Hymn from Prison

“...Trillalallala....”  I heard the song again from the cell next door.  I could not think over my failure with a clear mind here.  I remained sitting on the edge of the plank bed in my cell, my face buried in my hands, trying to absorb the turn of events.  First I must collect myself.  Then I must understand how I had arrived here.  Was this the day that would end my every hope, or just a new turn by which I would find another route to the goal?  The noisy prisoner began dancing now–jumping on the plank bed–as he sang.  I so much needed quiet in order to sort out the chaotic tangle of events.

Bewildered, I tried to blot out that devilish noise.  Impossible!  Here I could not think!  I sat on the edge of the plank bed on the verge of bursting into tears.  I longed for this.  It would have been a psychological outlet, I thought again.  I needed it.  Yet I realized that the emotional release afforded by tears could be carried too far.  It could reach a point from which it was difficult to return.  As a psychiatrist, I ought to know what it would bring!  I tried to calm myself.  But those foolish joyous songs from the neighboring cell were not conducive to meditation on the disaster of this day.  The raucous singing would not permit me to give in to my despair, much as I wanted to.

Maybe it was better so, the thought came to me.  I would lose my strength and would abandon the struggle.  That would be a dangerous trap.  I must be strong.  A new thought was awakening within me:  God had given me this poor singing fool so that I would not lose heart.

Maybe this was the right analysis of my situation and I had to accept it with true thanksgiving.  I had once heard it said by a preacher that even the worst situation can be turned to a blessing if one gives thanks to God for it.  I tried to thank God.  Only a tiny grain of thanksgiving was enough to keep my total self from collapse.  My calm was restored.  A conflict does not mean failure; I must not give up anything, I thought.  Just watch God, as the servant watches his master’s hand.

Stretched out on my slats, I tried to settle down to sleep.  The window above my bed was open, and the cold air seemed drawn to my bald head!  I would have a headache by morning.  In my pocket I still had my large handkerchief so I wrapped it around my head and secured it with the pin, I lay down again.

At home I slept lying on my back, but now, maybe intuitively recalling the ancient instinct, I curled up on my side like an embryo sheltered in the womb.  I was looking for security.  I pulled the single blanket up to my chin.  It gave off the odor of human feces, but it kept the cold out, more or less.  I was scarcely aware of a dream approaching, fingers gently caressing my eyelids, lower, lower . . . .  Nearby, the festivities continued but seemed to recede more and more.  Soon I was able to hear the whispering of the trees through the open slot above the window of the cell.  I was exhausted.  I needed rest in my body, and in my mind.  I dropped off to sleep–fitfully.

During the night I woke again and again, but a firm thought reached my consciousness:  God was in this day, too.  And this was enough for me.  In spite of the failure, which I could not explain now, I knew He was with me.  How good it was that He had not left me alone but had placed a poor foolish vagabond in the neighboring cell.  My neighbor’s songs did not permit me to yield to despair.  He did not leave me open to the storming flood of hopelessness.  The foolish songs forced me back to life, keeping me firm in my position.  And in this was the hand of God.  How good it was that I understood this!  The awareness of God’s presence in the ordeal gave me peace.  Thank you, my God.  Thank you!  Good night!