For fans of Michael Jordan, his 86-87 fleer rookie card is about as good as it gets. If you have one today it can be worth anywhere from $1,500 to $5,000 and up. So in 1996 when my dad gave one to my 8 year old boy Tyson, it made his life. Tyson was a Jordan copycat from birth. From the shoes, to the gear, to all his moves on the court, Tyson took the phrase, ‘Be Like Mike’ way too serious. My dad had a patient give him the card as trade for some dental work he needed. The card was special for what it was and also for where it came from, Grandpa Gardner. Through the years Tyson accumulated quite the sports memorabilia collection. Rookies from Ken Griffey, Cal Ripken, Steve Young and many others.  Countless basketball and baseball cards, signed hats and more. Some of the most valuable he locked in a small safe the size of a shoebox. The safe and all the rest was in one big box that Tyson left at our house when he moved out. It had a piece of duct tape over the top that said, “Tyson’s stuff.”  Looking back now, I made a big mistake when I took the box to our storage shed 2 1/2 years ago. We had sold our house and needed some temporary storage space while our new home was being built. The box with 18 years of memories and sports icons should have never been there.

The storage shed was also home to much of my waterfowl hunting supplies. From waders to float tubes to decoys, it was a small sportman’s  warehouse. One cold winter night as I took my goose decoys back down to the shed after a hunt, I was startled to see someone peering around the corner of the building. It spooked me enough that I remember feeling some comfort in  knowing I had my shotgun close by. I hurried and put the door down, locked up and headed out. As I pulled away I was somewhat relieved as I saw it was just some other renters getting stuff from their shed. Or so I thought. It never even crossed my mind that these people would end up breaking into my shed as well as many others that night. About a week later I received a phone call asking if I had noticed  anything missing from my shed. The sheriffs office wanted to know because some of the other renters had been hit. I hurried down to check the shed and as soon as I got in, it was obvious that someone had been in there. The sheetrock between us and the next unit had a hole kicked through it. I took a quick survey and it didn’t appear that anything was missing. I was beyond surprised that they didn’t take any of my goose decoys or other hunting, fishing and camping equipment. The only thing I noticed right off was that for some reason they took the tent bag. They dumped the tent and all the poles on the floor, and just took the bag. As I looked a little closer I came upon the box, “Tyson’s stuff.” It was ripped open and everything was gone except for a baseball hat sitting in the bottom of the box. I reached in and pulled out the 49ers hat that had been signed by Steve Young. It all hit me at once, was this the box he put the safe in? I called Tyson immediately just to confirm my fear, yep he said, it was all in there, the little safe and all. I think we both said it at the same time, ‘No, not the Jordan rookie!!!

In the weeks that followed we had so much anger for these thugs. We fantasized about finding them and settling the score ourselves. How could you take something like that from another human? They must know that this is a lifetime of collecting that they so flippantly dumped out of the box and into our tent bag. I could see the hurt in Tyson’s eyes, he really wanted to say, Dad, why in the hell was that stuff at the shed anyway?  I felt horrible, violated and quite honestly pissed off! I so badly wanted to punish these people for what they had done. We collected a couple thousand dollars from our home owners policy but that did nothing to ease the pain. This stuff had lots of stories and experiences that came with it. It was priceless. 

About 6 months after the break in, I was asked to be in the branch presidency at our county jail. I was excited for the opportunity, as I would get to go and serve in the place so special to me. Full circle for sure. I couldn’t wait to hear the sound of slamming doors, knowing I’d be walking right back out after a few hours. I had a few hoops to jump through like background checks etc, and soon enough I’d have my volunteer badge and go back in. The first time back was a little tougher than I thought it would be. Familiar smells seemed to get me more than anything. Seeing the holding cells and booking area for the first time since being there some 13 years earlier was a bit confusing and surreal. Before going to the room used for church services, they needed to take a picture for my volunteer badge. My back was up against the same wall as years before, only this time I was smiling. Weeks later  when they gave me my badge, I noticed a little problem. Instead of being in my nice new suit, smiling, gray haired, with that happy to be here look, they mistakenly put one of my old booking photos on it. Perfect.

