Now that summer is officially over, I find myself reflecting  on the events of the last season. There were several singular occurrences, and most of them were bad. There was a solar eclipse, the death of a dear friend, a period of hurricane/tornado warnings that finally culminated in a degraded tropical storm that struck, leaving us without power for several days, and a number of relatively mild, personal struggles. The season had begun with a shocking revelation that two prison guards whom I knew, had been brutally murdered.

Sgt. Curtis Billue and Sgt. Christopher Monica were Corrections officers who worked in one of the prisons where I volunteered for many years. I knew them both–although Sgt. Monica seemed to be on duty more often at the time I went in to conduct my Bible study.  But they both had escorted me down  the hill to L-Building where my faithful band of “parishioners” were waiting for me. During our journey, which involved unlocking and locking many gates, we had the chance to talk, and I formed a very favorable opinion of both gentlemen. In short, I felt I knew them.

So, I was horrified to learn that in the early morning of June 13, 2017, these officers were gunned down while transporting thirty-three inmates to an institution in a neighboring county. Somehow, two prisoners with very long sentences (one with a life sentence with no chance of parole) had wrestled a 9 millimeter handgun away from one of the officers, shot them both, and escaped. I plan to write more about the incident later; however, now I just want to remember “Billue” and “Monica,” as they were referred to in the Prison.

Someone recently gave a paraphrase of Chief Justice Roberts’ address to college students, saying something to the effect that if you speak kindly to people, even if they never knew you, after your death, they would remember that one wonderful attribute about you–that you were kind. This is the case with Sergeants Billue and Monica. They both were always friendly and helpful to me. Because of short staffing and prison security priorities, it would not be out of the ordinary for me to wait twenty minutes or more before some officer was free to take me into  the lower regions of the prison. Monica, especially, would go out of his way to “give me a ride.” “Are you waiting to go to L-Building?” he would ask. I would nod in assent. “Come on; I’ll take you.”  And with that, we would begin our trek across the prison yard, chatting merrily all the way. He was always upbeat and positive, always willing  to help, always having a wry sense of humor. I never knew these men very  well, but I know that they are dearly missed by their families. I was unable to attend their funerals, and I never secured an address to send their families a card. But, I would like for it to be on record that I greatly appreciated their kindness–not to mention their service. Over the many years that I volunteered in three or four prisons, I would tell the officers that they should be recompensed with greater salaries–something more commensurate to the long hours they worked and the risks that they took. My comment was not a polite platitude; I meant it. I knew something like what happened on the morning of June 13th, was entirely possible in the prison at any given moment, and I felt grateful to the officers who did their jobs so well, day after day. And especially those who did their jobs with kindness. You will not be forgotten, Monica and Billue. May God richly reward you both.