Prisoner's Paradox: Grace, Redemption, and the Role I Didn’t Choose

Prisoner's Paradox: Grace, Redemption, and the Role I Didn’t Choose

Life takes many unexpected turns, but there are certain paths we rarely consider ourselves walking—paths that lead us to places of isolation and confinement, where the world around us seems to shrink into a narrow corridor of choices and consequences. Incarceration was never a road I imagined I would travel, yet life has a way of pushing us toward challenges we never anticipated. My experience with prison began with a sentence of one year and one day for honest services wire fraud. Though my legal battle had ended, my spiritual battle had just begun.

From the moment the judge issued my sentence, the weight of my mistakes became all too real. It wasn’t just about the legal implications of my actions, but about confronting the personal and spiritual consequences of the choices I had made. The system had determined that my sentence would be divided in two—half spent in prison, and the other half under home detention. However, I was granted time off for good behavior, which meant I would serve just four months and three weeks behind bars. While the duration seemed manageable, it was clear these months would shape me in ways I hadn’t yet understood.

The Weight of Confinement: Pre-Prison Experiences

Before my official prison sentence began, I had already tasted the bitter reality of confinement. Twice in King County, Washington, I had been arrested for possession of stolen computer memory—a charge that was ultimately dropped both times. In each instance, I spent nearly a week in jail, behind bars, for a crime I didn’t commit. Though the charges were dismissed, the experience lingered with me. The feeling of being locked away, stripped of freedom, and treated as guilty left a deep mark on my soul. It was a precursor of things to come, a warning that even brief encounters with incarceration could profoundly affect one’s sense of identity and faith.

Those brief moments of confinement brought a taste of the vulnerability that would later become central to my prison experience. I found myself grappling with feelings of injustice, confusion, and fear. Even though I had been innocent, the emotional scars from those encounters were deep and lasting. I began questioning the system, the fragility of freedom, and why I was facing such trials. It was hard not to feel like the world had turned against me, like I was being targeted for reasons beyond my control.

As I prepared to serve my official sentence, these experiences weighed on me. I knew I was about to enter a far more difficult journey, both physically and spiritually. I wasn’t just about to lose my freedom again; I was about to confront my faith, my purpose, and the very core of who I was.

Beginning the Journey: Walking into Sacramento County Jail

The day I walked into the Sacramento County Jail to begin my official sentence on May 1, 2001, I was overwhelmed with a flood of emotions—fear, uncertainty, regret. Yet amid those feelings, I clung tightly to my faith. Psalm 46:1 echoed in my mind: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” I knew this experience wasn’t just a test of endurance; it was a test of my faith, my resolve, and my ability to trust in God’s plan.

Turning myself in felt like an act of submission—not just to the legal system, but to a higher power. I was letting go of control, acknowledging that I had made choices that led me here. The truth was undeniable, but so was God’s presence. I could feel it in the cold halls of the jail, in the impersonal routine of being processed, in the prison attire they handed me. Every moment felt like an opportunity for reflection, and I knew I would need my faith more than ever to get through this journey.

A Surprising Appointment: Becoming a Trustee

Upon entering the facility, something unexpected happened. The deputy called out my name, and without any prior interaction, he informed me that I was being made the trustee of the cell block. This position wasn’t something I had asked for, and it certainly wasn’t something I expected within moments of entering the jail. The role of trustee came with a certain level of responsibility and privileges—freedom of movement within the jail, opportunities to help the deputies with various tasks, and a measure of trust from the staff. Inmates usually had to earn this position through time and good behavior, yet here I was, immediately entrusted with the role.

I couldn’t help but feel that this was more than just a coincidence. It was a divine appointment. Proverbs 3:5-6 spoke to me: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.” While I didn’t fully understand why I was given this position so quickly, I trusted that God had a purpose for me, even in jail.

