Timothy McVeigh: Spiritually Challenged:
An Original "Touched By An Angel" Story
As the foggy, early morning sky slowly sharpened into focus, the sun struggled through this thickened atmosphere and revealed the stern outline of an imposing building. If one ventured closer, he or she could easily tell that this structure, along with several others on an expansive carpet of bright, green grass, was actually a prison. It's observation tower jutted upward and stood, imposing and immovable, a clear marking that let everyone who chanced to see it that this was a truly dreary campus of sorts.
It was the United States Federal Penitentiary, located outside Terre Haute, Indiana and home to many male prisoners. Housed in a two-story, red brick structure were twenty men who awaited their day with the reaper: They lived here in the shadowed netherworld known as "death row." For these individuals, deemed dangerous and even evil by some, this is their last place of residence. When the call came to pluck a condemned prisoner from the fold and lead him to the infamous death house, he knew with a sad and frightening certainty that the dreaded lethal injection was but hours away.
On that particular early June morning, the inmates of this death row facility had already finished breakfast, which came at the strange hour of 5:30 AM. A new day had begun, a day these condemned men hoped would travel speedily toward a blessed night—a night promising many hours of sleep, the only escape from despair that they had at their disposal. Everyone housed on the two-tiered death row unit made preparations for the few activities offered to aid them in getting through the day without incident.
Today, eleven prisoners had expressed desires to use the recreation cage to get a bit of exercise and fresh air. They did their very best to think positively about those cages that looked for all the world like animal runs—where dogs, cats and other creatures sped up and down in the cramped area, unable to break free and run deliriously out in the wide open spaces surrounding the prison campus. The exercise sessions shaved an hour from the twenty-three spent locked up in small, cramped and dismal cells, so it was a popular activity.
On this particular day, a prisoner who'd almost always refused this time out had decided that, even though he wouldn't be able to feel the comforting warmth of the sun on his back, he'd take part and do his best to enjoy the experience. At first glance, he looked very much like the rest of his cell mates, dressed in khaki clothes, a white t-shirt and slip-on deck shoes, with a close-cropped brush cut and a very tall, thin frame. But this was not one of the anonymous residents of the row----his name was Timothy James McVeigh and he most certainly was, because of the sheer magnitude of his crime, as familiar a face as anyone in the public eye. In the wake of fame or for infamy, like him or hate him, this 33-year-old former Gulf War veteran had made himself into a household name. Yes, everyone knew who he was. There were few images that fused themselves to everyone's psyche than that of the orange jumpsuit-clad young man with the impenetrable, angry eyes and look of self-satisfied defiance as he was led through a crowd steeped in large clusters of pure hatred.
As Tim McVeigh entered the exercise cage, he smiled at fellow inmate, David Hammer and began stretching his muscles before breaking into a run. Tim truly was running for his life—in three short days, he would be coming face-to-face with the spectre of death, as an anonymous executioner pumped three powerful drugs into his veins. He had led everyone on, even himself, into believing that he wasn't at all afraid of dying and that his mission all along was to put a blessed end to his life, but this was most assuredly not the case. David, in his philosophical and wise ways, knew deep in his heart that Tim was actually quite scared and wished that someone, anyone, would step in and tell him his sentence had been reduced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. Life in prison was dreary and monotonous, but at least it was life.
Off in the distance, a half-mile from the prison, two women stood on a small, grassy hill and set their gaze upon it. The younger of the two, a pretty, sensitive and soft-spoken woman named Monica, turned to her friend, a warm and kindly older woman and said, somewhat sadly, "I know why you led me here, Tess. There's someone inside those walls whom I need to help. Am I pretty close, Tess?"
Tess nodded slowly and said in a voice laced with sadness, "You've hit it right on the head, child. I imagine that you've heard of Timothy McVeigh, the man who detonated a very large truck bomb six years ago that killed 168 people?"
Monica gulped and looked into Tess's clear brown eyes. "Of course I have. He's right there, in that prison and living on death row. What he did to those men, women and children was so very cruel and violent. He has no respect for human life, not even his own. If you don't mind, Tess, I would rather not have Mr. McVeigh as my next assignment. I know that is not very God-like of me, but I never really got past his cruel act."
Tess looked sternly at her young friend. "My dear, may I remind you that you don't pick and choose who you want to help. Timothy McVeigh is still a child of God and you must put your feelings of hatred and disgust and do your best to fulfil your duty. So I will hear no more objections from you—I am going to give you some background on the man that you have never read or heard before and your assignment is to allow him to experience God's love for him before he is executed."
"I'm sorry, Tess. I guess I need to pray more for strength and guidance. I promise I will not let my personal feelings for Mr. McVeigh get in the way of doing what I have to do. I read somewhere that he is to be put to death by lethal injection on the eleventh of this month. Is that correct?"
