Ten

First loss

May 12, East Bay Lumberjacks Loss 9-0

Nine players, all young studs, skinny pitcher racked up 9 strike outs and 7 of which were “looking,” meaning no swing at the third strike– over seven innings. Three home runs, all long shots, sounded like canons being fired. Had their defense, offense, pitching going and the catcher had a Buster Posey like arm. Real ball players, serious, friendly; baseball guys all the way. Scott Price manages the team–has twin girls on the way he said.

For the Giants, Mario Ellis started, was fairly sharp but tired quickly. He did not have the arm strength. Johnny’s play behind the plate keep us from being embarrassed. Only a couple of errors, but our pitchers, Matt White followed Mario (did not record an out), then Pete came in and was able to stem the flow of runs somewhat. Only two hits for the home team. Guys were frozen with bats in hands at the plate. Duck had a cast on his hand after a surgery to reattach a ligament in his thumb, Bilal pulled a hammy trying to run out a ground ball to short, and Eli with a swollen knee from a slide last game—left us wanting on the bench.

Scott Price’s team looks every bit as good as any of the college teams that have come in. And it looked like they were letting up some the last two innings. Good for our guys to see such a powerful and skilled team lest they think too highly of themselves.

The team’s chemistry is holding solid despite the thumping. If this continues we will be fine, if not, could be a long and miserable season.

May 14, Stanislaus Storm, 17-7, Giants have the 7

Another team with nine players, this team up from the Fresno area meaning they had to be on the road about 4:30am. Louis Quadros runs the team, another power packed bunch of guys, again as good as any college team I have seen and the community colleges in the Bay Area field some real good teams.

         Our best pitcher so far, Kevin Driscoll, gave up 10 runs in 3 innings, Frank Braby gave up 2 runs in the next three innings, and Stafont Smith, usually the back-up third baseman, pitched the last 3 innings and gave up 3 runs as well. We had gotten to the desperation point.

         Team chemistry–we will see tonight. The thing that complicates it is the A’s won one game against The Mission, a team from the City, the evening of May 14, so there will be some discussion about which team ought really be the A team. Though The Mission, managed by Greg Snyder, cannot be compared to the powerhouse that is the Stanislaus Storm, still the A’s will ignore that and merely see a win for them and a loss for us. See, I have developed a we versus they mentality.

         I waver between trying to assist the A’s and letting them go without scheduling games for them. At this point certain A’s players are talking to the outside teams hoping to get games with them and also talking with coaches, both A’s and Giants coaches, about getting them games. My feeling is they think I am deliberately sabotaging them and there may be some truth to it. Elements of the A’s are making the season to be another unpleasant experience for me and I am getting tired of it. I can justify my failure to get outside teams to play them by protesting that it is too confusing to schedule games what with three other guys doing the same besides working private deals with outside teams that come in.

         Tonight we play the East Bay Lumberjacks again and I will be able to test the chemistry of the team and face A’s players who know they have a block of open dates coming up.

I Am All Alone and it’s Killing Me

For reasons I am unaware of, I am mostly alone. I work out of my house, when I can find work, so no co-workers, etc., just alone day after day. Sure, I see some of the folks living around me, but no real contact. Earlier in my life I had family, and some friends. I doubt I will ever marry; no one has really ever been interested in me. I confess that I cry about this a lot. It makes me want to end it all.

The above is a composite of life experience that I have heard from people over the years, and I could go on and on with it, but I think it is plain where I am going.

Being lonely is now recognized as a national pandemic like circumstance. A high percentage of Americans live alone, and this number is climbing. It is noted that all ages are represented too, young, middle aged, and old folks like me.

Some can barely make it out of the places they live in, due often to physical conditions, so time goes rolling along in aloneness. And the thought of ending it all seizes us, and this is not uncommon at all.

