My transfer to the re-entry program was approved, so I would be relocating to a new facility for a fourth time. The date was set for early August, but no one would give me a firm date so, you know, we wouldn’t plan any escape attempts or other shenanigans.

I had definite mixed feelings on the move. I was in a real nice groove here at Mid-State and back in the Honor dorm 35 days after being removed. I had to start at the door bed in the two man room outside the single room, by the way, but I was back. Most of the same guys were there with a couple exceptions. One or two had gone home, a couple were in fights and won free tickets to the box. Also, one was admitted into civil confinement, something nobody wishes on anybody really as you never know if or when you might be eligible to get released from there. So we knew he had done something really bad.

I was still struggling with things though was feeling a great deal better after returning upstairs to the honor dorm. I had also had the ying/yang feeling of watching, actually helping, my best friend William go home. I was able to help him carry his bags to the building where he would be released – after being strip searched of course. Wouldn’t want him taking anything out, as if he would want to! We chatted for a final time, not really knowing if we ever would again. We hugged, and he received the normal $ 40.00 and a bus ticket, in his case, to New York City. And then he was gone.

I have been busy putting the finishing touches on my brochure for my home maintenance/handyman business I thought I might start when I got out. I had heard how difficult it was for felons to land jobs, and I knew self-employment would provide an alternative. Being near retirement I knew companies would not want to hire me compared to younger workers. So I had put together a tri-fold piece of literature to hand out. I though of calling my business Doc’s, as in the old bugs bunny cartoon, “what’s up doc?” In reality, it was a slam against DOCS, the Department of Correctional Services, my little joke. There was little to no corrections going on in here, and then only what individuals did for themselves. The programs offered good information, but if guys didn’t want to hear or help themselves, it was useless. So few were corrected inside corrections.

Another reason correction was low was because guys saw through the hypocrisy of the counselors. Aside from their affairs and out of wedlock babies, one sex offender counselor was living with an ex-inmate who was still on parole, a violation of their rules. Then the parolee started to blackmail her when she wanted him out, so he sent photos of his name tattooed on her derriere to her boss because she wouldn’t pay up or let him stay. The civilian I had worked for and grown close to showed me a copy and told of this and other sordid tales right after she was transferred.

One female SO counselor was popular among the CO’s, especially after a few beers when she would grant favors of a certain nature in the parking lot, or other places. Or at work after their shift. One also had a live-in boyfriend who was caught with 22 garbage bags of weed in their basement. She denied knowing about it the newspaper article said. Hey, the smell of that much marijuana would almost get them high. She was transferred to another facility. And these were only the ones I heard about in the sex offender program. I am sure there were similar stories in the ASAT Program. (Alcohol and substance treatment) So guys weren’t too keen on having moral-less people like these instruct them on doing the right thing, hence my claim about lack of correction inside.

But pretty soon I would be transferred to spend the last ninety days in a reintegration program where I could focus everything to get me back into society, specifically for the Rochester area. There was a similar one for the Buffalo area as well. The transfer would put me closer to home, but unfortunately farther from my brother. I thought it might offer aid on getting back to whatever normal would be, especially employment help and places to live. It was around this time my wife informed me she did not want me returning to our 2800 square foot house, the home I had worked so hard to get and enjoyed so much. I knew things were getting bad, but this was a big blow, as inmates had a much harder time getting out when they were undomiciled – had no place to go. Shelters were often at capacity, and finding an apartment was difficult enough from the outside let alone the inside, especially without having a firm release date and no idea of income. I had really counted on landing at home, then moving out as soon as I could find a place. After all, I had moved out after being arrested and out on bail, so I reasoned I could do it again upon release from prison.

I was all mixed up emotionally: high that things were getting close, low about most everything else. One constant amidst all of this was the Holy Spirit whispering in my ear to trust Him and not worry. Civilians at my Bible study’s or retreat weekends offered similar advice and said they would pray things would work out favorably for me. All I had to do was stay faithful, listen to the Holy Spirit’s nudging and pray myself. I had been doing a great deal of that for some time, not just about being released, and had seen positive results, so it was not a difficult thing for me to do. Still, I was nervous. Not anxious really where I couldn’t sleep or eat or concentrate, just nervous that I would find work, housing, a normal life, not be threatened as some had reported, and other factors.

