Psalm 4:title–8 (ESV): Answer Me When I Call

4 To the choirmaster: with stringed instruments. A Psalm of David.

  1  Answer me when I call, O God of my righteousness!

You have given me relief when I was in distress.

Be gracious to me and hear my prayer!

 2  O men, how long shall my honor be turned into shame?

How long will you love vain words and seek after lies? Selah

 3  But know that the Lord has set apart the godly for himself;

the Lord hears when I call to him.

 4  Be angry, and do not sin;

ponder in your own hearts on your beds, and be silent. Selah

 5  Offer right sacrifices,

and put your trust in the Lord.

 6  There are many who say, “Who will show us some good?

Lift up the light of your face upon us, O Lord!”

 7  You have put more joy in my heart

than they have when their grain and wine abound.

8 In peace I will both lie down and sleep;

for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

The Cell Mate

Anger burned in my chest. It always burned in my chest.  Anger was both my weapon and my shield.  Every day, every time…my anger rose.

I wish they would make these cells bigger.  It is irritatingly uncomfortable to have to engage in one’s business with another practically sitting in your lap.  Seriously, what were they thinking when they designed these cells?  

It’s not that I was embarrassed.  A decade in prison and little personal privacy had ensured that would never be.  I do not care about this mouse of a man they shoved in my cell with me.  I would be just as comfortable in the raw before him, or any other for that matter.  I don’t care who sees me and I do not care about seeing others.  No, it is not about being prudish.  

I want my space.  I don’t like being touched.  I don’t like my personal bubble being violated.  

And having him so near now, violates that space.  I would be content if they would leave me to my own cell.  I had had half a mind to bloody him within a half inch of his life on the first day just so that they would toss me to solitary, and I could be alone.  

No, I am not embarrassed.  I am not a prude.  If anything, the opposite.  I shook my head as if the physical affirmation was enough to convince me of my own words.  I am not prudish.  I repeat. 

Why was I so hung on convincing myself of this?  

In anger and frustration, I slap my bare thigh.  Snap out of it.

Not for the first time, I groused about being stuck inside these prison cells.  This scrawny, pathetic excuse for a man is too close to me.  I have half mind right now to shove his head into the bowl before I flush just to make a point; just because I can.

The thought brought a slight smile to my face.  Yes.  Yes, I think I will do just that.  But, I felt, the desire and drive lacked its usual intensity.

I was distracted from my thoughts when I heard him speak.  Though, I did not hear what he said.

“Hmm?” I mutter, directing my gaze at him.  He sat so still on the bed, eyes down at the ground, unmoving.  I admit, he was still a bit of a mystery to me.  He was here on charges of insurrection.  But he was like no insurrectionist I had ever met.  And I had met a few in my time inside these walls.  They were hard, violent, brutal men.  I had jumped on establishing my place of dominance over him when I first learned who my new cell mate would be.  The smile on my face deepened as I pictured the fading bruise on his face.  In the low light, it was not visible, but in my mind, it was as vivid and colorful as the day I had left it.  It had felt so good to knock him out cold.  In the end, it was a useless exercise.  He showed no interest in declaring his intent to take control.  In fact, he seemed weak to me; a reality that filled me with disdain for him.  He was weak. Cowardly.  When I saw him on that first day, I was convinced he would not last a month.  He would be used and discarded like nothing more than piece of toilet paper in here.  In fact, he would be viewed as of no more use than that in this place.  Men in here smelled weakness and preyed on it.  They, like me, despised it.  To be weak was to be fed to the wolves.  

Ah, whatever.  What did I care.  I glanced away now.  I must have been mistaken. He must not have said anything. I am hearing things.  I finished my business and was soon back in my bunk for another sleepless night.  After a decade, you would think I would have gotten use to the place and finally learned how to get some shut eye.  But no, nights were long and sleepless for me.  

After twisting and turning a few times, I finally found a position that was comfortable.  I hated these mattresses.  I hated these bunks. I hated this place.  I hated myself.  

A few moments later, I heard him start to cry.  I could tell he was stifling it, keeping it as quiet as he could. I smiled at the thought.  I scared him.  Good!  There was a satisfaction in the fear I produced in him.  And yet, I noted it too seemed to lack the same depth of fulfillment it once had, at least where he was concerned.  I had half a mind to climb down and wring his pretty little neck just to make myself feel better, to prove I was still the  man I had spent the last decade becoming.  Ah, I am tired.  Another time perhaps.  

