Seasons of Love
Jul. 29th, 2023 11:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a man?
In truths that he learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that he died?
It’s time now to sing out
Though the story never ends
Let’s celebrate now
Remember a year in the life of friends.
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love
Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
(Seasons of Love: Jonathan Larson – 1996)
In the latter days of June, I received an early morning phone call that I failed to pick up. Later, on the playback, I listened to a message from Gonzalo DeVivera, saying that he and Martín Baeza were driving to inspect a new women’s jail, and that he would call me later in the day. Gonzalo is the Director of the Restorative Justice/Detention Ministry of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. I knew him best when he was the Head Chaplain at the Peter Pitchess Detention Center in Castaic, in 2010. At that time Martín was a volunteer chaplain at the same jail. I had worked with both chaplains for seven years at the North County Correction Facility (NCCF), in the Pitchess Detention Center, as a volunteer jail chaplain. I simply assumed Gonzalo was calling to seek my help in some new project or program they were dreaming up.
Later that afternoon I told Kathleen about this phone call and began reminiscing about my years as a volunteer chaplain working with Gonzalo, Martín, and Michael Ladisa. As I told her these stories, she engaged in her curious habit of Googling the names of the people I was mentioning.
“Now, how do you spell Ladisa?”, she asked.
“L-A-D-I-S-A”, I replied. “But I already know what he’s doing right now. He’s the Chaplain of the Main Jail of Santa Barbara County”.
“I’m just checking”, she countered, and continued pecking on her iPhone. “Oh no!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It’s an obituary for Michael Ladisa. He died on May 29”.
“Oh my God!” I replied. “That’s what Gonzalo was calling about”.
At that moment my mobile phone rang, and I saw on the screen that it was Gonzalo calling back to tell me what I had just learned. My friend and fellow volunteer Michael had died, and his funeral was planned for the following Friday.
How do you measure the life of a man? That was the line that played in my head as I sat in the pew of St. Kateri Catholic Church on June 16, during the funeral for Michael Ladisa. At the conclusion of the comforting ritual of the funeral mass, some measures of Michael’s life as a husband, father, and a brother were revealed through the two moving eulogies – but I only knew him as a fellow volunteer Jail Chaplain at the Pitchess Detention Center in Castaic.
I first met Michael one early evening in 2011 when Martín and I were setting up chairs for a session of Finding the Way in Jail (FTW) in an open-air dayroom on the second floor of the 800 cell blocks in the NCCP. Finding the Way in Jail is a program divided into 24 easy-to-read pamphlets meant to help inmates talk honestly and frankly with a facilitator (volunteer or chaplain) about life, God, and change. Each pamphlet contained pictures, text, and questions that were discussed over one or two sessions, lasting approximately 60-90 minutes. This was Michael’s first exposure to a jail and our program – and it was to serve as a sort of on-the-job, job interview. Gonzalo had privately commissioned Martín and me to observe how Michael reacted and responded to the inmates and what they shared as we read and discussed the printed handout. In effect, we were to weed out well-meaning volunteers who came to the jail to “preach and teach” – rather than to listen and share. Once he overcame the cold strangeness of a jail environment, Michael immediately fit into the group. That first night, he sat quietly and comfortably listened as 8 to 10 men sat in a circle and shared their stories and responded to the pamphlet we read. It was only when Martín asked him, near the end of the session, if he had anything to share that Michael finally spoke – and the men listened. Over time Michael would develop his own special voice and talent in working and listening to the inmates – and he always did so with compassion, understanding, and solace.
This is not to suggest that Michael did not speak – because when not listening to the inmates, he had plenty to say and questions to ask Gonzalo, Martín, and me about the program we facilitated and the functioning of a jail. I assumed that it was Michael’s professional background as a product and distribution manager that drove him to constantly question the systems, organization, and efficiency of jail procedure and the FTW program. While this inquisitive nature sometimes puzzled Gonzalo, Martín and I appreciated it, because it forced us to better describe and understand the program we implemented and motivated us to expand it.
Despite the rigid control and numbing regimentation of a jail environment, there is a high level of uncertainty and unpredictability for volunteers. We never knew when or why there might be lockdowns, cancellations, or cessations of our program. Often we were at the whim of the Watch Sergeant or Cell Block deputies as to whether or not our program could be conducted, or when and how many men could be released to attend. And yet it was during those periods of inactivity that I got to know Michael best. Despite all the honest sharing and listening we did during our sessions with the inmates, we only really talked about our private lives when we were alone in the dayroom during a lockdown, or waiting to see if the inmates would be released to our program. These were the moments when Martín, Michael, and I would have our own private sessions where we could talk about our sorrows, troubles, and joys.
