. Now we cried and prayed and wanted, at that moment, to change the whole course of history.

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A couple months later Rick’s parents stopped by again. This time there was rejoicing, for Rick had requested a visit by a pastor. Delighted that maybe we could finally do something for them and him, I offered to make some phone calls. I’d find that minister he wanted to see. I’d call the union office—I knew the president. I’d call the conference office. I’d call the college in the area. Someone would go.

At my office the next day and with the Seventh-day Adventist Yearbook in my hand, I looked for the telephone numbers, called the union, the conference, and the college. Of course they’d go. Why wouldn’t they?

Three weeks later our friends said that no one had visited Rick. Surprised and disappointed, I repeated my phoning. Again, confirmations.

Question and Answer
Several weeks later there was still no pastoral visit to the imprisoned. That Sunday morning, as I walked from counter to table to sink preparing breakfast, I complained to the Lord.

“You’re pretty powerful, Lord,” I began. “It doesn’t seem to me that it would be a really big deal for You to impress a minister (of all people) to visit this young man in jail. So please do it—soon.”

Then: “On second thought, why don’t You just give me a name and I’ll call them myself?”

A name instantly flashed into my mind—Cyril Connelly. My brow furrowed. I countered, “Oh, he isn’t the one. In the first place, he’s not a minister, and in the second, they won’t have anything in common. Besides that, he’s quite a bit older. Another name?”

Another did not come, so I acquiesced. “OK, tomorrow when I go to my office, I’ll call him.”

I knew Cyril. He was the recruiter for a college in California, and I for Canadian University College in Alberta. I only tolerated him. I didn’t want him to come to Canada to recruit my young people. He knew that. But he did. Anyway. Several times each year.

At the office the next day I called Cyril’s office. An assistant answered.

“He isn’t in today.”
“When will he return?” She didn’t know.
“Where can he be reached?” She didn’t know.
I hung up the phone and went on with my work.

The next morning I was in my office, with the door closed, attempting to conquer the reality of overload, when someone knocked. After my “Come in,” Cyril Connelly stood in the doorway. Dumbfounded, I greeted him rather warmly (quite uncharacteristically), and asked him to sit down because I had something to tell him.

After I babbled on with the story of the parents’ request, the phone calls, the disappointments, and his name coming to my mind as an answer to prayer, he responded ever so quietly, “Myrna, I’ll go.”

It Was a Match
And go he did. There was instant rapport with Rick. Cyril had lived in the Oshawa, Ontario, area; Rick had attended Kingsway College in Oshawa as an academy student. They knew some of the same people. Both Cyril and Rick have well-developed, often-used humor systems. It was a match.

Every week Cyril would get up very early on Friday (a prison visiting day), go to his office to get the day’s work done, then drive to the prison, a half hour away. He’d have to wait for an hour or more before he’d be able to see Rick. Then he’d sit on a stool in front of a glass with Rick on the other side and use a telephone for his 40-minute visit. Later Cyril managed to get ministerial credentials (that he flashed triumphantly in my face, knowing I’d never be able to have them) and could visit any day he wished.

Now that Rick is in another area several hundred miles away, weekly letters and occasional visits have kept the friendship alive. Who is the most blessed? I’m not sure. But I do know that Cyril’s willingness to minister to Rick and his family as Christ would have ministered has blessed many.

_________________________
Myrna Tetz is managing editor for the Adventist Review.

BY LYN CONNELLY

T BEGAN WITH A PHONE CALL TO MY husband from an acquaintance in Canada. Cyril went to visit and heard these words: “I have friends whose son is in the Orange County [California] Jail, and I’m looking for someone who will visit him.” Cyril agreed to visit Rick.

The first visit was on a Friday afternoon. Cyril was uneasy, as not only had he never visited a jail, but he was also going to see a stranger who did not expect him. Friday evening I was eager for Cyril’s impressions. I learned that Rick was a pleasant young man and that the visit took place through thick glass with conversation on a phone. He expected to be in Orange County for only a short time. It was the beginning of a Friday afternoon ritual that was to go on for many months.

As time progressed, the accounts of the visits became more detailed and personal. The two men were becoming friends. At the Sabbath dinner table our adult children began asking for reports of the visits. Our entire family was becoming interested in Rick.

A Wrong Turn Righted
Rick grew up in an Adventist home and had attended Adventist schools. But his decision had been to reject the standards his parents held dear, and his life had taken several wrong turns. Now he was awaiting trial.

Shortly after his arrest Rick received a package that contained some candy and a New Testament. Out of boredom he started reading, and it was the beginning of a major life change.