Being a trustee allowed me to interact with both inmates and staff in ways most prisoners could not. Instead of being confined to a cell all day, I was able to help with tasks around the facility, offering assistance where needed and gaining insight into the operations of the jail. I found solace in this work—it kept my mind busy and gave me a sense of purpose in an environment designed to strip away one’s identity. But it also made me realize something profound: trust is not something earned solely by human means; sometimes, it is divinely appointed.

One of my daily chores in jail was serving meals to the other inmates through the slots in their cell doors. You’ve likely seen this in TV shows and movies—there’s a small slot in the door that allows the meals to be passed through. What they don’t often show is how hostile and tense these interactions can be. On numerous occasions, inmates would demand additional food, which I couldn’t give them since each meal was portioned exactly. When I was unable to provide them more food, they would threaten me with violence and even death threats. It was unsettling, but fortunately, no one ever acted on their threats. Still, I often found myself wondering if I would be targeted one day simply for doing my job.

I often thought about Jeremiah 29:11, which promises: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” As difficult as my situation was, I knew that there was a larger plan at work. My time in prison wasn’t just about serving a sentence—it was about reshaping my character, strengthening my faith, and learning to trust in God’s guidance even when the road ahead seemed dark.

A Time of Isolation: Entering Maximum-Security Confinement

Over the next few weeks, I would come to understand the depth of these lessons more fully. My time as a trustee in Sacramento County Jail became a foundation for the journey I was about to embark on. What I didn’t realize at the time was that prison would become not just a place of punishment, but a place of transformation. God was leading me into a wilderness of sorts—a place where I would be stripped of everything I had once relied on and forced to confront the very core of who I was. Isaiah 43:19 speaks of God’s ability to make a way in the wilderness: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

This was my wilderness—a place of uncertainty and isolation, yet also a place of renewal and hope. After leaving Sacramento County Jail, the reality of my situation started to sink in. I had experienced the initial shock of being incarcerated, but nothing could prepare me for what came next. My transfer to the Federal Prison in Dublin, California, marked a significant turning point in my journey.

As soon as I arrived, the environment changed dramatically. I was placed in a maximum-security cell, locked down for 23 hours a day, with two other inmates. The cell was no more than 88 square feet—small, cramped, and utterly devoid of comfort. The physical conditions were harsh, but it was the psychological toll that weighed heaviest. The cell was equipped with a sink, a toilet, and a triple-tiered bunk bed. I was assigned to the middle bunk, which made even the simple act of getting in and out of bed an ordeal. I couldn’t sit up; I had to roll out of bed onto the cold, hard floor. There was no place to sit except for the floor itself. It felt as if I was being crushed by the physical limitations of the space, but it was the emotional isolation that truly gnawed at me.

For one hour each day, we were allowed out of our cells to shower and walk in "The Yard," a small fenced-off area where prisoners could get a brief taste of fresh air. It was during these daily walks that I encountered Suge Knight, the infamous co-founder of Death Row Records. Suge was a towering figure, not just in stature but in reputation. He had been a key player in shaping the hip-hop industry, but here we were, walking the same yard, sharing the same restricted freedom. Despite the stark differences in our backgrounds, our conversations became a small refuge in the midst of the overwhelming confinement.

We talked about life, choices, and the strange turns our lives had taken to bring us to this point. It was surreal to think that I was walking side by side with a man whose name had been synonymous with power and influence, and yet, here we both were—stripped of our titles, our positions, and our freedoms. Suge may have had a reputation in the outside world, but in here, he was just another inmate trying to pass the time.

As we walked, I often thought of Matthew 5:44, which says: “But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” In prison, it was easy to harbor resentment and anger, but I found that praying for those around me—even those who seemed hardened by life’s challenges—brought a sense of peace that I desperately needed.

The Book Cart: A Lifeline in Isolation

The book cart became another small source of comfort during my time in Dublin. Once a day, an inmate would push a cart filled with books through the cell blocks, offering prisoners a chance to read and escape, if only for a few hours. Reading provided a mental escape from the physical reality of my situation, and it allowed me to keep my mind sharp. Proverbs 4:7 came to mind often: “The beginning of wisdom is this: Get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding.” In a place where wisdom seemed scarce, books became a lifeline, a way to continue learning and growing even in the most difficult circumstances.

