The Seventeenth Night.

 

We were having dessert on the veranda, a glorious moon shining over the sea. In a casual tone, without lifting his eyes as he scraped his dish with a spoon, Nick asked me:

“Dude, I had no idea you used to work in prisons.”

Immediately, I remembered that last Thursday he had overheard me speaking with a colleague about that chapter of my life.

“I usually don’t talk about it,” I replied. “The other day I mentioned it to Marie because something she said needed clarification.”

“Was it rough? I mean… working there?”

“I can’t think of a worse place to be than a prison. People often say they suffer all their lives, but believe me — there's no place more soul-crushing than a prison. That said, God, in His grace, gave me some of the most meaningful experiences of my life there — professionally and personally.”

“Did you, like… see a lot of terrible stuff?”

“Thank God, no. I heard countless stories of abuse, both against inmates and staff, but I was never a direct witness to such things.”

“So why was it a good experience for you, then?”

“For one, I met extraordinary people — on both sides of the bars. Now, I don’t mean to say I formed deep friendships with inmates. Sadly, I never met one I could truly trust. Psychopaths, serial killers, pickpockets... you name the crime, I met its practitioner. But within the boundaries of a professional relationship, it was enriching. That brings me to the second reason — because it was possible to build honest interactions with prisoners. When I first stepped into that world, I quickly understood the dynamic: simply being imprisoned, enduring the dehumanizing conditions, wasn't deemed punishment enough. The system demanded more — that they suffer, live in misery. And the inmates responded with hatred, which only intensified the cruelty of the staff, feeding an endless cycle of violence.

“At the time, I was at the beginning of my conversion, and I knew I couldn’t be a part of that. So I made a decision — I chose to love. I had already adopted the so-called Prayer of Saint Francis — though not truly his — as my personal motto, and I tried to live out its words in practice. It wasn’t easy. Several colleagues began to resent me. But simply by treating inmates with respect and gentleness, I managed to reach some of them.

“That prison held only men, and men are often foolish when it comes to emotions. Later, when I was transferred to a women’s facility, I kept the same attitude, but the response from the women was even more receptive.”

Nick leaned back, wide-eyed.

“Whoa, man. That’s… a lot. You’ve really been through some stuff.”

“Ten years of it, yes. But at least it gives me the pleasure of saying, ‘Back when I was in jail…’”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“You’re nuts! But like… you kinda sound like Mary Poppins.”

“If Mary Poppins brings joy, I won't reject the comparison. But it isn’t me — it’s Christ. He’s the source of all joy. I’m merely trying to live out His way.”

“Never been inside a prison myself.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“Are all prisons the same?”

“Essentially, yes. Brazil struggles terribly with overcrowding. The first prison I worked in was built in 1966 to house 650 men. When I started there in 1995, it held over 1,600. By the time I left, five years later, there were about 2,100. England didn’t face the same overcrowding, but the internal dynamics were nearly identical.”

Nick gave me a thoughtful look, then stood up, pulling off his shirt with a grin.

“Alright, man. That was deep. But now? Let’s hit the water.”

The moon shone serenely over the sea.