Rick started sending short letters to Cyril. “My favorite text, at least for today, is 1 John 1:9. . . . I like it because for me it’s like a package plan . . . everything we want or desire is tucked into that text. At the end of the day when I’m down on my knees trying to get it all right, it’s nice just to recite this text: ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness’ [NIV]. A fully loaded promise from our Lord . . . that enables us to walk with Him.”

And later: “Before my arrest I was calloused and numb. My life, thoughts, and desires were controlled by greed, pride, and ego. Prison isn’t pretty, but for me, giving up everything was the path to God. He takes care of me. He is my closest and constant friend. I thank God for giving me what I have today. My heart.”

Credentials to Help
Cyril learned that if he had ministerial credentials he could request special visiting privileges, which included visits outside the crowded weekend visiting hours and occasionally a “contact visit” in a room rather than behind glass. Within days a letter arrived from the conference office containing ministerial credentials, explaining these were being sent to all conference employees, including those at educational institutions.

Rick continued studying the Bible trying to make some sense of his life. He was eager for his trial to get under way, hoping and praying for an acquittal and the freedom that would follow. He talked of small miracles that were happening around him and his tentative attempts to write about some of these events. Cyril encouraged him, and volunteered my services as an editor. I was slightly miffed. I was so busy that my own writing time was nonexistent. How would I find time to edit someone else’s work?

Within a few weeks the first story arrived. I postponed working on it for a time; then when I finally submitted it to Insight magazine it was accepted immediately! Whoever has the very first thing they write published? Insight was eager for more from Rick, and more articles were produced and published. During this process I began a correspondence with him about his writing. Within a short time I too began to consider Rick a friend.

The Sabbath dinner conversations about Rick continued. Our daughter, Cathy, and I were able to visit Rick a few times during regular weekend visiting hours. Then Cathy, a social worker, decided to apply for special visiting privileges as a counselor. Her request was granted. She and Cyril were now visiting weekly, on different days.

The letters between us had grown considerably longer. During a time of personal struggles in our life, Rick wrote, “I’ve been praying for you. . . . Fortunately, when our lives are in God’s hands we can be confident that change is for the best. Sometimes I think we become too independent

. . . and in answering our prayers for His guidance in our lives God throws a curve to strengthen our reliance on Him. I’m praying for your spirits to be lifted and a positive outcome to be experienced. God bless you both.”

More than two years passed before Rick came to trial. The results were devastating, the sentence severe.

Rick was moved to the state prison system, where he has been incarcerated for more than three years. Appeals are under way, but so far a new trial has not been approved. In spite of this, Rick’s faith remains strong. He was recently separated from an agreeable cellmate whose budding Christian faith Rick has helped strengthen. In his latest letter he wrote, “I think God has a plan for Kenny and me, and right now it involves us going our separate ways and dividing our witnessing to reach our new ‘cellys.’ We spent two and a half years together, and I know he has the spirit of Christ in his heart and wants to share it. What better opportunity than being sent to a new ‘mission field.’”

What an amazing blessing we have gained from this unlikely friendship.

_________________________
Lyn Connelly lives with her husband, Cyril, in Riverside, California.

BY RICK FLECK

IS NAME WAS Jessie, and as he stood in the dayroom with his life’s belongings over his shoulder, I looked out my cell door, wondering who’d be the unlucky one to get stuck with him. The next thing I knew, my cell door was opening, and the corrections officer said, “Cell 116,” and pointed Jessie my way.

I was stunned. First of all, my last “celly” had just left, and it usually takes a few days to get another one. Second, I had prayed to God for an older, low-key person to be my celly.

As Jessie walked into the cell, I could tell just by his looks that he wasn’t going to be what I’d planned on.

It was mid-July in southern California, and the cells were unusually hot. Once inside, Jessie immediately took off his jumpsuit and shirt, and my worst nightmares were confirmed—head-to-toe White supremacist. Neo-Nazi tattoos laced his body. He had all the markings and evidently had “earned” his stripes on the battlefields of the prison system. As I gazed over at his various pieces, I silently prayed to God to give me the strength to put up with what I thought was in store for me.

Jessie tossed his bag on the bunk, and before I could say anything he started pouring his heart out. He informed me that he’d just been in a fight in another building, and the guy he beat up was telling on him. This meant his good time would be taken away and he’d end up with three more months. Then in the same breath he explained that his wife, who had been sending him a letter a day, had abruptly stopped writing.

As I listened, I wondered how God could be so cruel to me. All I could think about was me—my time, my cell, and my problems.

The night before, I had asked God to lead me in His paths and make me a witness to others. Here was a young man in front of me crying out for help in a convict’s way, and all I could think of was myself. Obviously memory wasn’t my strong point.

