My memories of Mr. Walker are less than plentiful but more than enough. His house, as I remember, looked identical to most on the not-quite-wealthy-but-richer-than-our-side of town: 1970’s classic, swanky metal lattice on the windows and swimming pool in back.
            Mr. Walker was what every middle-age man is to every suspicious five-year-child: old and hairy (graying; mostly on his chest). He resembled Magnum P.I. which may have been his main draw for single moms, such as my own. In addition to his physical features, he carried the character assumed of adult strangers that mom told you to trust: In-charge and Mean.
            The memories of the swimming lessons that he gave are as faint as those of the man himself. Though a contact made through friends at church, Mr. Walker was no John the Baptist. My sharpest memories are of his throwing me into the water when I refused to jump in on my own.
            Easier now to understand my bitterness, yes?
            He called me his “little hoola dancer” because I would just flail about in the abyss. I would not emerge until Mr. Walker would jump in and pull me up.         
            According to mom, it was hilarious.
            The Prophet Isaiah once wrote, “Do not be afraid. I have called you by name. When you are in over your head, I’ll rescue you.”
            My early impressions of God bear striking resemblance to Mr. Walker. If the Sunday School flannel cutouts were correct, God, too, was old with grey hair, was rich, probably had a house with a pool and was definitely in charge.
            But I also thought He was a bit mean, at least to me. Much of my life I have wondered what I am doing here and can I fully trust Him?  I am, after all, a fearful sort, insisting that I do not want to be in the pool of life, insisting that I cannot swim, but He insisting that I can.
            As I have grown older, I remember moments of flailing about in the deep waters of my parents’ divorce, groping for a father as though for a life vest, gulping down anger, gasping bitterness, drowning in confusion. Frantically I try to prove myself, desperately I try to please everyone.
            And now, a prison sentence.
            But I am learning, learning to swim.
            Just as Mr. Walker once looked down from poolside and shouted words of encouragement, so now God is insisting that I will make it. He jumps into the water and coaches me to relax and catch my breath.
            I extend my arms and dog-paddle toward Him.

[Note: This article was submitted by an inmate at the prison where Fr. Luke ministers on a weekly basis.]