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This book is going on my Christmas list!

Would love to post all of their conversion stories but will begin with that of Russell Ford.

A Greased Slide to Hell

My life, prior to June 22, 1987, means virtually nothing. That’s how I perceive it anyway. Although my peers tell me my life ceased that day, I steadfastly hold to the belief that it was then that I was conceived in the womb of Holy Mother Church. My friends contend life ended because that is the day I began serving a twenty-five year sentence in an Alabama prison but I actually was born (again) twenty months later. Consequently, the last ten years of my life have been alive, contrasted to the first thirty years of a zombiatic existence.

This convict-convert’s story begins in June, 1973. I was fifteen years old and hooked on amphetamines and barbiturates, ingesting one hundred pills a day. Having been reared without the benefit of being taught Christian virtue, the only means of escape from my father’s brutality my adolescent mind could conceive was drugs. I was slowly dying from my habit, was in full self-destruct mode, and had become suicidal. No teenager should live with such a burden in life (although millions do), but that is the hand I was dealt.

Keeping a promise to an acquaintance—primarily because I had nothing else to do—I attended the evening service at a Southern Baptist Church in the tiny Ozark town where we lived. Since I had no more pills in my stash, and no means of getting more, going to the church would be an interesting and painless distraction. It turned out to be far more than I had bargained for.

If you have ever lived in a small town you know how everyone knows everybody else’s business and how a bad reputation gets its recipient ostracized from life. Everyone at the small church (largest in town, but still small) knew who I was, that I had a drug problem, and that I was trouble. Still true to their belief that Jesus died for all men, these people treated me with a kindness to which I was unaccustomed. They got my attention. The next thing to grab my attention was the singing. I was impressed that those simple country folk actually believed it when they sang, "Oh victory in Jesus, my Savior forever! He sought me and bought me with his redeeming blood! He loved me ere I knew him, and all my love is due him! He plunged me to victory, beneath the cleansing flood!" They were excited about this Jesus.

The kindness shown to me, the devout singing, and the pastor’s words during the sermon took their toll. For the first time since I was seven, hope was trying to nudge despair out of the way. I began to see a possible alternative to suicide. I stepped forward during the invitational hymn. At approximately 8:00 P.M. on June 17, 1973, I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. With the help of two new friends at the church, I was able to kick the drug habit and rebuild my health. Thanks be to God, I have been drug free for a quarter of a century now.

Not long after getting my life on track I felt the call to preach. I was told to test the call by preaching. The results are part of a much longer story, but the congregants were excited enough to begin planning my future. They decided which Baptist university I would attend, which Baptist seminary, and how the first several years of my career would be spent. I didn’t mind, though, as I had never known such a degree of interest before.

My pastor and the two associate pastors had become my mentors. While other kids were cruising or on dates, I was engaged in Bible study and lively discussions with those three exceptional Christian men. These men taught me to love Scripture, thus replacing a prior love for great intellectual works like Rolling Stone and National Lampoon. I think it not at all hyperbolic to say I have probably forgotten more Scripture passages than most Catholics will ever know.

Studying the Bible began to present a problem during my senior year of high school. I had no way of knowing it then, but God had begun to plant the seeds for Catholicism. My study of Scripture was beginning to cause doctrinal conflicts. For example, it seemed to me that the words of Jesus plainly taught the need for baptism, something Baptists view as a mere ordinance. I had trouble with John 20:23; was Jesus contradicting himself by teaching to forgive sin, then giving the apostles a choice of forgiving and retaining? I wondered about binding and loosing (Matt. 18:18). Although I couldn’t put my finger on it, I knew there had to be something more to the "Lord’s Supper" than an oyster cracker and a swallow of Welch’s finest.

Trying to discuss my growing list of theological difficulties with my mentors became a study in futility. When my questions or assertions backed them into a corner, I was either told my ideas were simply wrong or was told to wait until I made it to college and seminary to learn the deepest theological truths.

My pastor was on the board of regents for the college I was to attend, so I stuffed my doubts and questions until I could get there. At the college I met a new mentor, the chairman of the evangelism department. When he realized my questions were heartfelt concerns and not merely a new student trying to impress his professor, the good doctor met with me two or three times a week on his own time to discuss my difficulties. Our discussions always began amiably enough, but inevitably ended in frustration for us both. I asked questions, and the professor gave his best answers. Unfortunately, his answers only led to deeper questions. We would come full circle, back to the original question. He threw up his arms in frustration and exclaimed, "Mr. Ford, some things about Christianity are simply not intended to be known!"

Hogwash, I thought. I could not conceive of a God who would expect me to believe or be damned (Mark 16:16) and not tell me what to believe. I had reached a point of spiritual crisis. I knew I no longer could preach what I’d been taught, as I no longer could believe it. The implication was that I would have to get my answers or leave school and any possibility of the ministry.