As a pastor of a church, gladly a small congregation, I am aware of those who are virtually living alone and without much contact with others. Not too long ago an elderly lady here at Miller Avenue Church went missing and it took several weeks before we found that she had died of a heart attack in her home, and no one knew. Yes, I lay some blame for this on myself as have several others at MAC. In fact, we are spreading her ashes three days from the writing of this piece.

My heart aches, from time to time, when I realize the unhappy conditions some are living with. I think the primary ministry I engage in is phone calling. I have a sheet of paper with 29 names on it, and it is my goal to call each of these at least every other week. (Usually, I get ahold of everyone on the list weekly.) It could be the most important thing I do. There are at least six of those on my list who have never attended a church service and likely never will.

Aloneness then is not one of the factors which has troubled me over the years; actually a little les contact would be fine, but what happens to me, my heart aches for the lonely ones.

“Only the lonely” so the song goes, Roy Orbison I think sang the song, and it is these lonely I so much want to focus on. First things first then, those of us who are lonely have to admit it that we are lonely and figure out ways to deal with it. Wow, what a potent thing to reveal: “Hi my name is Kent and I am lonely.”

Here are some ideas, and I know I am only scratching the surface.

Find a place to meet with other people. Now Katie and I are pastors and so we have our congregation that we spend hours with every week. Seek out a church, a small one is good, and get to know folks. Get involved if at all possible. Sing in a choir, be an usher, volunteer to do janitorial stuff, oh, lots of stuff really. Talk to a pastor, an elder, a deacon, be frank about your situation. Good things could happen.

If not a church, well my wife and I are members of our local Jewish Community Center, and we have lots of friends there, in fact, about half the time we spend there is talking with others. So two good things, working out, and meeting people.

Most communities have things going on that a person could engage in. Look around, go on the internet, check out local newspapers––you will find some groups to be part of. Don’t give up, keep it up, make the calls. Maybe working with animals, a gardener’s guild, a bridge club. Volunteering around, usually lots of needs here.

Another possibility is to contact a social worker by calling your county’s administrative office and explaining your need. Also think about contacting your local school district’s office and find out if there is anything you could volunteer for.

Get involved, do something, and do not give up easily. There will be a place where you are needed.

We simply will not allow loneliness to kill us. No way!

Sanity vs. insanity

Mental illness plays large in what happens at San Quentin. I often forget this however and it costs me.

            Some of the players that were cut from the Giants and then formed the core of the A’s I suspect are dealing with emotional troubles. And how could it be any different.

Merely being in the misery that is San Quentin has got to impact the psychological well being of any human being. Over the course of four decades I have seen how exposure to the prison environment affects correctional officers, prison administrators, volunteers, as well as the convicts themselves. Sadly I have seen seminary students utterly lose their desire or ability to function as a minister. More than a few seminary classmates made ship wreck of their faith after a few years of either working at or serving as a volunteer in the ministry of the Protestant Chapel. I wonder how I am doing actually and it occurs to me that I have likely not avoided the dangers either.

Some forms of psychosis develop, or so it is thought by some, by not being able to deal with reality and so a separate reality is constructed that is more easily  navigated. The word schizophrenic comes to mind, and it is something I know about because my youngest brother was so diagnosed, in 1968, after he returned from a bad tour in Vietnam[1].

When I come into the prison for a practice or a game during the week, I head to the Mac Shack, which is positioned right by North Block where most of our players are housed. Those who are physically disabled, are on special diets due to diabetes for example, and those who are on meds of some sort, exit the block first for the chow hall. For years I have watched this group of men shuffle toward the hall and have noticed a number of our ball players in the mix. More than once I have been told by one of our players that so and so is on meds, and therefore be graceful in dealing with them.

The convicts who fair the best, in general only I suppose, are those who have had contact with the criminal justice system as juveniles. These often become institutionalized at an early age and fit more easily into adult prisons. But there are many who lived the average middle class life, end up coming to prison, and the adjustment is brutal. Insanity is right around the corner.

