Prisons Week is currently taking place from 8th-14th October. It is a time of reflection and prayer for all those affected by prisons; whether that be prisoners, family members, victims, communities, criminal justice system workers, or the countless people who care for those both inside and outside of prison walls.
Our Prison Chaplains play an important part in the daily life of prisons across Manchester, in roles which are hugely varied and often challenging. Revd Hilary Edgerton is one such Prison Chaplain in the diocese, and she details some of her experiences in her monthly blog, 'A View Behind Bars'. You can read the October issue below:
A View Behind Bars - Bikes, Boats and Feet
Shaun* was resting nonchalantly on the seat of the exercise bike at the top of the landing, watching the world passing by. I asked if he’d just done a few miles. He languidly replied that he didn’t need to bother with a bike because he lives in Sheffield and every time you go out in Sheffield with the dogs you’re walking up hills.
I decided to avoid the obvious comments that he is currently in a prison with no dogs and the only hill is from his wing to healthcare or education and takes about two minutes to walk. We pursued the conversation topic of his dogs instead.
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Bikes became a thing later in the week for me. I watched a happy domestic scene from my front garden one sunny evening as two of the smallest neighbours took to their wheels. Five-year-old Oscar was proudly pedalling with stabilisers and helmet, happy to show me how he could now push his legs right around to make a full revolution- a feat he couldn’t quite get the hang of a couple of weeks previously. His little brother was staggering behind his push-along car. Both were being cheered on, warned to watch out or push harder, steered away from neighbours’ parked cars and videoed as they went, all laughing and having happy, caring, secure family fun.
I couldn’t help but contrast this with a little boy, now grown to be thirty years old and in prison, whom I’d spoken with earlier in the week. His mother had fed him drugs and abused him whilst he was growing up. He told me that his grandparents had taught him the right way to live but his mother (he never mentioned his dad) had taught him the wrong way. He still went to her funeral, when she died earlier this year, as the only mourner (where were the others of the family? Where were friends? She couldn’t have been more than 55 years of age), and he will have a video link to the inquest in a few weeks’ time. He can’t locate his grandmother, knows where his uncle lives but hasn’t got the address, has lost touch with his sister and is confused about life. It’s not hard to wonder why.
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From bikes to boats. I was asked to take an outside call. It was John’s sister, calling from a hospital abroad. Three members of the family and a couple of friends were on a cruise, a birthday celebration for her parents. They had known that Dad was ill. They didn’t know he was close to death. Within hours of setting sail, he became worryingly unwell. At the first port of call, he was transferred to a hospital where doctors told the family it would be “a matter of hours” till he died. Could we get a message to John?
Within an hour we had found him, agreed the authority for a call and set him up in a quiet room with a phone. I had told him it was not good news but that he needed to speak with his sister. The PIN was entered by the officer, who discreetly exited and the speakerphone was set up. I asked if he wanted me to stay or leave. He invited me to stay.
Listening in to the conversation between a sister trying to help her imprisoned brother take in the news of imminent death, and the stuttering replies of a man who said his throat was going dry and who didn’t know what to say, was humbling.
She offered to put her mum on the call and he said he didn’t know what to say. Perhaps it wasn’t my place to do so but I urged him to talk with her. There wouldn’t be another chance like this. He did. She said she would put the phone close to John’s father’s ear. John stammered and then said: "I’m sorry, Dad." That was it. A confession, an apology, a last word. He couldn’t manage any more. His dad died later that afternoon.
The funeral has taken place back home. The family were all grateful. John looks lost, says he can’t concentrate. He can’t quite take in what’s happened. We start some bereavement counselling tomorrow.
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From bikes to boats to feet. As I crossed a wing later that morning I heard one man call out to me. He had spotted me limping – just a little - with my currently stiff and sore ankle. I don’t know him well but he wanted to know if I was alright. I wasn’t in difficulty but he had noticed. He had asked. It made a difference. “Well you take care, Miss” he said, after our brief chat.
Bikes and boats and feet – and connections. The Bible is full of them - connections between the ordinary and the profound. I try to make connections of my own when telling people about God, when trying to make an introduction with someone I don’t know. In that week I discovered again that some connections grow and run deep and create a love that is grieved over when it is no more, whilst others create a grief for a love that never was.
*Please note all names have been changed
You can find out more about Prisons Week here.
If you are interested in receiving monthly updates from 'A View Behind Bars', please get in touch with Hilary.