IWAS ASKED BY A PRISON chaplain to address a group of inmates at the Utah State Penitentiary. It was a Sunday morning and I arrived about forty-five minutes before I was to speak to allow for security procedures. After passing through a metal detector, I was brought by a guard into a secure room, where I was briefly detained while my clearance was verified. Then I surrendered my I.D. to the guard behind the bulletproof glass for a guest pass. The electric lock on the door buzzed and I walked out into a courtyard.
As I entered in with the prison population I admit I felt a little anxious—a bit like a skin diver leaving a shark cage. I thought of the scripture “I was in prison and you came to me.” Someone from the church led me to the chapel and I entered alongside the first group of inmates—men in white cotton jumpsuits stenciled with their prison number and the words Property of USP.
I spoke four times that day, as the prison populations could not be mixed. Men and women were brought into different rooms wearing different-color jumpsuits. The men all wore white. The women wore white, red and blue, indicative of their behavior in the facility.
I had been warned that the women inmates would be more difficult than the men. This was true, as my talk to the female inmates was interrupted by catcalls, loud talking and laughter. At least at first. As I spoke to them of the miracles I had witnessed in publishing my book, the women became more attentive. Near the end of my talk all of them were listening and most of them were visibly moved. After I finished, one woman seated several rows back raised her hand.
“I just wanted to say that what Mr. Evans said is true. His book saved my life.” Then she sat down, leaving me wondering about her story as the group was ushered from the room to be led away by prison guards.
A week later I received a letter from the prison. It was from the woman who had stood at the end of my talk. She wanted to tell me her story.
She said that the day of the year she hated most was her birthday. Every birthday she received the same thing from her mother—a can of frosting and a box of cake mix. Then her mother would run off to the bar. She would immediately begin looking for a place to take her younger siblings, because she knew that her mother would return drunk and beat them all. It was an annual ritual.
She said that one birthday was worse than she could have imagined. Her mother brought home two men from the bar. One of them came into her room and raped her repeatedly for seven hours. She was shattered by the experience but never told anyone.
Several months later she learned that she was pregnant. She had used drugs in the past but after the rape she was using them heavily to deal with her emotional pain. When she found out that she was pregnant she stopped using them, but it was already too late. The doctors told her that the baby was deformed and would die a painful death shortly after birth, if not before. They advised her to abort the baby. In spite of the way the child had been conceived, she did not want to lose the baby. At first she refused. But after a second doctor’s opinion supported the first, she relented.
After the abortion, she went into a severe depression. She went back to using drugs and alcohol more heavily. Finally, deciding that she could not endure the pain any longer, she planned to take her own life.
She was visiting a friend in another state when she planned her suicide. She purchased a gun from a pawnshop, then began looking for the right place to die. She found a beautiful hill that overlooked a lake and set the date. When the day came she hid the gun in her purse, then asked her friend if she could borrow her van to visit some friends. As she began to pull out of the driveway her friend suddenly came out after her. She was carrying a book. It was The Christmas Box. She said, “Here, take this with you.” The young woman thought it was an odd request, but threw it in the seat behind her and drove up to the lake. She parked, loaded the gun, then put its barrel in her mouth. She was about to pull the trigger when she heard a voice say, “Read the book.”
She looked around to see who had spoken. There was nobody there. Then she looked back at the book. It seemed to have a faint glow about it. She set the gun down, got the book and began to read. She read it from beginning to end. When she finished she had a peaceful, warm feeling that she would see her baby again. That someday they would be reunited. She emptied the gun, then threw it into the lake.
She went on to write that she was still a drug addict, which is why she was in prison. But she was still glad to be alive, and it’s because of The Christmas Box.
Dear Mr. Evans,
What a blessing!! I have been truly blessed by your story, The Christmas Box. I sometimes read at night when I cannot sleep, and last night I started to read the story and could not stop until I finished. I had to stop several times at the end of the story to catch my breath because I was crying so hard.
I am a single parent of a beautiful four-year-old girl. Lately the everyday stresses of my life have been bringing me down—being single and lonely and working full time. I have begun taking my frustrations out on my daughter. I have lost my patience quickly and have been snapping at her often. I have found myself feeling so guilty for getting upset and for yelling at her in a hurtful tone. I have been praying, asking God to help me.
Your story touched me and showed me that my daughter’s childhood is so precious and that I have been given a gift in her. I want to cherish all the time I have with her. I want to love her as God loves us.
I am so grateful that you shared your family’s story with others, especially with me! It made me look at myself and my own life.
Again, thank you and God bless you and your family,
Mary