On the ball field there is a sense of normalcy to the point that is easy to forget the playing field lies in the heart of a big time prison. The guys seem normal, and many are in fact, but the place is ugly and unhealthy despite the department of corrections and rehabilitation’s effort to create a safe environment. It simply cannot be done. Under the surface is pent up anger and rage, sex stuff is always just below the surface, these combined with the racial tension–fear, despair, and more is right there all the time.  

I do admire and respect those convicts, who after a decade or more in prison have been able to maintain some sense of sanity and avoid, to some degree, becoming institutionalized. It is better to respect and admire these men than feel sorry for them. It is dangerous to let a convict get into your head to the point you will bring in whatever[2] for them, which happens a whole lot.

Insanity can become a place of escape for otherwise normal people, and yes some such do end up in prison. California’s laws regarding domestic violence and driving under the influence can result in a couple years in a state pen. And by the way, county time is no piece of cake either, and can be worse than state prisons. Once in a while I will find someone who looks like me, talks like me and I figure it is either a DUI or some kind of domestic violence deal that brought them to prison. And these people are not prepared for it. From the office to the joint and it is this group that is most vulnerable for going crazy. Prison can be just that awful.

[1] My brother Gary committed suicide about a year after his Army experience, he had been a combat engineer, and was on medication at the time.

[2] A favorite item requested by prisoners is cash money, which oddly enough there is plenty of in the prison and is used to buy all sorts of things. Drugs of course are asked for, eventually demanded, and the best way is for a woman to bring such in. Even food will be sought for, specialty candies for instance, and of course cigarettes. “Playing on the sympathies” is certainly a phrase that applies to prison dynamics.

I am too embarrassed, due to what I have done, to face the world anymore.

This sensation I have experienced a number of times, but somehow, over the years, it has been fading away. The reality is, So What! It is now not enough to get me to think I need to do myself in.

Forgiveness, the reality is that I do know, not feel really, but know that my sin has been forgiven, past, present, and future. I also know that the enemy of Christ and so of myself, throws this up at me from time to time. And it stinks for sure. But slowly I have been able to ignore this, and say to myself, “Yeah Philpott, you are the worst that has ever been, yet I know of the incredible power of God to wash my sin away. So, get behind me Satan.”

I am thinking though of folks who are saying, “Okay good for Kent, but I am not there yet.” Here is where we need to ignore our feelings and focus and center on the finished work of Christ. We cling to truth not to feelings and emotions.

Of course, there will be times when someone, whether intentional or accidental or unintentional, when someone will bring our sinning. It happened to me three days ago, and at church for that matter. It was unintentional, said jokingly, but I heard it and for a moment made me angry. Yes, there I was, Pastor Kent, and the words were heard. What did I do? I laughed right along with the others. It even went through my mind that I hoped the person who uttered the gaff was going to be okay.

How many of such incidents have I endured? Too many to count.

Am I still embarrassed about some of the things I have done? Yes, I am, but this is not enough to think about killing myself. Yes, years ago this is what hit me, but I am moving away from this now. Thank God for His mercy.

Opening   Day

There was some doubt whether the opening day game would be played on May 7. There was the kite dropped about Chris Marshall, the racist charge, the missing jersey, and the battle over the status of the A’s–were they an A team or a B team. The kite, or death letter, supposedly from an A’s player, maybe a white player as Chris is black–if the prison got word of it the 2011 baseball season would likely be lost. We managed to keep it a secret known only to about two thousand inmates.

Racism–in my case it would be reverse racism, was clearly absurd and no one entertained it for long–the whole of it seems to me to be nothing much more that an attempt to sabotage the season. Perhaps a jealous wannbe ball player or maybe just an angry man who can’t stand others enjoying themselves and who sat up long nights figuring how to cause mischief. It will probably remain a mystery.

