The church bus rolled up to the gate of the prison.  We waited for the chaplain to give our senior adult group  a guided tour of the Angola Prison.  As we toured the grounds, we passed groups of prisoners coming in from the fields, riding in special open trailers pulled behind tractors.  Most of them were young...their faces revealed the boredom of their lives.  We waved to them.  Some waved back.  Some nodded.  Others averted their faces.  No one smiled...this was not a place of joy.  The chaplain pointed out a sugar cane mill that was being dismantled and sent to another country in Central America.  Work details were fewer now because prisoners only work if they choose to.  We paused to look at a deserted building  that once housed death-row inmates.

The roads were dusty.  We were  hot and uncomfortable.  The air conditioning in the  bus was not functioning properly.  The whole scene was oppressive.  We came to a cemetery at the side of the road.  It was sprinkled with dozens of white-washed crosses.  The chaplain explained that prisoners were buried there whose bodies were not claimed by relatives or friends.  He called our attention to one particular tombstone which was wrapped with three car tires and painted white like the markers.  The inmate buried there had served three terms...all for the same offense...stealing tires.  Fellow inmates placed the tires there as a memorial to him.

We thanked the chaplain and said goodbye and made our exit through the gate of the prison.  As we traveled back home, I thought about what that place represented...wasted lives, wasted years.  What a contrast to the life and words of the Apostle Paul who said, "For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain."  Phillipians 1:21

                                                                                                                             JWB