[1. Use more descriptive language to create a more vivid picture of the events. For example, instead of saying “I only had a few personal belongings,” the writer could describe the items in more detail, such as “I grabbed my treasured box of books, a stack of letters from loved ones, and a handful of cherished photos.”]

[2. Add more introspection and reflection from the writer’s perspective to create a deeper emotional connection with the reader. For example, the writer could explore their thoughts and feelings about being denied parole multiple times and the impact it had on them.]

[3. Expand on the role of faith and spirituality in the writer’s journey, including how it helped them through difficult times and influenced their decision-making process. This would add more depth and meaning to the story.]

So, as I pour over these chapters one more time, I’ll do so by incorporating these new techniques and suggestions.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

January 12th, 1978. I had only one more day, then freedom, even though I would be in a halfway house. After six and ½ years, even that is something to look forward to. I went before the parole board on five occasions during this stretch. October 1977 was the last time I had gone before them, only to be denied again. My maximum release date was September 1978; after all the years before me, I could wait another eight months.

Something inside me refused to accept my latest denial. I filed an appeal to the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City, the very people who had denied me in the first place. My chances of getting the parole board to change their mind were slim. But I would add a twist to my appeal. I wrote as many correspondents as I could and asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf. The list was substantial, a few hundred. Most of them I had established correspondence with while in prison after becoming a Christian. I asked them to write and encourage the ‘board’ to reconsider my case.

Two months have passed, and I am still waiting to hear from Kansas City. Prayers were going up to God continuously from everyone. In early December, Mr. John Conte (My caseworker) called me into his office. The parole board had called and said, “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point. Over three hundred letters had poured into their office supporting my parole.

On December 19th, my counselor came to my cell. “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for ten years and have never seen one of these.” I could only imagine what he held in his hands as he referred to the letter resting there. The parole board had CHANGED their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13th to a halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released on Friday the 13th. Jokingly, I suggested I’d probably get run over by a truck. I’m not superstitious.

Besides, any misfortune would be the 13th; it came that night on the 12th.
Mr. Conte again called me into his office. “We have a problem.” The Associate Warden, Ed Arbogast, advised the warden not to allow me to go to the halfway house. Mr. Arborgast had been a guard in Marion, Il. From 1965-67, the years that I was incarcerated there. I didn’t remember him, but apparently, I had made an impression on him. “No,” I said, “we don’t have a problem; I have a problem. You’re going home tonight. I am staying here.

Dejectedly I called Mary and told her the disappointing news. She asked me how I felt, and I told her I wanted to tear the place up. I had felt this powerlessness before and torn the place up in the past. I tried to pray, but it seemed like the old hopelessness had invaded my heart.

Mr. Conte had said my record had shown that I hadn’t made it upon my release, and why would this be different? He used the example of a racehorse who always lost. Would I bet on a loser? I told him I wasn’t a horse but a man, and men changed. Mr. Conte said I would have to interview the Halfway House Administrator in the morning, and he would make his recommendation to the warden.

Mr. Robert Thompson was the Administrator. Son of a Baptist minister, he would at least understand the belief in redemption. What would make a difference? Even I had to admit the record wasn’t lying. I hadn’t stayed out long after previous releases, but I had never been released trusting in God for my future either. When Paul was brought before the Roman tribunal as a Roman Citizen, God gave him the words to say. And that had always been my trust in past occasions. Like a new Christian, when speaking before the judge or parole board, God would give me the words to say. I’ve always believed that it’s not what you say but what the Holy Spirit does with what you say.

After the interview, Mr. Thompson did not indicate what his recommendation was going to be. Aimlessly, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards as I waited. Suppose it got to 4 o’clock, that sealed the deal against me. As 2 o’clock arrived, the female guard (from Springfield, Mo., Mary’s hometown, and who even recollected perhaps knowing Mary’s sister Jeanne.) came over to the table and looked me straight in the face, slowly said, “So why are you waiting”? “Go get your stuff. You’re being released.”

I only had a few personal belongings: a box of books, letters, pictures, and $22 on my account. They took me out to a local haberdashery, where in the dead of winter, the salesman returned to the back of the store and bought an ill-fitting summer suit with a stain on it. They could have released me in a gunny sack, and I would have been satisfied!

Having one’s fingerprints taken is a part of the convict’s life. That is a part of the way we live. Having God’s fingerprint on our lives is another thing altogether different. Parole boards keep their minds the same; three hundred correspondents writing letters on one’s behalf rarely happen. God’s fingerprints were all over this!