May 7, 2011, 8:30am we were at the East Gate, and there were a number of us. In my van were Jim Parker, Vern Smith, and Shane Hedegar along with the video cameras and tri-pods. My intent was to document the event. And Bill Mauck, my old friend, was sitting in the front passenger seat with his camera to take photos as he has done for a number of opening days. I have thought it might be possible to produce a documentary and suspecting this might be my last chance to do so, I had plotted carefully during the run-up to the game to have all the pieces in place. With no story-line in mind I considered that it might be little more than a keep-sake, or something to show family and friends, but nevertheless, I wanted to document opening day.

            Lt. Sam Robinson, the prison’s public information officer and an A’s fan, would be there so that cameras could be taken into the prison. No Lt. Robinson, no cameras; this would also be a chance to take team photos as well as individual shots. Many of these photos I will put up on flickr so that families and friends of the guys can view them. Not a small deal either and the guys will be on me to get it done. As soon as they know the photos are up they will get the word out.

It was the usual confusion on the lower yard with the hustle to get the uniforms on, the field prepared and stripped, and a whole lot of other details attended to.

The A’s were throwing out in right field. They occupied the first base dugout, the dugout used by the visiting team. A couple weeks ago one of them, sent by the “brain trust” of the A’s, approached me and asked if there would be a coin toss to see which team would be the home team. My answer was one word, “No!”.

The Giant’s were stretching in left field. I walked out to check on the emotional condition of the guys; the desire to beat the A’s and just smash them, prove to them they were not an A team was running higher than I hoped. I knew it would be there, and I had not done a good job in cooling things down. The whole team knew I wanted to win, and badly. We all suspected that if the A’s won, they would be demanding to be the A team, and that would be utterly intolerable. The stakes were indeed high. Stakes–a lot of betting would be going on too.

I was anxious now too. For the A’s Marvin Andrew was going to be the starting pitcher, Ke Lam would be at short and batting leadoff–anything can happen in a one game series.

Kevin Loughlin and I had figured out a line-up two days earlier, at the Thursday night practice, and before we left that night I read it out to the guys. This has long been a practice of mine so that the players could mentally and emotionally adjust to their assignments whether as a player on the field or on the bench.

 A couple of players would be disappointed, too, Marcus Crumb for one. Our back-up catcher, he was no Johnny Taylor for sure, but has improved considerably since last year. Stafont Smith, the third base back-up to Matt White and Kevin Discoll, third on the depth chart; I thought he might be expecting to start. Stafont is a very good player but not to the caliber of Matt and Kevin. If I were him I would switch to second base which would mean that only James Bautista would be in front of him. Pete Steele would feel bad but he was behind Redd Casey at first base so he knew he would not be a starter.

Pete Steele played for me before. Probably about 2001 he was on the team and pitched. It was a real fluke how he came to be on the team. Early that year we had a Wednesday night game and the Hispanics were locked down in North Block and the whole of H Unit was also locked down. Don’t recall why but probably fighting, racial stuff, Mexicans versus blacks. Only seven players showed up to play and at the same time I found out about the trouble I saw the visiting team walking down cardiac hill toward the ball field. In desperation I walked over to the fence behind the Giant’s dugout and yelled out, “Anybody know how to play baseball?”

Two cons walked up to me and said they could play the game and would play ball right then. Pete was one of them. He pitched that game, warmed up a little, and ended up winning the game and playing for the team the rest of the year. The other walk-on was Donnie Worthy, a Black guy, and he caught Pete that game and became our starting catcher the rest of the year. Donnie was voted MVP for the season. I will never forget it and now Pete and I talk about that season and team now that he is back.

The game was not all that interesting as the Giants beat the A’s 9 to 4, but it was not that close; it could easily have been 14 or more to 2 or less. The umpiring crew blew easy calls; I say blew because I would not want to accuse them of rooting for the A’s. Four clear, easy calls went against us. It was no simple thing to keep our bench at ease after the second one. The home plate umpire, although Johnny said he was consistent in his calls over the course of the game, still I saw pitch after pitch, grooved pitches, called balls. I polled our pitchers later on and they told me that low strikes were called balls so that our pitchers had to elevate the ball upward toward the “happy zone,” which is about waist high.

