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The time had finally arrived. After more than fifteen years in prison, I was being released from the Ramsey Unit, Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Many thoughts and emotions went through me as my family arrived and we began the journey home. "Home"—it was a word I hadn't used in a long time. And yet, during all those years of being away from my physical home, I had not been totally homeless. The church had become my spiritual home. While in prison, I had attended Communion services, and Mass once a month. It was my sanctuary in a place that often offered no compassion.
Of course, the setting didn’t always look like a sanctuary. Only one of the three units where I was incarcerated had a chapel with pews and stained glass windows. Another had a small chapel with folding chairs stacked along the wall. In my last unit, an old chow hall served as our church. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, with a concrete floor that was hard on the knees—something to offer up as a sacrifice to God.
Amid all the joy and happiness of my return, I wondered what it would be like to attend a “free world” Mass in a church with a priest, altar servers, and real pews. Would it still feel like home?
Familiar, Unfamiliar. That first Sunday, I awoke early in anticipation of going to Mass as a free man.…
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