My mentor picked up on my sense of urgency when we met the last time. We began our usual discussion, quickly lapsing into the circular arguments that had become the hallmark. This time, though, the professor ended our discussion by adding one statement to his typical close: "Mr. Ford, perhaps you should reconsider your call to the ministry." I agreed. I left school the next morning and made a beeline for the Army recruiter’s office.

After my training with the Army was complete, I began to search for religious truth. I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me to investigate any religion outside of Christianity, and I had been so prejudiced against Catholicism that it also never occurred to me to check out Rome. It took only two years of searching before I lapsed into fullblown agnosticism, living as a practical atheist.

Unaware it had become a religion to me, I gradually bought into secular humanism with an emphasis on capitalism. I decided God was in me, and that essentially made me a god. Power, money, possessions, and sex became the motivating factors in my life. I remember hearing testimonies from Baptist converts when I was in high school, telling how the more they had the more they wanted. They complained of feeling empty and unsatisfied. I didn’t understand what they were talking about then, but I do now.

I kept thinking that just a little more money or another new car or one more woman would make me happy and fulfilled. Each time I achieved what I wanted I was unfulfilled. It became a vicious cycle of want-get-want more. I had become unhappy and cynical. The unhappiness brought bitterness, and the bitterness made me a dangerous man.

I was no doubt starved for truth. At those times when I was at my lowest, and when I was alone, I somehow mustered enough humility to pray. I fell to my knees and through my tears begged: "Jesus, if you are who you say you are, appear to me! Come to me and tell me the answers. If you appear, I’ll stay at your feet to love and worship you!" The answer was always silence.

My lifestyle had become a greased slide to hell. I eventually descended so far down the shaft of indecency that I committed a felony in 1987. The judge rewarded me with a quarter century to experience Southern hospitality in Alabama’s prisons. Once again I was suicidal. It wasn’t an irrational tendency toward suicide, but rather well reasoned. Since I no longer believed in life after death, it made no sense to spend the next twentyfive years suffering in prison. I mulled this over for about a year and had just about made up my mind to take my life when Providence intervened.

A convict had been transferred from another prison and placed on the bunk next to mine. The old man automatically had my respect when I learned he had already served twenty-five years (now thirty-five). His age and the amount of time he had served are the only reasons I tolerated Michael A. Mayola when he decided to make me his project. I was lonesome, ornery, and mean. Mike was taking his life in his hands by bothering me, and he knew it. Writing about our first meeting several years later he stated, "Russell Ford was the most evil man I had ever met." Mike knew I was tolerating him, but he pushed it to the limit.

Mike began by baiting me with a few simple religious questions. When he sensed I was losing interest, he challenged me to take a test out of an old children’s Baltimore Catechism, telling me he didn’t believe I could pass it. My intelligence having been insulted, I took up the challenge. I passed the test with a 100 percent score. (I wonder how many readers could pass a test from an old Baltimore Catechism.) Mike promised that if I passed he would leave me alone, but I wouldn’t let him. I sensed this old convict might have the answers to my questions. I took up studying the catechism with him, but I never told him of my questions. I wanted to see if Catholicism could stand on its own without being tailored to fit me.

Mike wanted to study an hour a day. After two weeks of learning the faith, I couldn’t get enough. We studied at least eight hours a day for nine months, and I was still hungry.

Not long after our studies began I realized the Catholic Church was the one founded by Jesus. I also realized I would have to become a Catholic. But my decision was purely intellectual. My emotional decision to become a Catholic came on August 24, 1988. The feast of St. Bartholomew was the day Mike taught me about the Holy Eucharist. As it began to dawn on me what Mike was saying about the Real Presence, my mind flashed back to all those times when I begged Jesus to show himself to me so I could worship him. I was now to discover he had been there all along, waiting for me at the nearest Catholic Church. Listening to Mike’s explanation of transubstantiation and the Body, Blood, soul, and divinity of the Eucharistic Jesus, I suddenly fell helplessly, hopelessly, passionately in love with the Eucharist. Tears from over a decade of agony, frustration, and bitterness fell down my cheeks. I wept so hard Mike had to stop my lesson.

God is a God of mercy, but he is also a God of justice. He has answered my prayers and shown me his truth. He has shown me himself physically. Such is his mercy. Oh, but his painful justice! I had meant it when I told him I would stay at his feet to worship him if he would show himself. Unfortunately, all of the sins of my life that led me to prison increased his suffering on Calvary to an almost irreparable degree. My punishment under his justice? I get to hear Mass only once a month (if we can get a priest), and I never get a chance to adore him in his Eucharistic Presence. Jesus permitted me an opportunity to adore him once in 1992. Never since.

I was incorporated into the Mystical Body of Christ on the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes in 1989. Since then Jesus has blessed me with the opportunity to share my faith with thousands of other convicts. The Holy Spirit has used me to aid in the conversion of over one hundred of them, fifty of whom are my godsons. There are hundreds of stories I could write about prison evangelization, prison apologetics, and living the faith against all odds in prison. Indeed, a hefty book could be written. Perhaps someday I shall.