"Yes, my child. He was denied another stay of execution by the judge who tried his case and now Tim is preparing for his death. The only problem is that he has shunned God for many years and has said that he wants no spiritual advisors in the death chamber when he is executed."
"So my assignment is to bring Tim back to God?" Monica smiled slightly and squinted into the bright morning sun. "I guess that we really are all equal in the eyes of God. Forgive me for being so negative about this man."
"Don't worry your head about it. None of us are perfect. Now, please listen carefully: You are to gain entry to the prison by posing as a volunteer. I noticed the other day that they were asking for people to help with the prison painting classes, since there's a real shortage of staff members. So, hone up your artistic skills, Monica and good luck to you."
Tess then handed her fellow angel some pamphlets, sketching pads and water colour paints and Monica walked away, with apprehension clouding her thoughts. She would be inside that dismal federal prison and working beside some of the most notorious criminal minds in the country. She felt her legs seeming to turn to rubber and her hands shook so much that she nearly dropped her materials. When she got to the prison gate, she handed one of the guards a letter from the Bureau Of Prisons, stating that she was volunteering in the painting workshop. Fortunately, there was no trouble gaining entry to the campus.
"Where do I go from here?" Monica turned and asked the guard, a large, muscular man with close-cropped hair.
"See that building straight ahead, the two-storey brick one? When you get there, you'll be told exactly where you're supposed to be. Good luck. It's awful hard to get anyone to work at this place for free."
Monica smiled and made her way to the rundown structure. Her heart fluttered at the thought of coming face-to-face with the infamous Timothy McVeigh, but she did her best to push her fears far into the back of her consciousness. She walked up to the thick door and knocked as hard as she could. Then, after what seemed forever, the door opened and a middle-aged, heavy-set woman with rather harsh features greeted her. "You Monica?" she asked, her voice deep and devoid of inflexion.
Monica nodded and extended her hand. The woman didn't reciprocate, so she smiled awkwardly and followed her inside, then down a hall to a small office. "How many women are working here?" Monica asked, glancing about rather nervously. "This is an all-male facility, is it not?"
"Only if you're one of the inmates," the woman snorted, seeming to be rather impatient and irritable. She did turn to Monica, finally and said in a quieter, more gentle voice, "I'm Georgia. I head the inmate painting department. I don't generally get too friendly with volunteers because they don't ever stay long. Once they know McVeigh's here, they suddenly have "family emergencies" and are never seen or heard from again. "You ain't gonna take a powder after a day or two too, are you?"
Monica smiled broadly. "No, that I can promise you. I'm not afraid of anyone here, not even Tim McVeigh. He's just a person like everyone else."
"Honey, if you really believe that, then you're loonier than a hedgehog."
As Monica entered the painting workshop, she glanced about quickly, trying to take everyone and everything in. The room contained eleven men of every size, colour and temperament, all dressed alike in khaki prison garb with white t-shirts. Timothy McVeigh was not among them.
Monica was then introduced to the inmates, all of whom seemed glad to see a pretty young woman. It wasn't a sight they experienced very often and when they were fortunate enough to find an attractive female, their happiness quickly turned to disappointment after they all left soon after arriving at the prison. "It's a pleasure to meet you gentlemen," she said in her soft voice that was tinged with an Irish accent. "I'm not sure what sort of painting you do here, so I brought some of my own materials. Will any of you care to show me some of your work?"
David Hammer, a friend of McVeigh's, stood up and brought over a canvas filled with brilliant colours. Looking closely at the painting, Monica was struck by the beauty, beauty created by a man with a very unsavoury past---a man marked for death by the United States federal government.
"That's lovely," exclaimed Monica, smiling at the rather shy inmate. "What's you're name?"
"David. David Paul Hammer. It's good to have you here. If Tim knew there was a cute little lady like you helping us out, I guarantee he'd be the first one here."
Monica paused for a moment, then asked David, "Do you mean Timothy McVeigh? Why? Doesn't he come to these classes?"
"He says he can't paint worth a damn. I said he should have more confidence in himself. But then, it's really too late for him now anyway." There was a sad tone to David's voice as he spoke.
"What's wrong?" Monica asked, sitting down on the bench with David.
"Don't you know? Man, it seems the whole world does. Tim's going to be executed in three days. The date's June 11th."
Monica did know, of course, but was hoping that David would go to Tim and persuade him to come to the painting class before it really was too late. "Why don't I go and see if he'll join us. Do you think he'd mind, David?"
"Uh, well, no, I guess not. He's always been a sucker for a pretty face."
...To be continued.
