Mulry Tetlow was the second of my three younger brothers. He had been a Jesuit and trained as a psychologist. Then he left and married. With three little daughters in tow, he moved the family to New Orleans and they lived not far from where we grew up. Dr. Tetlow was brought onto the staff at Angola, the state prison for those with life terms.

Here’s one of the things that happened to him.  One of the prisoners—we’ll call him Dallier—was in and out of solitary confinement for violence and other constant misbehaviors. Mulry tried to work with him but there was  little sign that Dallier was going to change.

One day, Mulry brought a small Olympic typewriter to Angola thinking that his reports on the men would be easier. He’d used it in graduate school and rarely used it after that. He had it sitting on his desk when Dallier came in for their weekly struggle.

Mulry welcomed him and Dallier made some remark about the typewriter and said he’d be in less trouble if he had a nifty (not exactly his word) typewriter like that. On impulse, Mulry picked the typewriter up and put it in the prisoner’s lap.  Dallier just looked at him, said, “You gimme it?” Mulry shook his head yes. Dallier got up and said:  “Ain’t nobody never gave me nothin.”  Then he left.

But he had changed. From that day’s incident until he died some years later, Dallier earned one single demerit.

I’ve sometimes wondered which Dallier—before or after gift—I am most like. And wouldn’t I live more holy if I’d appreciate the gifts my Creator and Redeemer have poured into my lap. They are rather more splendid than that “nifty” little Olympic typewriter.