There was never a time I felt anxious about the outcome of the game. The A’s, bless their hearts, are the B team though they did their best to beat us. If only the competition between the teams could be managed so that games between them would be enjoyable. 

During the top of the seventh inning a guy I had never talked to before approached me and asked when the soccer players were going to get the field. Now the soccer players are all Hispanic and are to get the field at 1pm. It was 1pm, the A’s at bat, and I wanted at least for them to finish their part of the inning.

Sitting up against the left field fence, strung out for about twenty years, were the soccer guys. I walked out, got in the center of the line, and pleaded for one half an hour more–1:30pm and we would vacate the field. All along the fence I heard the voices or approval; I thanked them and walked back to the third base dugout and announced the decision.

The A’s did not score against Matt White who had relieved Kevin after the fifth inning, the Giants tacked on another run in the bottom of the seventh, and Pete Steele finished off the A’s in the top of the eighth. Game over, we lined up for high fives.

The meeting at the holy mound was quick and upbeat. I asked again that we not rub our win in the face of the A’s, and that we would not argue calls and little things that happened in the course of the game. We determined that if A’s players complained or criticized certain things that we would listen and not be defensive. I reminded the Giants that any team can beat any other team–such is the game of baseball.

Play the A’s again? I don’t think so. We will probably slide past this win, but one, two, or three more wins in a row and the peace might be broken. The combination of boredom, anger, hopelessness, meaninglessness, loss of whatever is left of one’s youth, these along with the power of athletic competition does not add up to confidence that the peace will hold.[1]  

[1] As it turned out, the two teams played each other one more time with the Giants winning again, and easily. The Giants coaches decided there would be no more games between the teams. The coaches were somewhat divided on the issue but the players insisted they did not want to play the A’s ever again.

“Kent will go insane or commit suicide before one year is up.”

The “prophecy” was given by a woman whom I had helped and encouraged through a troubled marriage over a period of years. Now, one week after my resignation from the charismatic church where I was senior pastor in San Rafael, California, this same woman made her pronouncement from the pulpit, while my teenage daughter sat in the congregation. The pastor who then replaced me announced that my entire family was to be shunned from that point on. This, again, while my eldest daughter was present. The year was 1980.

My dear daughter came home in tears and told me what had happened. I was determined from that point on to keep from going crazy. And I would certainly not kill myself. (I ran into this very woman some years later and she denied having made the statement. My guess is she was disappointed that her “word from God” had not come true.)

Not that I did not think of killing myself on several occasions—I did. Going through the divorce was pure hell, and all these years later I have not completely recovered, but I would never give that false prophet or her eager hearers the satisfaction of seeing her predictions come true. Is this a bad motivation?

No satisfaction for my enemies

There it is—reason #1 for not killing myself. Whether it is the healthiest of reasons does not matter to me. Sure, I have a number of other reasons, which I will get to as this book proceeds, but #1 worked at the time and continues to serve me well.

I have always had enemies of one variety or another. Some I may have imagined, others were real. They were not the kind of enemies with whom I might fight it out with bare knuckles, but enemies, nevertheless.

There are some people, sad to say, who would like to see me dead. This is no doubt true for most of us. But I am not going to give them the satisfaction. Not at all. There is no question that I have failed people, let people down, and abused trust put in me. And I can feel pretty bad about it. Oh well! Whether these people learn grace and forgiveness is not my problem; I have forgiven myself as best I can, despite the fact I cannot forget; I have been forgiven by God, so I refuse to live a life of guilt and shame.

