A Convict's Love

Cal (name changed for anonymity) was probably the last person you would choose to bring into your home. Six feet tall. Strong and broad in shoulders. Ex-con. Coyote. Wanted by both the police and the cartels for knowing too much. His first arrest happened at 7 years old, when he held an American couple at gunpoint to rob them. He spent years in prison. And years running.

I don’t remember exactly how he came to us, but when he did, he had already met Jesus, and the redemption was down to his soul. His last act of violence, stopped cold by the hand of God, was when he aimed a pistol at the head of a downed police officer. Cal stood over the man and slipped his finger into the trigger. In that split-second pause between life and death, he heard a voice say Do not kill this man. Do not kill him, Cal.

He didn’t. He spared the man, and his own life was forever changed.

Cal spent several years in a Mexican prison similar to Alcatraz for his crimes, incarcerated under the highest level of security. But he spent those last few praying, seeking God, and healing prisoners’ wounds with tropical plants he harvested on the island. It was a rugged, harsh, nearly peaceful time in his life, where he cultivated his relationship with the Lord and his gift of service.

Cal came to live with us out at the ranch shortly after his release from prison. It was there that he rediscovered how to love again. And it was through the animals he connected most deeply. That was his heart. That was his place. He spent hours with the horses and goats. The chickens and cows. He had a gentle hand and a soft spirit. He never raised his voice in anger or chose harsh methods of training so prevalent in the area we lived.

My most profound memory of Cal was on a particular day it was just the two of us at the ranch. I will never forget it. My husband and the team had gone into town for supplies. My children with them. And there was no one else on the property. I don’t remember what took us to the barn that day. Maybe a broken pipe. Or a birthing horse. But on our walk together across the dirt field with no hammering or yelling or activity of any kind from the team, I had a fleeting moment of fear. I questioned my safety and wisdom in being completely alone with a man who had lived such a violent life for years. Who had lied and stolen and probably murdered. And here I was, alone with him. No one else on the ranch. No one for miles. He towered over me, possessing a strength ten times my own. And when Cal stopped in the middle of the field for no apparent reason and turned to face me, my heart jumped into my throat.

“Puedes orar por mi?” he said. Can you pray for me?

“Mande?” What?

“Puedes orar por mi?”

“Si.” Yeah. Okay.

And in the middle of that dusty field, this colossal man—who in his lifetime had witnessed and been a part of so much unthinkable depravity and brokenness—dropped to his knees and bowed his head for prayer. It was the most visual representation of humility I have ever witnessed in my life, and it has followed me for many years.

I hesitated then, not sure what to do. Not from fear but from awe. From knowing I should take off my shoes because I had just entered holy ground. That the Lord’s spirit resided in that lowliest of places. And I was at a loss for words.

I laid my hand on his bowed shoulder and prayed in broken Spanish. I thanked God for Cal’s life and asked that he would be a vessel of love and grace. For myself, I silently prayed that I would somehow understand this depth of surrender.

When our favorite horse was dying from a botched surgery, we called Cal. At first, it was just to know what to do. How to help the beautiful stallion who was bleeding out. Cal came immediately, but our beloved horse was too far gone. There was nothing we could do to save him. He would surely die in the night. While we all went to bed saddened and helpless to do anything else for the horse, Cal took his rusted pickup and threw a skinny mattress in the bed. He drove his truck into the corral with the horse, built a fire to keep the coyotes and buzzards away, and stayed by that horse’s side the entire night. The stallion drew near the warmth of the fire and the compassion of the man for his last hours. He died at 4am. Cal never left his side.

I loved that horse. But Cal loved him more.

I have tears in my eyes still as I relay this years later. As I am reminded of the power of love and grace in the most unlikely of places. Cal’s transformation was soul deep. Down to his core. He was a new man, regenerated, and full to overflowing because he had met Jesus on the road to Damascus. He had heard his voice and seen His glory in the midst of unspeakable sin. He had dropped to his knees in the dusty desert and surrendered his life to Him.

And he was changed forever from the inside out.

Do you know this love? This love that takes our stone-cold hearts, imprisoned and ravished, and makes them beat again? That pours out a love so deep, so complete, that we are never the same? A love that enters into the very darkest of places within our own soul and shines a light so bright others will take off their shoes because we have become holy ground.

Do you know this love? His name is Jesus.