In truth, a truth I would never confess out loud, he unsettled me.  Something about him set me on edge.  Yeah, he was weak.  He was crying for pity’s sake!  Only the weak do that.  But….  It was more.  I detested him.  I loathed him and hated him for the feelings he drew to the surface, that he made come out in me.  I had long thought I was beyond such things, that emotion was a thing of the past.  I had long prided my hard demeanor and my vice grip control over emotion.  All except anger, of course. I kept that one and ruled it like a monarch over his domain.

And yet, despite hating him, I felt drawn to him.  I wanted to pummel him while at the same time wanting to figure him out.  Until I did, I felt oddly protective.  There was something about him.  Something that made me hate him while at the same time made me yearn for him…

Agggh!!  I growled to myself.  I wanted to hate him, to loathe him.  But I found myself not being able to fully. 

What was it about this man that made me want to pulverize him while at the same time feeling a sense of protectiveness for him? 

I could not place my finger on it.  It was something…something…something about him unnerved me and it left me feeling very uncertain about…about…. everything honestly.   I did not dwell on it.  At least I tried not to.  I did not want to. I shoved it down and pushed it away, but it kept coming back.  I did not like the feeling I got, and I sought to ignore it as much as possible. 

I shifted then, suddenly uncomfortable.  The bunk creaked in protest at my movement.  Still!  Be still! I chided myself.  The last thing I wanted was him to be aware that I was awake and listening to him.  I forced myself to settle and was soon lost in thought again.

I remembered the rage I went into when I discovered his “book.”  I refuse to name it. I refuse acknowledge it for what it is.  I had wrenched it from his hands, intending to tear it to shreds and then shove each page of it down his throat making him eat it.  And if he choked on it, oh well.  Death by the “words of life.”  The thought had given me so much amusement and delight.  I could picture it, my bulking knee on his chest, my fingers shoving bits of the pages down his throat.  His body gasping for air as it blocked his air passage.  I got so excited and aroused just imagining it.  I hated this book.  It had been forced upon me every day of my life until I had snuffed the life out of them, shutting them up once and for all.  

Once I had the book in my hands, however, I decided I wanted to desecrate it first. I wanted to mock it and profane it!  Throwing it into the toilet, I unzipped and in full sight of his gaping eyes, I let out a full stream of urine to saturate this abomination.  I watched him the entire time.  His reaction was not the one I had anticipated or longed for. I wanted anger.  Indignation.  I wanted rage.  Instead, I saw sorrow.  Loss.  I saw…passion.  He cared more for this book than anything else.  I could see it in his face, his eyes.  It was NOT the emotion I was used to seeing upon people’s faces when they spoke about this book.  He was hungry for it.  It was the most important thing to him.  The look on his face, the clear desire he showed in that moment was so deep that something had snapped in me then.  Maybe this was when the schizophrenic hatred, yet protectiveness battle first began.  Thinking about it for a minute, I thought, Yes.  Yes.  That was definitely when it first began.  BLAST that book!  Why does it seem intent on haunting me?

I hated this raging conflict in me. I despised him, or at least wanted to despise him, for what I perceived to be weakness.  I despised him for what he stood for, for what he cared about, and I despised him for making me want to care about and protect him.  I despise him for caring so deeply.  Caring this much for something made him weak.  It afforded a means for him to be manipulated, controlled.  And that reduced his stature in my mind.  At least, that is always the way I had been conditioned to think.

And yet…

To care this deeply about something showed a depth of conviction, a level of strength that I had rarely seen.  It was a depth of strength I felt lacking in myself.  It was envy that I felt I suddenly realized.  He had a strength at the core of his being and soul.  It was a strength that was deeper and more stalwart than brute force, intimidation, and fear.  I feared it.  And thus, I hated it.  But I also longed for it.  THIS, this was at the heart of my hatred and yearning battle!

All this I had noted in that single moment, and it suddenly had undone me in a way I was loathe to confess, even to myself.  I did not want to put voice, or even thought, to the conclusion I had drawn lest it solidify it and make it true.  It felt safer and wiser to push it away and pretend it was not there.  

I was not utterly dumfounded then, when he reached into to retrieve the urine-soaked book.  In truth, it confirmed the conclusion I had just arrived at.  There was a greater strength in him than I had originally guessed.  And in that instant, I knew I could not, would not use his passion for that book against him.  It was in that moment that my protectiveness solidified even while I fought to maintain my hatred and anger aimed at him.

