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 PFC Publications!
Chaplains across the country and other volunteers rely on PFC for Biblical devotions and other religious material. We endeavor to expand our influence in this area because it is important for an inmate to have positive and uplifting reading material available. PFC produces the following: "Living for Jesus: Behind Bars," "What’s Next," as well as "Yard Out," our national inmate newspaper.
YARD OUT, Spring 2007. A PFC Publication
"Shackled in chains... I saw the shocked expression on my mothers face "
by Scott L. Jennings
I’m not going to use the broken home excuse. Nor will I use the beatings from my stepfather, or my drinking or drug abuse, and certainly not my extensive criminal career history. These are just the cards that life dealt me.
I still recall my dear mother coming to visit me at San Quentin for Christmas. I hadn’t been in prison long and was already at my third institution. I was seeking destruction and my segregation time proved it. I’d get released from prison the same day I was to get out of segregation.
Stepping into the tiny room for my window visit, I saw the shocked expression on my mother’s face, seeing me shackled with chains around my waist and feet. I received a letter three days later. “Son, I love you, but I can’t bear to see you shackled down like that any more.” That was my first and last visit.
The fourth morning at San Quentin stays etched in my mind. Upon arrival, there was a seven day waiting period for yard clearance. To put a man on the wrong yard usually cost (him) his life.
Suddenly 14 gunshots echoing across the compound; five quick shots, then a stutter of nine more staccato reports. I arose from my bed and walked over to the wall of the adjoining cell, knocked (and) whispered, “What’s all the shooting about?”
“The first five rounds you heard” my neighbor replied, “was to get the yard down. There are most likely five guys dead down there. The other shots were guys getting back up and ‘going for what they know.’ However many shots there were, that’s how many are probably dead.”
Walking back to my bunk, I thought to myself; “Another fine mess you’ve got yourself into.”
I made parole in 1991, got married, caught several parole violations, and moved to Alabama. I lived halfway sensibly for six months, and (then) got separated from my wife. I endured three major car crashes. I hit a tree doing 95, collided with another car at 65 mph, and stole a police car and hit a dirt embankment doing 125.
I did another prison term in Alabama, got “on-the-run” working as a carnie, and finally ended up in Cook County Jail outside Chicago in 1995.
Early one morning, I was standing on the second tier smoking a cigarette. I was the typical biker-type in appearance; stocky-framed, six-foot, 220 pounder with shoulder length brown hair and tattoos covering my arms, chest and stomach.
From where I was standing, I could see a black man wearing a yarmulke (the skull cap worn by Orthodox Jews).
So I made my way down to the first tier to confront his guy; persecute him actually. I asked this fellow with an I-already-know-the-answer attitude, “What are you supposed to be?” I expected to hear “A Black Jew.”
“I’m a Hebrew Israelite,” he replied.
We conversed for about 30 minutes and I walked away with a Bible and my first real interest in God’s Word. I read that Bible every day, six to eight hours a day. God didn’t sugarcoat it for this heathen boy who thought himself tough but had nothing to show but too many years in prison.
My life had been completely empty. He let me see I had been deceived by the devil more than a few hundred times.
Then God showed me myself, and the emptiness in the pit of my gut. He showed me that He truly fills the void I had tried filling with alcohol, drugs, and women. He told me, “Son you can’t fill a spiritual matter with physical things.”
Being the roughneck, hard core convict I claimed to be, God met me “On my own block.” He showed me that when the chips were down, a man named Jesus had my back. He was the true friend that stepped in front of the knife for me. I had finally found the brother who was truly down for me. No one has had all our backs like Jesus.
Months passed after that first day “Hebrew” and I talked. I began praying for men on an individual basis. One night I announced for everyone wanting to pray to come to the lower floor on the block. I guess 20 to 25 men came. Looking at everyone in the circle, I thought “People are spiritually starving to death.” One man had recently lost his mother. Tears flowed from several men’s eyes.
Not many days thereafter, I (went) to outside court in Maywood IL. That morning I prayed to be allowed to call men to pray in the count holding cell. I felt God saying “Yes,” but when it came time, I froze.
Needless to say, I went to court and everything went wrong. My lawyer didn’t show up and the judge seemed mad at me for it. I’d learn later my lawyer had a flat tire on his new Corvette. When talking to him on the phone he said, “Strange things happen.”
I replied “Not strange, but God.” My mind was made up for the next morning. I knew that it wasn’t an accident I was going right back to court the next day.
Seated on the bench in the court holding cell I was preparing my final thoughts. The (officers) instructed all the prisoners to get in their designated bull pens. I heard the echoing slam of steel doors until our own door slammed shut. There were 50 to 70 men in the room.
Standing up, I said, “Okay Lord, it’s time.” I raised my voice loud enough to cover all the chatter. Heads turned in my direction. It got quiet and I continued, “I know I’m not going home today but I’m asking you to come join hands in prayer. Maybe God will bless you to go home.”
I was looking at the various gangs from one section of the bullpen to the other. I was receiving questionable looks, as well as looks of disdain and hate. Seeing that no one was coming, I tucked my Bible under my right arm and began to pray.
Later that same evening I was reading my Bible (when) a young black guy sat by me. “Are you hooked up?” I asked, meaning do you belong to a gang.
“Yes,” he replied. “I ready wanted to get up and pray with you this morning but...” I said “Peer pressure, right?” Again he nodded.
Although I didn’t know how to lead someone to the Lord at that time, I did tell him that God might think and encouraged him to go back to the jail that night and pray, asking God to forgive him.
This man’s life made me know how extremely important this work here is. I thank my Lord and Savior for calling me into the ministry, for giving me a boldness to stand on prison yards and dare to be a Christian.
“I’m not bragging, only grateful because on the way to hell, I met a man named Jesus. When all other, myself included, had given up hope, He did not.
Scott Jennings is serving time in Clayton, AL.
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