A Strange Scene
Jessie had snapped and decided to take his anger out on the weakest person he could find. That’s why he was moved to my building. As he was going through his story, he pulled out some pictures, and with tears in his eyes he told me his life wasn’t worth living without his wife.

This was the strangest thing I’d ever seen. In prison, tears are not openly displayed. Most men would be lying if they said they hadn’t cried, but they rarely cry in front of another inmate. I didn’t know what to do. I silently prayed for help, but nothing came to mind.

Slowly Jessie started to calm down, and soon he just sat on his bunk with his head hanging low. I changed the subject and breathed a sigh of relief. We talked until we fell asleep.

Friday morning came early. We’d no sooner awakened than Jessie started stressing again. When it was time for my devotional, I took out my Bible and opened it. As soon as I started to read, Jessie became very quiet.

About five minutes later he said, “I tried that Bible stuff. It didn’t work.” I stopped reading.

“When?” I asked.
“About a week ago,” he replied.
“What happened?”

“I asked God to give me a letter from my wife, and when it didn’t happen, I took my Bible and threw it across the dayroom,” he said. At that point I was thinking this guy was way beyond any help I could possibly give him. And I was right. I couldn’t help him, but God had other plans.

“Who gave up first,” I asked Jessie after a moment, “you or God?”

“I did,” he said.

Then I said, “What would it take for you to believe in Christ and to let Him into your life?”

He smiled in a sarcastic way and laid out his deal: “I want a letter from my wife saying she loves me and is going to wait for me. I want my wife and son to have enough money as long as I’m in jail.”

“OK,” I said, “then that’s what we’re going to ask for. If God takes care of this for you, would you give your life to Him?”

“Yes,” he said. I was amazed.

A Troubled Start
Jessie began his life of crime at the age of 9 by trying to set his school bus on fire. He was sent to a boys’ home. By 13 he was convicted of car theft and sent to the California Youth Authority. It was there that he joined a gang and adopted White supremacist ideals. Because of many violent offenses in the California Youth Authority, he did not parole as planned. He stayed there until the age of 18 and was then deemed too violent and sent to prison, where he was finally paroled at 21. He stayed out only a few months and was then sent back for a year. Upon paroling again, he married and began a family, only to violate parole nine months later and receive another six months. This is when I met him.

Here was a hardened White supremacist gang member willing to give it all up if God would answer his request. I have to be honest—I had doubts. Not only did I doubt that God would fully answer his prayers, but I also doubted that Jessie would give it all up if God did answer.

The next day was Saturday. We set a time limit of the following Thursday for the miracle to be performed.

A Speedy Reply
Saturday morning at 10:00, there was a knock at the door and standing there was the floor officer with a letter in his hand. He called out Jessie’s last name. I couldn’t believe it, and Jesse was in shock. Before he opened the letter, I said, “Is that fast enough for you?”

He smiled, put down the letter, and asked if we could pray. Still stunned, I knelt with him, and he simply thanked God for sending him a letter. He turned, opened the letter, and began to read it aloud. His wife apologized for not writing and explained that she’d run out of money. She told him her parents had asked her to move home and stay as long as she wanted and that all their needs were being met. Then she told him how much she loved him and that she would be at the gate to pick him up when he paroled. She ended the letter with hugs and kisses.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face glow as brightly as Jessie’s did. The fear and anger had left, and there was a look of peace in his eyes.

From that point on Jessie was a changed man. He began reading his Bible—and not just to pass the time. For hours on end he’d read and ask questions. We read together and did Bible studies daily. Jessie was growing so fast it was blowing me away. Many times I awoke in the middle of the night only to find him praying or reading the Bible.

A couple weeks went by, and a package came to the door. In the package was a book called Jack, sent from my folks. As soon as Jessie saw it, he asked to read it, and as he began to read the book a whole new set of questions arose.

“What’s a Seventh-day Adventist?” he asked.

Oh, boy, I thought. Now what am I going to do? I’m not versed enough to go into the do’s, don’ts, and whys of the Seventh-day Adventist religion. I know my beliefs, but not how to put them across without causing unanswerable questions.

I prayed that God would help me find the words to tell him about Adventists.

A day later I noticed Jessie was deep into the book. As a matter of fact, he read the whole book cover to cover, stopping only to sleep. When he finished the book he asked if I thought Bakersfield, California, had an Adventist church.

God had answered yet another prayer. He’d given me that book to tell Jessie about Seventh-day Adventists.

Soon Jessie began to tell me about his dreams of what he wanted to do when he got out. He started with getting baptized and ended with speaking to young adults about the power of Jesus Christ. The racial prejudice was gone, the lumberjack vocabulary was subsiding, and Jessie was becoming a man of God. He began to tell others in the building about his incredible answer to prayer.