What is wrong me? I had thought.  This was the very type of thing I looked for in EVERY person I met so that I could exercise my power and control over them.  I wanted NO ONE to have an advantage over me.  But, yes, it was in that moment as I watched him retrieve that bible, clutch it to his chest and protect it, it was then that the surge of protectiveness has taken hold of me. Reflecting back on it now, I was even more convinced of it.   

I had fled the cell then.  It was midday when the cells were open.  And it was good. I needed the escape. I might have caused some bloodshed had I been forced to remain cooped up at that point. I had walked forever trying to calm myself.  I ignored everyone.  My face hard and angry, I doubt any had tried to engage me anyway.  I imagine my face and stature was enough to terrify them away.  I had not felt this uncertain and undone in a long time.  I loathed the feeling even while I sensed a longing to see where it would take me, a place that hinted at light and hope.  Those were two things I had not laid hold of in a VERY long time.

Toward the end of my walk, three guys cornered me.  The triplets we called them.  They were a little “soft” if you catch my meaning.  Whatever.  Not my thing but as long as they did not bother me, I did not bother them.  They had taken a shine to my new cell mate and were seeking to bargain for my assistance in getting him alone.  Unexpected anger burst like fireworks in my chest.  Anger was not unexpected.  Anger that they even THOUGHT to do any such thing to my cell mate, that was unexpected.  I felt appalled that they would ask such a thing.  Never mind the fact that I had often arranged these little private gatherings before, for a price of course.  This was different.  Why?  Why was this one different?  Why do I care about this man!!  I practically screamed it in my head.  I could not answer even if I had tried.  And in that moment, I did not try.  I simply reacted to the surge of anger and protectiveness that had exploded in me.  Kneeing the lead guy square in his groin, I let him fall the ground incapacitated and grabbed the other two men by their throats before they could escape.  Marching them back to the nearest wall, I pressed them against it, mindful of the eyes now watching me.  Pressing my nose an inch from their faces, I hissed in a low and dangerous voice, “You will not touch him, or you will reckon to me.  He is MINE and no one else’s!  Do you understand?”

The fear in their faces said that they did.  Gasping for breath between my fingers which clutched at their throats, fear wild in their eyes, they stammered, “Y-y-yeah, man.  We d-d-didn’t mean n-n-no offense.  We d-d-d-didn’t k-k-know.  We w-w-won’t b-b-bother him.” 

Satisfied, I had released them.  As they scampered off, I realized that they probably thought I wanted him for the same reason they did.  For a brief moment, I was sickened.  Then, I resolved to accept it.  If it kept them away from him, then so be it.  As they neared the corner of the hall and prepared to round it, I yelled after them, “Spread the word.  Make sure everyone knows.  He is not to be messed with in anyway or you will face my wrath.”

They had not responded but the absence of anyone attempting anything with him after that point seemed to indicate that, for now, the word had spread, and no one wanted to cross me.  The thought pleased me.  As I had walked back to my cell, I passed the third guy, still curled in a ball on the ground.  I kicked him in the face as I passed just for good measure and to drive my point home.

His tears drew me out of the memory and back into the present.  Hearing him cry now, I wondered at it.  I remained still, unmoving.  I could not understand what it was about him that was leaving me so unsettled.  I wanted to despise him for making me feel this way, and yet all that seemed to happen was that my protectiveness for him strengthened.  In my decade locked up in here none had affected me so.  

Eventually I heard his weeping cease and silence fell once again.  I heard as he lay back on his bunk and sought to get comfortable.  Well do I know how hard that is on these cheap $%&!? mattresses.  You would think they could do a bit better with the taxpayers’ dollars.  Didn’t we deserve a decent night’s sleep?  Sighing internally, I knew we would never see the day. We were criminals, after all.  Perhaps we deserved the discomfort.

The admission scared me.  Not admitting guilt or wrongdoing was as much a shield as my anger.  It felt weak to admit it.  What was happening to me?  

It was not long before I heard his crying start again.  Man, this guy has it bad.  I tried to ignore it, to put the man out of my mind, as I had so many times before.  I was tired of thinking about him, tired of being consumed with him day and night, unable to shake it.  But no matter how hard I tried; I could not put him out of my mind.  He was like a cancerous lesion that was resistance to any attempts to remove it.  

