Many worshipers are familiar with the Scriptural passage that reads: “I was in prison and you came to me.” (Matthew 25:36) However, not many are acquainted with the efforts undertaken by those who see it as a mission to visit our jails and prisons. Consequently, few are apprised of how these volunteers try to bring Christ’s message of repentance and forgiveness to the seemingly lost. In the following essay therefore I will sketch a few illustrations of how I have shared the gospel with individual inmates, all of whom were initially strangers to me. And will close by describing an unusual blessing.
I grew up as the oldest of six children in a tiny Midwest town near Kalamazoo, Michigan. In that little town I lived a fairly sheltered and protected childhood. It seemed that almost everyone in town was related somehow. And, everybody else knew everybody else. My mother was a combination seamstress, bread and cookie baker, Cub Scout den mother, nurse, and cheerleader who thought—until the day she died at age 93—that I could do no wrong.
Sometimes, a person’s life can be so influenced by another that it helps shape that life for the better. And when the subject of games and youth is raised, I invariably think of how fortunate I was to have had a grandfather like Ludavick Anderson or “Gramps” as I affectionately called him. When he visited, not only did he teach me how to play different games, he taught me an even more valuable lesson. He set an example of how important it is to convey a sincere interest in others. In this brief snapshot, I will provide some background on his life as I remember it and the games he taught me.
I grew up as the oldest of six children in a tiny Midwest town near Kalamazoo, Michigan. In that little town I lived a fairly sheltered and protected childhood. It seemed that almost everyone in town was related somehow. And, everybody else knew everybody else. My mother was a combination seamstress, bread and cookie baker, Cub Scout den mother, nurse, and cheerleader who thought—until the day she died at age 93—that I could do no wrong.
