PREDAWN
ASSAULT ON DARKNESS
Jonathan
Beachy
Pain from tooth extractions and
suppressed anger fill his eyes to the
point of overflowing, but he knows the
system. He knows that any loss of
self-control, verbal or physical, will
have negative repercussions. So his eyes
merely glisten.
"Why does she
treat me like that? I did bring my
meds with me. You can see my blood
pressure on the machine—I have to
have my meds. Why does she call me a
liar?"
"Sir, I am sorry,
I know you need your meds, your blood
pressure is dangerously high. She told
you you’ll have to wait through the
weekend, but I’ll do what I can.
Don’t take what she said personally.
She has issues, and that’s her
problem, but your blood pressure must
come down."
In the predawn hours,
the cattle-drive-approach in screening
people for health issues which may be
exacerbated by their incarceration angers
me as well. When my superior insists that
I put my patient on hold but recheck his
blood pressure, it is even higher, as his
body reacts to the injustice he is
experiencing.
"Sir, please drink
this cup of water (Lord, you see this
man, I give him this water, as I would to
you . . . ). Take
your time, I will call the doctor on call
and see what I can do." Once more he
looks at me and makes full eye contact,
but there is a shimmer of trust and not
of anger.
Several rounds of
medication later, his blood pressure is
dropping to more acceptable levels.
Another cup of water, and reassurance,
"Whatever you are doing is working;
if you have spiritual resources, tap into
them. (Lord, this place is cold and
horrible, let this man know you care
about what is
happening . . . ).
Please sir, take a seat on the bench.
I’ll check you again in an
hour."
Later, he returns to my
desk, and this time the goal has been
reached. "Look at this sir, your
blood pressure is tolerable
now. . . . " I
breathe an audible "Thank you
Lord."
He immediately responds
with "Thank you, Jesus."
Our eyes meet. I tell
him, "You know, sir, every night
when I come here I pray that because of
my presence at least one person will know
God loves them. You’ve just been
nominated."
He smiles, stretches
out his hand, says, "God bless
you." And somehow the cold and
darkness of the place is lifted for a
moment.
Several nights later we
meet in the hallway. He assures me he is
doing okay: "I was just telling my
friends about the other night," he
says.
And I know that
darkness has not yet
"comprehended" the light, for
one more candle now illuminates the
night.
—Since writing
this true story, Jonathan Beachy, San
Antonio, Texas, has been seeking to trade
his nurse’s scrubs for a clerical
collar inside the correctional system.
Credentialed by the Western District
Conference of the Mennonite Church USA,
he hopes to continue assaulting the
darkness. He may be reached at jonathan.beachy@gmail.com.
0300
Hours
Chains joining leg
irons jangle a ragged rhythm,
not so the ordered cadence of these
shuffling feet,
challenged at times by reprimands from
the watchmen—
and then by the stifled curses of the men
who wear them.
Shivering blurs goose bumps on bare arms
and legs,
but no response, primordial or other,
can change the weight of the glowering
darkness
as hope retreats into tattered
street-stained clothes,
and head, elbows, and knees morph into
ambiguous masses.
Three a.m.—indigestion pervades the
bowels of the county jail;
Held prisoner as well, catharsis seems as
impossible as the
metamorphosis of this frozen inferno into
healing light. . . .
—Jonathan
Beachy
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