Despite these small moments of reprieve, life in Dublin was grueling. The constant lockdown, the lack of privacy, and the unrelenting sense of being watched took a toll on me. I began to question the fairness of it all. I had been sentenced for wire fraud, but here I was, locked in a cell with men who had committed far more serious offenses. Psalm 7:9 provided a measure of comfort: “Bring to an end the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure—you, the righteous God who probes minds and hearts.”

As the days passed, I found myself becoming more vocal about the conditions in the prison. I began to speak out to anyone who would listen, telling them that what we were experiencing was cruel and unusual punishment. But my words seemed to fall on deaf ears. The guards were indifferent, and the other inmates had become numb to the reality of their situation. It was in these moments of frustration that I turned to Romans 12:12: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.”

A Miraculous Transfer: From Dublin to Sheridan

Eventually, my time in Dublin came to an end, and I was transferred to FCI Sheridan, a federal prison in Oregon. The transition was not without its challenges. When I boarded the bus to Sheridan, I was shackled at the hands and feet—a reminder of my status as an inmate. The uncertainty of not knowing what lay ahead weighed heavily on me, but something remarkable happened during the ride. A guard called my name, told me to come to the front of the bus, and removed my shackles. He said I was going to be responsible for handing out lunch and water to the other inmates during the journey. It was the second time I had been entrusted with a position of responsibility without having asked for it.

I couldn’t help but feel that this was another example of divine favor. Psalm 37:23 says: “The Lord makes firm the steps of the one who delights in him.” Even in the midst of my imprisonment, I felt that God was guiding my steps, placing me in positions of trust and responsibility.

Finding Purpose: Becoming a Mentor and Counselor in Sheridan

Arriving at Sheridan was a different experience from Dublin. While still a federal prison, Sheridan had a slightly less restrictive atmosphere. I was given more freedom to interact with other inmates, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in a new role—this time as a mentor and counselor to my fellow inmates. What started as casual conversations soon evolved into daily counseling sessions. Between seven and ten inmates would come to me each day, seeking advice on everything from personal issues to their faith.

This new role brought a sense of purpose that I hadn’t felt in months. Galatians 6:2 reminded me of the importance of this work: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.” These men were looking for guidance, for someone who would listen and offer them hope in a place that seemed to offer so little of it. I took this responsibility seriously, knowing that God had placed me here for a reason.

The time I spent mentoring these inmates was deeply fulfilling. It gave me a sense of purpose and reminded me that even in prison, I could make a positive impact on the lives of others. Matthew 25:36 echoed in my heart: “I was in prison and you came to visit me.” While I was physically imprisoned, I felt spiritually free, and I was able to share that freedom with those around me.

SeaTac Federal Detention Center: A Time of Writing and Reflection

After several weeks in Sheridan, I was transferred once again, this time to SeaTac Federal Detention Center near Seattle, Washington. SeaTac was a different environment altogether. As a federal detention center, it housed inmates awaiting trial or sentencing, creating a transient atmosphere where faces changed frequently, and the sense of permanence I had felt at Sheridan was replaced by uncertainty.

SeaTac was also far more restrictive. Every time we left our cell block, we were subjected to invasive pat-downs. When visitors came, we were nearly stripped naked. The guards would instruct us to bend over, spread our buttocks, and cough to ensure we weren’t hiding any contraband. After the visit, the process was repeated to make sure we hadn’t received anything illicit. It was humiliating, dehumanizing, and a stark reminder of the power imbalance that defined life in prison.