But it didn’t end there. Jessie still had to go to a formal hearing with the lieutenant for a decision on how much extra time he would receive for fighting. Jessie knew he was guilty, and he also realized that as a Christian, he couldn’t lie about what happened that day. Jessie struggled with the decision for days. There were no witnesses, so it would be his word against the victim’s. If he were found guilty, he would receive three extra months. If not, he’d go home in a few weeks.

The day finally came for his hearing, and as he left the building I sent up a silent prayer asking God to make the lieutenant notice the change in Jesse and the remorse he had for hitting the weaker inmate.

Thirty minutes later Jessie was back, and by his radiant expression I knew something good had happened. He’d walked into the lieutenant’s office and had sat down. The lieutenant asked to see his knuckles. Then the lieutenant said, “In the interest of justice, I’m going to find you not guilty. You may go.”

The Lord had taken this man and in a matter of weeks had changed him and his life forever.

I was transferred shortly after, but I’ll never forget the tears that were shed the night I left. Jessie’s experience changed more than Jessie. The Lord showed me He could work anywhere, anytime, and change anyone.

_________________________
Rick Fleck writes from Susanville, California.

EAR MYRNA, I was surprised to get a letter from you. I remember Rick talking about you and Donald. It is so great that he has come back to Jesus. The Bible says God will cure us of backsliding (Jer. 3:22). The Lord is so great. I will be praying for Donald—and for all of us—to stay close to Jesus.

I know this is going to sound a bit crazy, but I’m glad I came to prison, because if I did not, I would not have found God. I was going down the road that leads to destruction, but the Lord delivered me, and the Lord should be all that matters in our lives. Whether I’m in here or out there I will be doing the same thing—loving Jesus and telling others about Him. And in here, people need to know the Lord. This is sin city in here. Jesus says the healthy don’t need the doctor, the sick do (Matt. 9:12).

I did not know Rick put together an article about prison ministries. That’s good. Well, here’s how I became a Christian and an Adventist:

I found myself in jail, charged with attempted murder. I was mad and afraid at the same time. Satan was in me—I could feel him. He was always there. I was mad all the time, in the morning or at night, it did not matter. I was sitting in my cell, mad like always. At what, I did not know. The cop appeared in front of the bars. He said, “Get ready, you’re going to court.”

I got to court and the judge told me my charges, among other things. Then I left. As the cop was walking me back to the cell he asked me how old I was. I told him 18. He then asked if I was thinking of killing myself. I laughed at him, so he called the other cops. They took me to this room called the “rubber room.” The floor was concrete with a hole in the ground for using the restroom. That was all that was in the room. They took all my clothes and put me in there. I remember how cold the floor was.

I don’t know how many days I was in there, I just remember a guy would come by, look at me, mark something on a paper, and then leave. Some time later a few cops opened the door, and one had a red jumpsuit in his hand. He told me to put it on, so I did. I asked where I was going, but the officer just looked at me and smiled.

They took me through a door, and there were people with cameras. Finally I saw the judge. Why am I in court? I wondered. I found out the answer real fast. The judge said the person I shot was dead. I felt sick. I did not know what to do. The cops picked me up off the chair and rushed me out of the courtroom, right back to the rubber room. They ordered me to take off my clothes and then left me there.

I was having mixed feelings. I just kept saying “This is not happening” over and over, until finally I just started crying and fell to my knees and told God, “I can’t do this anymore. Help me and please come into my life and lead me. I don’t want to live like this. I’m bad—help me to be good.” I saw something in that rubber room that I can’t explain, and I felt love like I have not felt it before. I had to get my hands on a Bible. So I got one and started reading.

There were many things I did not understand. For example, about a beast coming out of the earth, a dragon chasing a lady—I did not understand, so I said, “Lord, lead me to someone who will show me.”

I was sent to prison, and I saw Rick. We were both looking for a celly. I think Rick already had someone else in mind, and I did too. But the cop made a mistake and put me in the cell with Rick.

I still remember what Rick said when the door opened: “I thought you were someone else.” I thought, This is going to be a bad celly. Then I found out he was a Christian. And then he started telling me his beliefs, and I thought, Everything he says makes sense. Rick then said he was an Adventist and he would be willing to give me an address for a Bible study to help explain everything better. And did it ever! It opened my eyes. I wanted to know everything about Adventists, and the more I read, the more I was convinced that it was the remnant church.

I really believe God led me to Rick. In the beginning I thought Rick was going to be a bad celly. But not only did I find the best celly I have ever had, I found a brother in Christ. I pray that the Lord will lead others to people like Rick.

—Kenny

_________________________
“Kenny” writes from Susanville, California.