I like to believe that Gonzalo had a grand plan in the teaming of Michael with Martín and me. At first, we were three volunteer chaplains conducting our FTW program with 9 to 12 inmates from three maximum security cellblocks. However, with the arrival of a new Captain who “encouraged” the sergeants and deputies of the maximum-security cellblocks to cooperate with us, the number of inmates allowed to participate in the FTW program began to swell to 20 and 30. With these large numbers of regular participants, we were encouraged to incorporate a variety of video programs and new discussion materials, such as Fr. Richard Rohr’s “The Spirituality of the 12-Steps”. The 2 to 3 years we worked together as a team were the most satisfying of my jail experience. I came to know, love, and trust Martín and Michael on an almost intuitive level. During our sessions with the inmates, it seemed as if we were reading each other’s thoughts. We completed each other’s sentences, we knew how to expand on another’s idea, we knew how to summarize our sessions together. But as is often the case with great bands – they seldom last forever. They eventually break up and the members go solo. So it was that Gonzalo assigned Martín to lead an independent 12-Step program, leaving Michael and me together for a time. But even our two-man team was soon broken up to maximize chaplain use. By the time I retired from Jail Ministry in 2017, Michael had been assigned as Head Chaplain of the Santa Barbara Jail, and Martín as Chaplain of Pitchess North Detention Center. I would meet them on occasions during the annual Religious Education Conference at the Anaheim Convention Center, and we would promise to get together – but we never did.
At the end of each evening sessions with the inmates in jail, Gonzalo would gather all the volunteer chaplains together in his office for a “debrief”. This meeting usually consisted of a recounting of the evening’s programs and sharing any insights we learned of the men we worked with, and ourselves. The most common subject that came up at these debriefings was the thanks and appreciation we chaplains received from the inmates for leaving our homes and visiting them in jail. Our presence gave them the chance to leave their depressing cells and meet in faith and fellowship to read, speak, share, and cry about redemption and change. It was humbling for us to be thanked so much for simply showing up.
I began this essay by posing the question Jonathan Larson asked in his song Seasons of Love: “How do you measure the life of a man? In the truths that he learned, or the times that he cried. In bridges he burned, or the way that he died?” I will always measure Michael’s life by his actions, and “Remember the love” that he shared with his fellow volunteers and the incarcerated inmates of Los Angeles and Santa Barbara counties.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a man?
In truths that he learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that he died?
It’s time now to sing out
Though the story never ends
Let’s celebrate now
Remember a year in the life of friends.
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love
Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
(Seasons of Love: Jonathan Larson – 1996)
In the latter days of June, I received an early morning phone call that I failed to pick up. Later, on the playback, I listened to a message from Gonzalo DeVivera, saying that he and Martín Baeza were driving to inspect a new women’s jail, and that he would call me later in the day. Gonzalo is the Director of the Restorative Justice/Detention Ministry of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. I knew him best when he was the Head Chaplain at the Peter Pitchess Detention Center in Castaic, in 2010. At that time Martín was a volunteer chaplain at the same jail. I had worked with both chaplains for seven years at the North County Correction Facility (NCCF), in the Pitchess Detention Center, as a volunteer jail chaplain. I simply assumed Gonzalo was calling to seek my help in some new project or program they were dreaming up.
Later that afternoon I told Kathleen about this phone call and began reminiscing about my years as a volunteer chaplain working with Gonzalo, Martín, and Michael Ladisa. As I told her these stories, she engaged in her curious habit of Googling the names of the people I was mentioning.
“Now, how do you spell Ladisa?”, she asked.
“L-A-D-I-S-A”, I replied. “But I already know what he’s doing right now. He’s the Chaplain of the Main Jail of Santa Barbara County”.
“I’m just checking”, she countered, and continued pecking on her iPhone. “Oh no!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It’s an obituary for Michael Ladisa. He died on May 29”.
“Oh my God!” I replied. “That’s what Gonzalo was calling about”.
At that moment my mobile phone rang, and I saw on the screen that it was Gonzalo calling back to tell me what I had just learned. My friend and fellow volunteer Michael had died, and his funeral was planned for the following Friday.
How do you measure the life of a man? That was the line that played in my head as I sat in the pew of St. Kateri Catholic Church on June 16, during the funeral for Michael Ladisa. At the conclusion of the comforting ritual of the funeral mass, some measures of Michael’s life as a husband, father, and a brother were revealed through the two moving eulogies – but I only knew him as a fellow volunteer Jail Chaplain at the Pitchess Detention Center in Castaic.