Upon arrival at SeaTac, something unexpected happened that would stay with me throughout my time there. Within just a few days, the prison guards started calling me “Governor.” When I asked them why, they explained that I looked too clean-cut to be in prison and had the demeanor of someone who should be in charge. They meant it as a term of endearment, and throughout my stay at SeaTac, I was often referred to as “Governor” by the staff and guards. It was a peculiar nickname that stuck, and while it didn’t make my prison time any easier, it was a small reminder that even in this place, I was seen as more than just an inmate.

During my time at SeaTac, I was given two jobs. My first job was in the prison library, a position that paid a meager 0.08 cents per hour. I worked there for a few weeks before being transferred to a more coveted job cleaning the front lobby area, the warden’s office, and the parking lots. The fact that I was trusted to work in such sensitive areas—unsupervised at times—was a testament to the relationships I had built with the staff. It was another reminder of the divine favor that seemed to follow me throughout my time in prison.

Twice, I volunteered for a work crew that left the facility to do landscaping at Fort Lewis in Tacoma. These were grueling days, filled with hard physical labor, but they also provided a welcome break from the monotony of prison life. Being outside, breathing fresh air, and working with my hands was a small taste of freedom, even if it was temporary.

One constant throughout my time at SeaTac was the conversations I had with fellow inmates during meals. I typically sat with the same individuals for each meal, and we often engaged in robust discussions about life, faith, and the world outside. However, not all interactions were positive. Occasionally, I would be threatened with harm by one of the inmates, seemingly for reasons unknown to me. I determined that this particular inmate was likely dealing with mental health issues that caused him to lash out, and for some reason, I became the focus of his anger. Thankfully, no physical harm ever came to me, and I was able to navigate these situations with a sense of calm and faith.

On September 11, 2001, I was at SeaTac when the twin towers came down. I vividly remember the confusion and fear that swept through the prison. Our cell block was immediately locked down, and we were confined to our cells for a couple of days. The uncertainty of what was happening outside the prison walls was palpable. It felt like the world was crumbling, and there we were, trapped and powerless. Eventually, the prison determined that we were not a threat, and we were allowed out of our cells again. But the memory of that day remains with me—a stark reminder of how fragile life can be, both inside and outside the walls of prison.

When I wasn’t working, I was walking and writing. I developed a routine of daily walks around the cell block, using this time for prayer and reflection. Before each walk, I would pray and ask God for guidance, and almost immediately, thoughts and ideas would begin to flow into my mind. Isaiah 30:21 became my guide: “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” I would return to my cell, grab one of my yellow notepads, and begin writing.

These writing sessions became my lifeline. Over the course of my 90 days at SeaTac, I filled 25 yellow notepads with reflections, insights, and spiritual revelations. Each day, I would write for hours, using my Bible, concordance, and dictionary to deepen my understanding of the thoughts that God had placed in my heart. Jeremiah 33:3 became my inspiration: “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.” I felt that God was revealing these truths to me, helping me make sense of my experiences and giving me the strength to endure.

The Final Blessings: Teaching and Leaving with Purpose

Typically, when inmates leave prison, they are only allowed to take with them what they came in with. But when the time came for my release, the warden made an exception for me. He allowed me to take all 25 of my yellow notepads with me, a gesture that was highly unusual. I saw this as another sign of God’s grace, a recognition that my time in prison had not been wasted.

In addition to the notepads, another unusual opportunity presented itself during my time at SeaTac. The warden allowed me to teach a six-week Business 101 class to other inmates. This was an extraordinary privilege, and it allowed me to share my knowledge with others who were eager to learn. Each class had around 50 inmates, all of whom were looking for ways to improve themselves, even in the midst of their confinement. I created a final exam for the course, and the sense of accomplishment I felt when the class was completed was profound.

Teaching this class was a reminder that even in the darkest places, there is always an opportunity to make a positive impact. James 1:5 says: “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.” I believe that this class was an answer to that prayer for wisdom—not just for me, but for the inmates who attended. It was a chance for all of us to learn, grow, and prepare for the next chapter of our lives, whatever that might look like.