There is a saying I like to remind myself of from time to time: “The devil is an accuser.” That is not all the quote but enough to tell me I have another enemy, unseen and flying below the radar. And I am not going to give that bastard any satisfaction either. Another point about the devil–he has been “a murderer from the beginning,” and that was spoken by Jesus who would know.

A murderer from the beginning. That enemy—I refuse to satisfy him either. No, I am going to live and fight back.

This first chapter about me

Before getting into some of the stories from others I wanted to open up with my own experience so you can see this is not merely an academic treatise. No, I am more than an observer, I am a player. I have been there, as they say, and I have something to contribute.

I have been through two divorces, and that is enough to drive anyone to the bridge, I mean the Golden Gate Bridge, which is just a short distance down Highway 101. I also have five kids and eight grand kids; but more than that, I have been a pastor of three churches for the last fifty-plus years. Right, I am an old dude now (almost wrote dud), but I am still here and going strong, even though I have felt like giving it all up on any number of occasions–discouraged, probably depressed, angry, and saddened all at once, with the thought of killing myself stealing across the brain and lodging in the heart.

Mostly I have dummied up about my feelings and would never think of talking to a therapist. I haven’t even talked to my closest friends about my dark times. I am mostly an upbeat, type-A guy, and those who know me would be shocked to learn I have even felt bad enough to think of suicide. Not that I sink down into that pit, but I have looked over the edge. Come on, most of us have peered over at one time or another. It is really nothing that needs to be hidden. On the contrary, the whole subject has to be brought out into the open. So I admit it. Does it make me a bad person, or a sick person, or a person to be avoided, or pampered, if I have thought about killing myself? No, maybe it is better to engage with those who can take me like I am. The rest can hang with those who are balanced, focused, purpose-driven success stories who skip lightly over the mountain tops and never slip into a valley.

That is enough about me. What about you? How are you feeling right now? Maybe you would like to send me your story so that I can put in the sequel to this book. Try me: kentphilpott@comcast.net. I might get a flurry of mail, so please be patient with me. 

Insight and remorse

The California board of prison terms, the people who grant parole dates, like to estimate whether a convict have reached some form of insight into their crime and are remorseful for it as well. Insight and remorse–the road to freedom. Insight, I think this must involve whether or not a criminal understands that he or she has broken a law and that punishment must follow.

            Hard core career type criminals, the socio or psychopaths among us, apparently have little or no conscience and break laws and hurt people with little or no concern. All that counts is the satisfying of needs and desires. This is likely accurate to some degree. Trouble is the real pro, the hardened crook, is an excellent liar and persuader. I know, I have fallen victim more than once. These folks are charmers, highly skilled at deception, and are devious almost beyond detection.

            The career type criminal recognize only two types of people: civilians and people like themselves. People like me, are to be taken advantage of, used. We are the suckers who have stupidly accumulated possessions that can be, ought to be, appropriated. How is it that such a person has anything approaching genuine insight? It can only be feigned.

            Cons have their informal schools on how to beat parole boards. They know what the panels want to hear. Stock phrases, “I broke the law, I did the wrong thing, and I am sorry for it.” The lies are well rehearsed.

            That brings us to remorse. In Shawshank Redemption, Morgan Freeman’s character, Red, tells a parole board, “I think about my crime every day.” He is granted parole, and rightfully so. Was he having genuine remorse?

            Most felons are remorseful; they have remorse over having lost their freedom, being away from their families, being stuck with people like themselves (who are not the best company), and a host of other easily understood reasons. How is remorse measured–probably it is impossible to say? Who could judge such a thing? Maybe remorse has to do with breaking the law, taking something from someone that you had no right to, like a life. Is it something that is felt or understood? How about a combination of the two?

            Parole boards hear words, observe body language, spot something in the look on a face–arbitrary at best and the prize goes to the best actor. Maybe actions, achievements, objective statistics, anonymous evaluations from others–maybe there is something here that might take the pressure off both convict and parole board member. Insight and remorse–who but God could possibly know. 

