CHAPTER 12

RELEASED BUT NOT RESTORED

FOR GARI AND ME, the new normal looked like a long, slow process of trying to come back to life. It seemed we would be in a state of confusion for months —if not longer.

I continued to catch Ashley staring at me with the strangest look on her face. I’d ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She would say, “I just want you to come home.”

I was home. But I was so broken that the real me was lost somewhere, and she could see it in my face.

I felt I was in a good place with the Lord and was extremely grateful to be back with my family. But personally I was crushed.

For one thing, we were financially in a hole. Not wanting that hole to grow any deeper, I knew I had to find another part-time job soon. My half-time position with the Anschutz Family Foundation was a blessing but couldn’t support us. I was willing to try anything.

Then there was the feeling that Gari and I had lost our way socially. We didn’t know where we fit in. We didn’t attend the church I had resigned from because we didn’t feel accepted there anymore. I was no longer involved with Promise Keepers, and Gari had resigned from the national board of Mothers of Preschoolers. We didn’t have the same circles of friends anymore because we no longer were connected to the same organizations.

We struggled with how to relate to the few who’d turned their backs on us while I was in prison. Being loyal had always been important to me. When people were disloyal, I still loved them —but I chose to love them from across the street. I’d think, I’ve seen you when the bullets fly, and you’re not there to help. I tried not to judge their motives, though.

The problem wasn’t that all of our acquaintances rejected us; in fact our close friends became even closer. It was partly that we weren’t up to the challenge of socializing. There was a long stretch when we didn’t feel like going out for dinner or a movie, and we could sense it was awkward for others too. They didn’t really know what to say to us or what they could do.

Feeling isolated, we circled the wagons as a family and tried to regroup. Survival became our single-word focus.

As for me, I really didn’t feel like being part of anything. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t know where I belonged.

That’s why, when my friends Dan and Phil pushed me into joining them for a golf tournament in Las Vegas, I felt awkward. The tournament was sponsored by the Colorado Golf Association, and men from all over the state were gathering for three days of golf and fellowship. I wasn’t sure I’d fit in.

My time with Dan and Phil was great as usual, but I didn’t know the Lord had a pleasant surprise waiting for me that would alter my life in many ways.

I was waiting to tee off on the golf course one day when a guy named Joe Coors approached me. I’d met him, but we didn’t really know each other all that well. Putting a hand on each side of my face, he moved in close. “I am glad you are here,” he said. “There are a lot of us in Denver who know you got a rotten deal. And we are glad to see you getting back on your feet.”

Wow! I thought. What a gift. Overwhelmed by his kindness and acceptance, I began to cry.

Joe had just the right touch, at just the right moment, with just the right words. We would go on to become lifelong friends, as did Gari and Joe’s wife, Gail.

A few people, though, were at the other end of the spectrum. One former friend didn’t help much when he told me I “changed the dynamic” when I was around, so I “wasn’t wanted.”

I didn’t want to be a problem to others. Just don’t go anywhere, I told myself. I wasn’t hiding; I was recovering. And I didn’t feel like answering questions.

Gari kept telling me, “You should see a counselor, somebody who could help you.” I’d had bad experiences with counselors who’d betrayed confidences, and didn’t want another one.

What I did want was to be part of things where I wasn’t looked down on as an ex-convict —or merely tolerated. Fortunately, there were things to do —when I could find the strength.

Job Hunting

Around that time I was offered a great job.

The president of the company was excited; I knew I could do what was needed. It seemed to be a perfect fit. I went to a formal meeting with the board of directors to make it official.

During the meeting the president declared, “We voted 7 to 1 for you to join us, and we’re excited to have you.”

I frowned. Somebody hadn’t wanted me to come. That bothered me.

I said, “Would the one person who voted no mind telling me why you voted no?”

A lady raised her hand. “All I need to know about you to know I don’t like you,” she said, “is that you went to federal prison.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so sensitive because we really needed the income; maybe I should have been less direct. But I wanted to be honest. “All I need to know about this place to know that I don’t want to work here,” I said quietly but firmly, “is that she’s here. I want to go where I’m welcomed, not merely tolerated.”

Respectfully declining, I walked out of the room.

The president hustled after me, asking me to reconsider.

I wouldn’t budge. I told myself, She was here first. This is her dream. She’s on the board of this company. She has a right to the joy she feels coming in here without having to deal with an individual just out of federal prison.

But I thought something else, too —about how I’d allowed the FBI, a few critics like this woman, and my prison record to define who I was. I wanted to say, “Wait a minute. That’s part of who I am. It’s not going to fully define me. I’m going to get off the pine, come back, and do something with my life to God’s glory and not my own. I don’t need any more trophies, I don’t need any more championship rings. I’ve got enough successes. I just need to feel good about serving the Lord.”