Some moments later, I do not even know how long for the passage of time is difficult to discern in this place, I heard the crinkle of his book.  I knew he still had it. I knew he kept it under his pillow.  Not the most inventive place to hide it, to keep it.  But then, I do not think he was trying to hide it.  And no one else was a danger to it, though he did not know that.  In the next 5-10 minutes, despite how quiet he had been striving to be, I noticed a change.  His breathing seemed to calm, to become more regular.  There seemed to enter the cell, a sense of…. a sense of…. restfulness.  My parents would have called it “peace”. 

A sudden pang of guilt, of sorrow, of regret filled me at that thought.  Panicking, I fought to stifle the emotion.  I may have to kill this guy just to stop how he makes me feel.  Isn’t that what I did with my parents?  Taking a few deep breaths, I calmed the panic that had risen.  Isn’t my newly resurfaced ability to feel what is drawing me to him?  Isn’t he responsible for drawing that out and giving me a hope of something better; something different?  I chided myself for even thinking I could or would harm him.  And especially for making me feel. Running from my emotions, instead of allowing them to lead me to where I needed to be, is what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.  Trying to push them down and away is what had led me so far down a path as the one I now walked.  No, I did not want to be ruled by emotions, not even my anger.  I believed I controlled my anger and used it as my single greatest weapon.  I did not want to be at the mercy of any emotion.  However, I also knew that emotion could be guide to lead me to the true heart of things if I permitted it.  But it hurt.  It was hard.  It hurt back them.  It hurt now.  Difference was, back then I went to extreme measures to shut it down.  Now…well now, I felt a yearning to follow it back to the truth I had rejected so long ago.  He was the first one, since my parents, to make me feel anything; to feel this way. 

I noted the utter silence now.  My curiosity getting the best of me now, I twisted so that I could look over the side of the bed.  Looking down at him…. the sight filled me with a gut-wrenching nausea.  The panic I had just stilled rose again in me.  He was smiling.  Faint but unmistakable.  He was resting, breathing slow and measured.  He was asleep.  At peace.

WHAT?  How? He was weeping not ten minutes ago.  How?  How, how, how?  Envy and longing welled up in me.  I want that.  Why can’t I have that?  How can he sleep with such a sense of peace.  It was the same sense of peace I had seen so often in my parents.  I saw it now in him.  I could not take my eyes off him.  They felt glued to his face and the look of utter peace that shaped it.

A momentary pang of resentment filled me.  How can this man make me feel this way?  I hated him for making me feel.  I don’t WANT to feel.  The age-old mantra that I had clung to for the past decade reverberated in my head.  A moment of anger filled me, and I blamed him for the cracks I had begun to see in my veneer.

And yet….

I wanted to feel. I realized that now.  I suddenly knew I was done clinging to the avoidance of feeling.  I wanted to feel. I wanted to know where it led me.  I wanted to know what he knows.  A sudden, inescapable longing filled me.  I glanced at his pillow then.  The book.  It peeked out from under the corner.  Without making a conscious decision, I was slipping off my bunk as quietly as possible.  I knelt on the floor next to our bunk.  I was inches from his face now, the soft breathing of his peaceful sleep invading the personal space I had long cherished.  As softly and as quietly as I could, so as not to disturb him, I retrieved the bible from under his pillow.  I rose and sat on the toilet, holding the little brown book in my hand.  It felt strange to finally name the book I had spent so long pretending did not exist.  Memories of holding a similar one as a child flooded into my mind.  And I remembered why I did not want to feel.  Guilt.  Shame.  Regret.  These were the emotions I sought to outrun; that I sought to crush.  And yet, I sensed that unless I faced them now, I would never know peace.  I looked at his face again.  I made my decision.  I wanted peace, whatever the cost.

Where to I begin? I wondered.  

Why not start at the beginning?”  The words came soft, barely noticeable in my heart.  I half wondered if I actually heard them.  

But, I thought, not a bad suggestion.  So, with a deep yearning, my stomach twisting in knots, with nervous fingers, I opened to the beginning.  The pages crinkled and the noise seemed as loud as a bomb exploding. Glancing back, I saw his eyes open.  Panic filled me.  He cannot see me reading this.  No one can.  But it was too late.  His gaze focused and he saw me holding it, not in stance of destruction, but in the tender caress of one about to read.  A wide smile broke on his face.  He simply nodded his head, closed his eyes, and his breathing resumed its restful cadence.  

An uneasy peace settled over me then.  The sense of something I had not felt in a LONG time.  Without any further hesitation, I began to read.