When I was an inmate I didn’t like going to church. As a volunteer going back in, it’s something I wish everyone could experience. Many of these people find a connection to a higher power during their stay. The problem is, most of them forget to take God with them when they leave. That’s why we see so many turn right around and come back to jail, to start over again. It’s kind of a metaphor for all of our lives. We get to know God and find freedom and peace in having him with us.   He is the the gate keeper. Every time we sin we head back to jail in a way, held in bondage by our sins. We can keep sinning and lose more of our freedom, or we can repent and be free again. Becoming perfect isn’t going to happen, so the key to freedom that we’ve all been given is repentance and faith in the gatekeeper. These inmates are so embarrassed when they leave only to mess up and come back again. We are there to greet them with a handshake and let them know they have worth and are loved. Just keep showing up, repenting, and eventually the Lord will work a miracle.

On Sunday’s we would usually go in twice. First in the morning for a couple hours to have the church service. Later in the evening we would go back and meet with a handful of inmates one at a time. These were men and women who requested a little extra time privately with 2 of us from the branch presidency. Occasionally they wanted a blessing, and sometimes they just needed to talk, or cry with someone who cared, and could offer some outside advice. These more personal occasions offered an atmosphere where we could try to get to know them better and hopefully offer something new that they hadn’t experienced before in life. For some it was a chance to try and reignite the flame of spiritual growth. Others just used it as an excuse to get out of their cell for awhile and that was ok too.

On one particular Sunday evening we headed into the jail to meet with 3 of the men. I don’t really remember much about the first two, other than they both wanted blessings. Number 3 was the last visit of the day. We started out by just trying to get to know him better. One of the first things I ask all of them is, are you a drug addict?  They may not be there for a drug offense, but whatever it was that brought them to jail, it’s usually a by product of addiction.  He answered yes, “I’ve had an up and down battle with meth.”  He went on to tell us that even though he wasn’t locked up for drugs, he wouldn’t have committed his crimes if he didn’t need money for drugs. My next question was, “what are you here for?” His response, “well me and a few others broke into some storage sheds and stole some stuff to sell for drug money.” Immediately my fight or flight system kicked into gear as I asked, “where do you live?” His answer, “Garland.”  All at once I realize I’m sitting toe to toe with the person I’ve hated for taking my sons priceless collectibles. I’ve never experienced such an abrupt change in emotion. I’m there as his “spiritual advisor”, his advocate, a shoulder to cry on, but in less than 3 seconds I blurt out, “I think I’ve got a problem with you!”  President Noorda sitting quietly next to me gets a somewhat bewildered, nervous look on his face as I appear to be ready for battle. “I’m one of the people you stole from, you took some very important things from my son Tyson, things that can’t be replaced.” His head dropped as he realized his predicament. As for me, I’m ready to walk out. ‘No way God, I’m not gonna sit here and try to help or understand this punk that stole from me and my family.’ My mind was racing, I couldn’t sit still anymore.  President Noorda was speechless, not sure where this is headed. The disgust and contempt was all over my face and pouring out of my body I’m sure. Before I could say anything else he raised his head and quietly spoke, “I did take your stuff and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I’d been clean for 2 years but got mixed up with some of my old friends and started using again. I never would have done it otherwise. I really am sorry,” he said.  My feelings switched gears again, as he apologized I began feeling shame. I thought, how can I expect forgiveness from so many through all of my indiscretions, and then sit here and hold court on this boy. My story mirrored his, I had to forgive. I reached out my hand to shake his and offer my forgiveness. At the same time I felt guilt for having hated him without even knowing him. It was such a surreal experience, nothing like I had imagined it would be if I ever got this chance. We talked it out for awhile and he even gave me some tips on where Ty’s stuff may have ended up. Weird. We finished up our time with him by honoring  his request for a blessing. I assisted president Noorda as he gave him a blessing of comfort, peace and strength. We all shook hands and off he went, back to the pod. As we walked out of the jail that night president Noorda looked at me wide eyed and said ,”I thought you were gonna beat the shit out of him.”

Forgiveness; we expect it from others but sometimes withhold it at the same time. I must admit, I had a hard time putting my hands on and helping pronounce a blessing on this guy. Ten minutes earlier I had been confronted with the reality of our dysfunctional relationship. What I realize now as I write is that I haven’t thought much about him or the rookie card since. The resentment and anger I had within me, especially reserved for him, is gone. It’s interesting how we think that by hating someone we are somehow punishing them. It’s not true, these kinds of toxic thoughts and feelings only poison the hater. Forgiveness frees the people on both sides. The seeker of mercy receives both peace, and a solid foothold to push higher. The person who grants forgiveness finds freedom from resentment and tastes a small portion of the pure love of Christ, charity. I’ve got a long way to go when it comes to the principle of forgiveness. I still harbor some acrimony for others from time to time, just one more rat needing extermination. But what I learned that night in jail is that at my core I want to forgive, I believe we all do.