It was a rousing mental speech. The truth was, though, that I was having a hard time feeling good about anything.

I was still crying at least once every day.

Sometimes I cried when I was with my family. There were also many breakfast appointments when I would just start weeping. A good friend named Doug Sauter would sit there with me in a restaurant booth, seeming to understand that I wasn’t crying about anything in particular, but everything in general.

There was no denying it: This shift to being an ex-con —wearing that label —was painful.

At one of those breakfasts, a friend said, “I found this Scripture. I thought it would encourage you.” He read Proverbs 26:2: “An undeserved curse does not come to rest.”

In my friend’s eyes, prison had been an undeserved curse. Now it had been lifted.

I thanked him, saying the verse did encourage me.

But for the moment I identified more with a popular song I’d heard on the radio. It was called “Learning to Live Again,” and one stanza went like this:

I’m gonna smile my best smile

And I’m gonna laugh like it’s going out of style

Look into her eyes and pray that she don’t see

That learning to live again is killing me.[15]

There’s my story, I thought as soon as I heard it. I felt the same as whoever wrote that last line: I was making progress in adjusting to life after prison, but that adjustment was taking its toll.

Being an ex-con, it appeared, might turn out to be a life sentence.

In the Red

There was no arguing with the numbers. Our family was in serious financial trouble, hundreds of thousands of dollars in the hole because of past unsuccessful real estate deals.

Gari and I refused to file for bankruptcy. We’d always paid our bills and wanted to continue that policy. The problem was how to do it.

We agreed that we’d do whatever it took. The first step was to start selling our possessions.

Anything with commercial value, we sold. We sold our home and moved into a rental. We sold our two late-model cars and started driving two that weren’t worth much more than $1,000 each. Gari’s sister Ali and her husband helped us by purchasing the few pieces of art we owned. They didn’t need the art but knew we needed the money. We appreciated their kindness.

Eventually we sold the diamond from Gari’s wedding ring. That was the worst. I already felt I’d let her down, and now it seemed we couldn’t sink any lower. Gari was more than willing to take that step, but it felt extreme and disheartening. I knew it was my fault.

Determined not to fall any deeper in debt, I was anxious to get to work and break even as quickly as possible. My brain didn’t seem to be functioning at all, but I had to try. I remembered a little poem I’d learned about faith and action. I didn’t know who’d written it, but it seemed appropriate:

Blessings come from heaven,

But there’s something you should know;

If you’re praying for potatoes,

You’d best pick up the hoe.

Ever since I’d left the halfway house I’d usually felt like crying, not working. Now I thought, Here’s the arrangement: You want God to bless you? Then get to work. Do your part.

Bible verses came to mind such as “If a man will not work, he shall not eat ” (2 Thessalonians 3:10) and “All hard work brings a profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty” (Proverbs 14:23). They made me think, What I need to do is get in my car and drive —even if it’s through tears —to wherever I can work.

Even as I drove around looking for work, on most days I wanted to pull my car over to the side of the road and cry for a while. But I felt I owed it to my family to try every day to make ends meet. I’d pray every morning that the debt wouldn’t be with us forever.

As glad as I was to be home, the prison of financial strain was almost as bad as the one with the gray bars. The pressure never let up —never even seemed to quiet down for a day or two. I would go to work, pray, think, and try my best, hoping for a breakthrough.

Finally, in addition to working for the Anschutz Family Foundation and broadcasting high school football games on the weekends, I went to work selling aluminum roofs.

My job was to go door to door in neighborhoods all over Denver and Boulder, trying to find potential customers. Since I was almost completely clueless about home repair —let alone construction —I was way out of my league as a roof salesman.

One day I was offering a man a 25-year guarantee on a roof.

He said, “Well, I’m 75 years old. I’m not sure this guarantee is of interest to me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good point.” I paused, thinking. Then I asked, “Has anyone ever talked to you about eternity?”

“No,” he said.

“So you haven’t ever thought much about faith or spiritual things?”

“Not really.”

“Would you be open to you and your wife talking with me about those topics right now?”

He said, “Yeah. We’d be very interested in that.”

So I shared the gospel with them —and they both prayed to receive Christ!

They also bought a roof.

Later they told the owner of the company what had happened. He called me into his office.

He looked a bit amused. “You’re actually a little more interested in and a little better trained for sharing Christ with people than selling aluminum roofs, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I admitted.

That’s when he and I agreed to start thinking about whether I had a viable future as a roof salesman.

I was thankful to have that job and saw God’s hand in getting it. Still, I was frustrated every day, and continued to feel sad. I would ask the Lord, Are You sure this is what I’m supposed to be doing? Because I sure don’t feel like I know what I’m doing. I don’t feel like I’m very good at it.

