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5. Dave's Trophy in a California Prison

Steel doors clanged threateningly along the barred corridors of Los Angeles County Jail, California. Our footsteps echoed coldly around us as we marched along. A large bunch of keys jangled in the Prison Officer's hand and the door of the Recreation block swung open. Together a sea of faces turned and fixed threateningly upon us. A particular expression lit up in recognition. The guard turned to me and asked glumly, "Is this your man?" "I knew you would come, Cap," blurted out a stocky young man as he pushed his way through the crowd. "Get me into a quiet room away from all this noise. I can't go on this way! I've got to live differently!"

Ominous Days in Los Angeles

Dave Bogna had first visited my home in Brawley when he was only sixteen years old. We had quickly struck up an unusual sort of friendship. This happy individual had a difficult path in life and one catastrophe after another seemed to punctuate his turbulent existence. What family he knew, was dashed in ruins one ominous day when his distraught father had shot his mother, then had taken his own life too.

Dave had witnessed this with his own eyes when he came in from high school. In a few fleeting moments, this teenager had lost both his parents. From that experience, Dave drifted further and further into trouble. In sheer desperation he began taking drugs. Now, in Los Angeles County Jail, he was paying the price. In that bare little side room off the "recreation tank," Dave knelt beside me. All was quiet but for his muffled sobbing. "I've got to live by the Bible, Cap" he whispered through his tears. "I've just got to!" Quietly we prayed and talked. Slowly his composure returned.

Grace from the Colorado River

Glancing back into those reddened eyes as I rose to leave, I knew that things were going to be different from then on for Dave. I wondered where and when I would see him again. My hectic life soon swept out this concern until many years later, I was climbing the stairs to the Diocesan General Convention in Los Angeles, deep in thought. Suddenly, stepping out toward me, his face bright and shining, was Dave Bogna, and how he had changed! "Well, Cap, the Lord has really blessed me," he explained excitedly. "I'm free of drugs, out of prison and happily married now. They have even elected me the warden of our home church, St. Mathias in Los Angeles."

His blue eyes glinted happily as he spoke. Seeing my stunned expression, he added, "well, Cap, your prayers were answered after all!" Choked with swelling emotion, I could only whisper, "Yes, and many other people's prayers too!" Dave was for me one special "Trophy of Grace" from six very fulfilling years' work in the Imperial Valley. His transformation from despair to victorious Christian living reminded me of the transformation of the dry desert in California. It became a beautiful wide panorama of ripening grain and snowy cotton by the diversion of the Colorado River. His life, like that arid desert, had blossomed into abundant life.

Wanted - Men and Girls in Brawley

On first arriving in the Imperial Valley, Bishop Stevens had wisely warned me that the Church in Brawley was likely to be arid and difficult at first. With patience and hard work, it could also yield a bountiful harvest. "Be faithful to your old-time Episcopalians," he had ordered, "but spread out into the community and win new converts. Plant the church on The Faith." That first Sunday, I walked through the doors of Brawley Church to take my first morning service. At a glance, I realized the difficult task that lay before me. Beside a few women, and a small group of children, I was the only man in the building. The children were easily brought in by offering the use of our hall to four scout groups who were looking for premises. I encouraged regular church parades and had also built up an all boy Sunday School! It was rumoured that the church only allowed lads to come! Soon the girls came calling too!

Reaching the men in Brawley was a more difficult proposition for me. I had however noted that most were already members of the Rotary, Elks, Kiwanis or another lodge in town, so I decided to join up too. When the Elk Lodge learned that I worked for the church, they immediately elected me their "Honorary Chaplain!" I felt this was a very eminent position until my duties became clear. Apart from saying an occasional prayer, my main task was calling out the winning numbers in the lodge raffles! I was the honest one apparently! At eleven o'clock, no matter what was happening, everything stopped for a minute silence. Not a whisper, not a sound was heard. Bowed heads slowly raised to recite together. ""The faults of our departed brothers, we write upon the sands . . . their goodness upon the memory of our hearts." This was a touching tribute to departed friends.

Doctorate in Brawley

As time passed, a few of the good men of the Elk Lodge became rooted in our little church in Brawley. By patient watering, the fellowship began to show signs of life. The Elks, like some other lodges in California, had the unusual power to confer honorary degrees on members of the community. Suddenly, one evening, they summoned me forward and with great ceremony presented a Doctor of Philosophy degree "for Christian services" to the people of Brawley. They gave me a long, golden yellow, black and purple degree scarf. Later this silk apparel became a source of amusement when I showed it to some Church Army friends. "Your robe is marvelous! It's like a giant glistening butterfly's wing!"

Bitter Taste in Lemon Grovee

From this multi-color amaryllis in Brawley, I journeyed to the lush green and yellow swaying citrus groves of the town of Lemon Grove, near San Diego. The famed bitterness of its lemons was evident in its congregation too. Except that I was their problem! They had nothing against me personally but they really wanted a clergyman instead of a Church Army Evangelist. I tried my best but everything I did was wrong. It all finally came to a head when two Church Army friends and a marine came to visit my little apartment in the parish.

It was the occasion of the Pot Luck Supper. People were talking happily, delicately balancing cardboard plates piled high with turkey, ham and potato salad. Most were catching bits of conversation and gossip between bites. On the far side of the crowd, the church treasurer was eying me carefully over his spectacle and began to push his way across to where I stood. We exchanged polite introductions. "You ought to know what people are saying," he whispered secretively. "It isn't right for four of you to be living in our parish apartment together!" Surprised for an instant, I smiled, then carefully replied, "You know, the Church Army does not always see things like the clergy. We might even have black people staying there in the future." At these words, the color seemed to drain from his face and with a faint smile he turned away and faded into the crowd.

"You've gotta have a glory in the things you do, an alleluia chorus in the heart of you"

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