Another thing that played on my emotions was the trip to my mother’s calling hours. It helped me in one way, especially in retrospect, put closure to things – like her death, prison life and my sentence inside almost coming to an end. At least the part at Mid-State, three years worth, was ending, but that also was a good/bad thing.

The trip outside to the calling hours was with a couple of CO’s who kind of knew of me and knew I had only eight months left, something we all agreed I didn’t want to screw up and have more time added. I was the only passenger in the State transport van as we went from Mid-State down to central New York and my home town. I had not seen it in over four years, so things looked a great deal different. I was amazed at some of the changes in houses and businesses along the way too, as I knew this area well because this was in the heart of my sales territory where I had spent a great deal of time traveling prior to my arrest.

Once at the funeral home, I was allowed to go inside, still shackled and handcuffed, but at least not hands to feet as when transported. I was able to view my mothers remains and visit for a short time with my siblings before others would show up. It was quite embarrassing for me, as I am sure it was for them, especially my brother who still lived in our hometown. He would have to deal with his convict brothers crime and punishment almost as much as I would in whatever area I landed.

I spent time with them, and time kneeling and praying at my mothers casket. It was very sad and I was sad too. My one sister had visited me inside a couple of times, but my oldest didn’t drive that far, so seeing her was a delight, jewelry and all. The time went too quickly, and then I was whisked back to Mid-State.

I was yet again blessed when one of the officers whispered not to tell anyone but to go ahead and leave to my dorm after the chains and handcuffs were removed. No strip search this time, thank the Lord. As I walked back, it felt like a dream and I wondered if the last five hours had really happened or I was just wishing they had.

So my emotions were all over the map. It was funny, I thought, how so many guys had told me when they returned on a violation or new bid and were close to getting out – again – that they would do whatever they had to in order to remain free and not come back, and here I was thinking the same thing. I did not want to return inside corrections no matter what.

As July neared it’s end, I began getting rid of a few things that I didn’t want to transport, basically carry in the small gunny sacks provided to pack up for your move. Cooking utensils, some clothes, books and other personal items went to guys I thought needed them. I have to be careful giving things away that have my din number etched into them, as guys could get into trouble having something with another inmate’s number on it. Fortunately,  these items did not have any ID on them.

So I waited for this special planned move and the day to arrive. I would be notified the morning of the move, I was told, so I could pack up and go to the reception area for checking prior to departing. There again inmates would go through my belongings to make sure I did not have any contraband (which they would keep) or items not allowed at the new facility (which they would also keep). Fortunately I knew pretty much how the game was played so I thought I’d not have any problems this time. Plus going home, or close to it, offered a different look on things overall, I had heard and we were allowed a little more leeway.

Summer was getting close to ending as was my bid. I can sense the similarities and feel the changes coming. I feel the transfer to the new facility will be like a practice run, where all things will be different and I have little control over most things and have to learn to deal with all the newness that my IO (crime) would cause. The same would be true when I got out of prison in a little over three months. So pay attention I told myself.

Now I would be moving into the last phase of my incarceration, a last move before getting out. At least this time, the first time, it was a planned move. I worked at not letting my mind get too far ahead, especially with where I would be living and working. I needed to stay non-attached to things, non-resistant to all the changes, and non-judgmental of good or bad and leave all in God’s capable hands. I knew what would happen if I tried doing it all myself – been there, done that too many times, even just recently. And I needed more time to get it right.

So now I was practicing that which I wanted to achieve on the outside, total reliance and dependency on God, and His work, not man’s. His will, not mine. Surrender and service, not arrogance and pride.

As the move neared, my prayers increased, and oddly enough, so did my peace. I knew I would get excited the day of, but for now, I needed to stay focused on the moment and make sure not to back slide, only listen to the Holy Spirit’s promptings. But as with all my work on gaining control of my addiction, practice will make progress, not perfection, and it is definitely easier said than done.