I first met Michael one early evening in 2011 when Martín and I were setting up chairs for a session of Finding the Way in Jail (FTW) in an open-air dayroom on the second floor of the 800 cell blocks in the NCCP. Finding the Way in Jail is a program divided into 24 easy-to-read pamphlets meant to help inmates talk honestly and frankly with a facilitator (volunteer or chaplain) about life, God, and change. Each pamphlet contained pictures, text, and questions that were discussed over one or two sessions, lasting approximately 60-90 minutes. This was Michael’s first exposure to a jail and our program – and it was to serve as a sort of on-the-job, job interview. Gonzalo had privately commissioned Martín and me to observe how Michael reacted and responded to the inmates and what they shared as we read and discussed the printed handout. In effect, we were to weed out well-meaning volunteers who came to the jail to “preach and teach” – rather than to listen and share. Once he overcame the cold strangeness of a jail environment, Michael immediately fit into the group. That first night, he sat quietly and comfortably listened as 8 to 10 men sat in a circle and shared their stories and responded to the pamphlet we read. It was only when Martín asked him, near the end of the session, if he had anything to share that Michael finally spoke – and the men listened. Over time Michael would develop his own special voice and talent in working and listening to the inmates – and he always did so with compassion, understanding, and solace.
This is not to suggest that Michael did not speak – because when not listening to the inmates, he had plenty to say and questions to ask Gonzalo, Martín, and me about the program we facilitated and the functioning of a jail. I assumed that it was Michael’s professional background as a product and distribution manager that drove him to constantly question the systems, organization, and efficiency of jail procedure and the FTW program. While this inquisitive nature sometimes puzzled Gonzalo, Martín and I appreciated it, because it forced us to better describe and understand the program we implemented and motivated us to expand it.
Despite the rigid control and numbing regimentation of a jail environment, there is a high level of uncertainty and unpredictability for volunteers. We never knew when or why there might be lockdowns, cancellations, or cessations of our program. Often we were at the whim of the Watch Sergeant or Cell Block deputies as to whether or not our program could be conducted, or when and how many men could be released to attend. And yet it was during those periods of inactivity that I got to know Michael best. Despite all the honest sharing and listening we did during our sessions with the inmates, we only really talked about our private lives when we were alone in the dayroom during a lockdown, or waiting to see if the inmates would be released to our program. These were the moments when Martín, Michael, and I would have our own private sessions where we could talk about our sorrows, troubles, and joys.
I like to believe that Gonzalo had a grand plan in the teaming of Michael with Martín and me. At first, we were three volunteer chaplains conducting our FTW program with 9 to 12 inmates from three maximum security cellblocks. However, with the arrival of a new Captain who “encouraged” the sergeants and deputies of the maximum-security cellblocks to cooperate with us, the number of inmates allowed to participate in the FTW program began to swell to 20 and 30. With these large numbers of regular participants, we were encouraged to incorporate a variety of video programs and new discussion materials, such as Fr. Richard Rohr’s “The Spirituality of the 12-Steps”. The 2 to 3 years we worked together as a team were the most satisfying of my jail experience. I came to know, love, and trust Martín and Michael on an almost intuitive level. During our sessions with the inmates, it seemed as if we were reading each other’s thoughts. We completed each other’s sentences, we knew how to expand on another’s idea, we knew how to summarize our sessions together. But as is often the case with great bands – they seldom last forever. They eventually break up and the members go solo. So it was that Gonzalo assigned Martín to lead an independent 12-Step program, leaving Michael and me together for a time. But even our two-man team was soon broken up to maximize chaplain use. By the time I retired from Jail Ministry in 2017, Michael had been assigned as Head Chaplain of the Santa Barbara Jail, and Martín as Chaplain of Pitchess North Detention Center. I would meet them on occasions during the annual Religious Education Conference at the Anaheim Convention Center, and we would promise to get together – but we never did.
At the end of each evening sessions with the inmates in jail, Gonzalo would gather all the volunteer chaplains together in his office for a “debrief”. This meeting usually consisted of a recounting of the evening’s programs and sharing any insights we learned of the men we worked with, and ourselves. The most common subject that came up at these debriefings was the thanks and appreciation we chaplains received from the inmates for leaving our homes and visiting them in jail. Our presence gave them the chance to leave their depressing cells and meet in faith and fellowship to read, speak, share, and cry about redemption and change. It was humbling for us to be thanked so much for simply showing up.
I began this essay by posing the question Jonathan Larson asked in his song Seasons of Love: “How do you measure the life of a man? In the truths that he learned, or the times that he cried. In bridges he burned, or the way that he died?” I will always measure Michael’s life by his actions, and “Remember the love” that he shared with his fellow volunteers and the incarcerated inmates of Los Angeles and Santa Barbara counties.