As I reflect on my time in jail and prison, the most striking realization is not the physical discomfort, the emotional isolation, or the invasive procedures we endured—it’s the profound transformation that took place within me. Prison was not just a place of punishment; it was a place where I encountered grace in its purest form. It was a crucible where my faith was tested, refined, and strengthened in ways I never could have imagined.

Grace and Redemption: The Road Ahead

When I first entered Sacramento County Jail, I was overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty. The thought of being locked away, separated from my family, and stripped of my freedom was terrifying. But even in those early days, I felt God’s presence guiding me. 2 Corinthians 12:9 became a source of comfort: “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

In those moments of weakness, when I felt as though I had nothing left to give, I discovered the true strength of God’s grace. It wasn’t about escaping the harsh reality of prison—it was about finding purpose and meaning in the midst of it. The positions of trust I was given, from being a trustee in Sacramento to working in the warden’s office at SeaTac, were reminders that even in confinement, I was still a person of value. Psalm 37:23 says: “The Lord makes firm the steps of the one who delights in him.” Every step of my journey, though painful at times, was ordered by God.

The most unexpected aspect of my prison experience was the opportunity to mentor and counsel other inmates. This was not a role I had anticipated, but it became one of the most fulfilling aspects of my time behind bars. Every day, I had the chance to speak with men who were searching for hope, for direction, for a sense of purpose. These were men who had been hardened by life’s challenges, but who still longed for something more. Galatians 6:2 reminded me of the importance of this work: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

I realized that even in prison, where so much is taken away, there is still an opportunity to give. By sharing my faith, my experiences, and my hope with these men, I was able to offer them a glimpse of the freedom that comes from knowing God. Matthew 25:36 echoed in my mind: “I was in prison and you came to visit me.” In a way, I felt that I was living out this scripture—visiting not just the physical prisoners around me, but also the spiritual prisoners within them, offering them a message of hope and redemption.

Teaching the Business 101 class at SeaTac was another unexpected blessing. It allowed me to share my knowledge and experience with men who were eager to learn, to better themselves, and to prepare for life after prison. The sense of accomplishment I felt when the class was completed was profound. James 1:5 became a guiding verse for me during this time: “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.” I saw this class as an answer to a prayer for wisdom—not just for me, but for the men who attended.

When I left SeaTac, I didn’t leave empty-handed. I carried with me 25 yellow notepads filled with reflections, insights, and spiritual revelations that I had written during my time in prison. These writings were more than just a way to pass the time—they were a testament to the work that God was doing in my life. Jeremiah 33:3 became a promise fulfilled: “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.”

Typically, inmates leave prison with nothing more than what they entered with, but the warden made an exception for me. He allowed me to take all 25 of my notepads with me, a gesture that was both surprising and deeply meaningful. It was as if God was saying, “Your time here was not in vain. There is a purpose for everything you have experienced.”

Looking back on those months, I can see how each challenge, each moment of hardship, was part of a larger plan. Romans 5:3-4 reminds us: “Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” My time in prison was a crucible, a place where I was refined by fire, and where my faith was tested in ways I had never imagined.

Prison may seem like the end of the line for many, a place where lives are broken and futures are lost. But for me, it was the beginning of a new chapter. It was a place where I discovered the true meaning of grace, redemption, and purpose. Romans 8:28 became the foundation of my journey: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

As I move forward in life, I carry with me the lessons I learned during those difficult months. I have come to understand that freedom is not about physical location; it is about the state of your heart and soul. True freedom comes from knowing that, no matter what circumstances you find yourself in, God is with you, guiding your steps and working all things together for your good.

Prison was not the end of my story; it was the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with grace, redemption, and unwavering faith. Isaiah 40:31 sums it up best: “But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” When I left SeaTac, I didn’t leave as the same person who had entered. I was stronger, more focused, and more determined to live a life of purpose and faith. The road ahead would not be easy, but I knew that with God by my side, I could face whatever challenges came my way.