There is a painting of Hamlet in the book but my computer isn’t helping. Oh well, life in the big city.

Chapter One

Are You Perhaps A Hamlet?

Hamlet was depressed, and seriously so.

His father, the king of Denmark, had been murdered by his uncle, the king’s brother. If that loss were not enough, the uncle, now the king, took Hamlet’s newly widowed mother as his wife.

The whole sordid affair plays on Hamlet’s mind especially the way his mother has behaved. She quickly “moved on” and wed, without knowing it of course, his father’s murderer. Hamlet is soured on women and marriage in general. His feelings of love for Ophelia, to whom he had given his love, has become a source of anguish for the young man, so much so that he will say to her: “Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?”

Hamlet was desperate; he did not know what to do. He had learned about the truth of his father’s murder by the ghost of his father. This was not the sort of evidence that could be brought to light and believed. Hamlet felt absolutely alone and very angry.

Not seeing any way out of his torment, he contemplates suicide. If he could simply cease to exist—it might be the answer. So then he utters the famous words, “To be, or not to be…” perhaps Shakespeare’s most repeated verse. If he could only die, sleep, be no more, then the heartaches, the shocks, and all the suffering humans are prone to experience might vanish.

But his mind will not let him off that easily. There was the possibility he might dream—and this thought gives him pause.

“The dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of…”

Hamlet’s question of whether it is better to live or die is one nearly all human beings will ask themselves. I have. Perhaps you have. Perhaps you know someone who you suspect might be thinking along such tragic lines.

Brother Gary

My brother Gary came back from the war in Vietnam wounded in mind and spirit. What he experienced as a combat engineer there in the year 1968 robbed him of his ability to work through his pain. Though his other brother and I and our parents sought to encourage him and give him new hope, we failed, or rather we were not able to break through to the place he had gone to hide, and one morning he drove his Volkswagen Beatle to a nearby Lutheran hospital in the San Fernando Valley, parked under an American flag, and shot himself. Forty-one years later my brother Bruce and I (our parents are gone now) can still become immersed in sadness discussing the suicide of our beloved little brother. (His picture is below.)

The sorrow of that event, mixed with many other suicides I have come to know as a pastor of churches, is the reason I am writing this book. The killing of oneself is all too common. It seems we read of one in the newspapers every day. Perhaps it is not epidemic, but it is common. And we must speak of it; it must come to the light so that it is in some way stripped of its power.

Let’s talk about it

If people can talk about their feelings of suicide, it may be a step away from the pain and hopelessness that most often lie behind the desire to kill oneself. It seemed to me that a book with such a title as this one might be useful. It seemed to me that if I could find some people who were willing to talk about why they decided not to kill themselves, when they in fact had seriously contemplated doing just that, it might be incorporated into a book that would be believable, a book I would feel good about giving to others who are in a desperate place.

Story Contributors

I have gone to several groups of people for their stories. First, I asked for help from convicts at San Quentin Prison at San Quentin, California. I have been a volunteer there, in a number of capacities, for thirty something years. For the last eightteen years I have been the baseball coach there and have gotten to know a number of the men fairly well. When I broached the idea of the book and asked for their help, many came through and provided some solid material I could use for this book.

Second, for the past twenty-five years I have led a “Divorce Recovery and Loss” workshop, sponsored by the church I pastor, Miller Avenue Baptist Church in Mill Valley, California. Upon request, many of the alumni have prepared stories of their struggles associated with divorce, separation, and death and how it is that they decided not to kill themselves.

Third, I asked people who attend Miller Avenue if anyone has a story to contribute.

Fourth, the local newspaper ran a story on the project I was engaged in and invited anyone to anonymously send something to me on the theme.

The result was quite a good number of communications.

The stories of people who have seriously considered suicide will be woven into some of my own thinking about Hamlet’s dilemma, “to be or not to be.” This is the question we will look at in the chapters ahead.