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In the Midst of Angels - Dan Gibson's Solitudes

Not in ashes, but on a metal folding chair in front of my newly assigned bunk. Not wearing sack cloth, but ill fitting prison garb instead. They had no apparent reason to help me. No motive that I could see.

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So I was leery. I had been a Federal Inmate for all of an hour and a half. I had visions of being assaulted. Beaten up.

Getting scammed. I had no idea what to expect. What did they want? Not one of the 97 other men in this unit, one of 4 in the Federal Correctional Institute in Miami had approached or even acknowledged me ever since the guard had brought me in. The two stood over me as I gazed up at them. They both smiled. One of them extended a hand. The younger one was in his mid to late 40s. A mustachioed man.

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Angels in Our Midst

Tall, with the natural gait of an athlete. Later on I would learn that he was an ex professional baseball player who had won a college world series while at the University of Miami. Serving time for a crime I would never learn about. The older one looked to be in his 70s. A diminutive, almost regal looking gentleman with a cane. He stood slightly behind the younger man.

And I did not think scamming was going to be in the cards either. I finally acknowledged them with a nod. That was all I could muster for now. Welcome to our humble abode. This is Levi, we call him O. I still have them if you want to see. Orlando extended his hand further, grasping mine and shaking firmly. They are supposed to give you this stuff when they check you in, but they never do.

They are so thin you could read a newspaper through them. A decent towel is something you might want to invest in from the commissary. Orlando looked down at the shoes I was wearing. Thin-soled slip on orange sneakers. He glanced at the pants and T-shirt I was wearing as I had finally gotten the strength to stand.

Breaking you in. Breaking you down. You are going to need something else to wear until the laundry opens up and you are able to get clothes and shoes. In the meantime, let me help you make up your bunk, so that you are ready for the stand-up count. The center one is holding a lilly shocked in fuschia.

Angels in Our Midst

It is a phenomenon. Their texture appears so supple, one might be shocked to find dried paint beneath their fingers should they reach to experience the airiness for themselves.


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While researching the words for this article, I asked myself how her paintings make me feel, literally, while looking at them. Here were my thoughts:. There is no known light source evident in any of the paintings; not sunshine or moonlight or stars. However, each piece is illuminated from within the paint.

Angels in our Midst | Meridian Magazine

It glows—even the ominous grays and shadowed maroons. To me it is obvious from where the light comes. Why does the sound of water feel so healing? Whatever the reason, there is a definite theme of the Fruits of the Spirit which unites the series. When their heads are turned to the side, they appear to be visiting with or reacting to each other as one would a friend.

While playing a violin or holding a small cat in their arms, they seem approachable. Are they disguised as our loved ones, or even strangers on our street, reminding us God is near?

Even though my grandfather had specifically told her not to open the door to drifters, she agreed and gave him a plate. She went to check on him minutes later and he had disappeared.


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She always believed he was an angel, sent to her as a reminder to be KIND. There are many stories like that one in her book and many more expected in Strokes of Compassion. I, myself, have felt the result of one of those waves when I opened her book for the first time and saw a familiar face staring back at me; A face who inspired Anne to paint a picture in honor of his passing; a passing of which I knew nothing about. I agreed and met James Harrison, and his father, Frank, a couple of weeks later. Our tour was pleasant although I remember feeling mortified when we stopped at the Bookstore for a drink, and I thoughtlessly grabbed a Dr.

James laughed and dutifully took a Mr. Pibb from cooler, and a few weeks later I received a thank you note from Frank with a Coca-Cola keychain enclosed in the envelope. After that, I converted Coke. I never spoke to either James or Frank after our tour, but wondered about them every so often.