At first, the letters to my son in prison were mostly updates on the weather and the family. But I quickly grew tired of the mundane. Over the months as drugs seeped out of his system and sobriety seeped in, my son Lucas revealed that the wreck his life had become he got despondent and struggled to see any future for himself. He was 28. Then one day he called and told me about a guy he'd met in the prison hallway named Preacher Man. He just stopped Lucas the day before and said, 'Hey, you don't look like you belong in here. Would you do?' 'Dad, you don't ask that', Lucas said. But this dude, he didn't care. He actually expected me to answer him. Lucas finally told him he'd killed a man in a car accident when he was high on heroin. Preacher Man said, 'Well, David killed a man too. 'David?' 'Yeah. David in the Bible'. I was shocked to hear Lucas even mentioned the Bible. Even though I'd raised him going to church and teaching him Bible stories, Lucas never showed much interest in religion. I knew that David had killed a man, but it had been years since I'd read the story. I was avoiding the Bible at that point in my life. Anytime I opened it, a flood of bad memories reminded me of what a failure I'd been as a father and as a man of faith. At the time, it wasn't just Lucas who was a mess, but also my other two sons. One was also lost in opioids. The other had been arrested for possession with intent to sell. My confidence and faith was on life support. After I hung up from Lucas, I walked to my bookshelf, wiped a thick coat of dust off my Bible and reread the David story. I got lost in the tale of lust, sex, pregnancy, lying, scheming, betrayal, and murder. It was better than a Stephen King novel. And the story was perfect for Lucas. A man hit the bottom but still recovered his life. So I wrote to Lucas about David. I went on for 30 pages, because every detail of his story seem to relate to Lucas. I ended the letter with the poem David wrote to God, 'My mistake is always before me. Create in me a pure heart, oh, God. My sacrifice is a broken spirit, a broken heart'. The next morning I reread it and worried, have I overdone it? Is this just too direct? I didn't care. I I was desperate to connect with a son who was desperate. A week later he wrote me this. 'Man, that letter you wrote on David was awesome. At first I couldn't believe how long it was. Pops, you sure can write a lot of words haha. I took it onto my cot, got comfortable, tried to shut out all the incessant yapping around me and read the entire thing from beginning to end. I could not put it down. I mean, seriously, to think that that was David and that was in the Bible. It just blew my mind. And, you know, I saw myself in David, his rationalizing, his blindness, his stupidity, his love, or should I say, lust for women. I can relate to all those things, but his recovery now that was awesome'. This letter started two years of feverish letter writing between us. Lucas went on to devour books by Hemingway, Dostoevsky and CS Lewis. He'd write me six and seven page letters about how his mind was changing, and how he saw the world differently and how he didn't want to be the man he used to be. On the two year anniversary of the accident, he wrote the widow of the victim a five page, elegant, heart wrenching apology. He had no way of knowing if she ever got it, but in a way, it didn't really matter. He'd written what he needed to write, if not for her, than for him, or maybe just for God. Around that time, he wrote me a haunting, beautifully written letter, contrasting his daily life with mine. I cried when I got it. Letters became for him and for me, an outlet, a release a way to say things we'd never say in person. I wrote him. 'Look, I know we've been through 10 years of hell together. But maybe now things can be different. Maybe this whole crazy experience you've been through and this letter writing mania we've been on can be the start of something new for us. And can I go out on a limb here? Maybe we can even have something amazing. Something few fathers and sons ever have. Maybe we can say things to each other that fathers and sons never say'. The next letter, and the next and every letter I got proved I was right. Lucas got vulnerable with me. He bore his soul every time. I got this letter the night he finished the book Crime and Punishment. 'Dad I had tears streaming down my face when I finished the book. I turned off my reading light, closed the book and laid it on my chest. It was dead silent. Everyone was asleep. And I just stared at the ceiling thinking about my life. Like the character in the book, I was being raised back to life. I was going through a gradual transition from one world to another. It was such a strange feeling to be completely overwhelmed, but completely content. I'm at peace with where I am, with who I am, with why I'm here and what my life is becoming'. When Lucas walked through our front door on the day of his release, he had a large plastic garbage bag slung over his shoulder. After we hugged I asked, 'what's in the bag?'. He looked at me with a smile and said those are my letters. And he clutched the bag.