The sadness would hit me like a flood, unpredictably. I’d think, This is what my life is now. I’m doing the best I can, but it sure doesn’t feel right. It just feels difficult.

But I’d push through that and keep working. I thought, Maybe God can steer a moving car better than a parked car.

So I kept moving, trying to do whatever He gave me to do.

Hearing of our situation, several friends stepped up. Some helped financially, like Verley and Pearleen Sangster. Verley had been a regional Young Life leader and president of the Center for Urban Theological Studies in Philadelphia. A veteran minister and respected member of the African-American community, he was loyal and reliable.

Gari and I had helped the Sangsters buy a home once. Now, about a month after I’d left the halfway house, this couple mailed us a check for $2,000. It came with a note: “Word on the street is the brother has been making 11 cents an hour. Thought you could use a little boost. Glad you’re home.”

I called Verley and said, “Hey, with eight kids you don’t have an extra $2,000.”

He said, “That money has your name on it. Use it however you want to.”

It was a real expression of support and love —and we did need it.

Many others helped too. Phil Anschutz, along with his wife, Nancy, and his sister, Sue Anschutz-Rogers, continued to stand by us. And when we had to sell our house, Doug and Kathy Sauter made it easier by purchasing a home for us and allowing us to rent it from them. An engineer and a contractor, Doug took that small, older house and turned it into a palace for us.

My sister, Lana, and her husband, Charlie, continued to give us money, regularly pray for us, and encourage us on days when we were falling apart. So did a host of others.

Some friends helped with advice. Our friend Bobb Biehl urged me to create and maintain a list of personal positive accomplishments. The purpose: to remind me, as often as needed, that even though I was experiencing a down time, my entire life hadn’t been negative.

And then there was Helen Dye, whose parenting advice had once turned my life around. She knew about my desire to be everybody’s hero, my seeming inability to tell anybody no, and how those habits had gotten me in trouble. She told me, “Bo, because of your enthusiasm and your wisdom and your ability to speak, you promise more than it is healthy for you to deliver when you’re exhorting or encouraging someone. They think when you say that to them, that means you’re going to do it, and then you go ahead and do. That’s not good for them and it’s definitely not good for you.”

So when someone wanted to meet with me about raising money for a project —which usually meant asking me to do it —I needed to avoid becoming entangled in their proposal. Helen said, “You should just not take the meeting.”

Once again, she was right.

There were many changes I knew I should make, having had plenty of time in prison to think about them. I’d made some commitments to myself, in case I ever got out and had a life again. But to keep them I’d need all the help I could get —from friends and from the Lord.

God Is Able

One day I watched Atlanta pastor Charles Stanley on TV. His sermon that day was entitled, “God Is Able!”

It turned out to be exactly what I needed to hear.

The famed pastor’s points were that God is able to save us (Hebrews 7:25), establish us (Romans 16:25), help us (Hebrews 2:18), keep us from falling (Jude 1:24), make grace abound toward us (2 Corinthians 9:6-8), save us from the fire (Daniel 3:17-18), humble us (Daniel 4:33-35, 37), and use us (Ephesians 2:8-10).

As I listened, I began to see that God —and only God —was able to do everything. I wasn’t able to do much at all.

That came as something of a shock. For years I’d had a pretty high view of my abilities, thinking I was doing God a favor to use them for Him. I’d been a competitor, a producer, a hero. Charles Stanley was saying that I was full of it. I hadn’t been able to do any of those things I was so proud of —starting churches and ministries and hitting baseballs and sinking free throws.

Only God was able.

Often I’d thought I was the reason why successful things happened. But God was able, not me.

I had more than my share of failures mixed in, of course. But overall I told myself, Bo, you are able to get the job done for God, and God is smart to choose you to help!

What an arrogant thought! It was now hard to believe anything good was accomplished with me in the way. Only God’s grace and provision had made things happen; I’d been way off in my thinking and leadership style.

I had a wire crossed in thinking that my role was more important than anyone else’s. It was just as important to vacuum the carpet at church as it was to buy the carpet in the first place.

Just as coming into a relationship with Christ hadn’t been based on my strengths, neither was how I served Him. If He chose to use me, great; but my role was to do my best while giving all the credit to Him.

Sitting there watching the televised service, I wondered whether the biggest mistake of my life had been thinking I was in some way able to help God by starting summer camps and local TV shows. Who did I think I was?

I’d missed the truth by a mile. I knew I’d better not forget it. I needed to work as if it were up to me, but let Him use me for His glory and not mine. After all, Jesus had said, “Apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5).

I thought, Yeah, you can still do some good. But get the perspective right here. It’s God who’s able to do these things through you. It’s not you doing anything independent of Him.

I never meant to be a glory hog or a show-off. But I’m sure there were some people who saw me that way. Maybe they had a point.

I thanked Charles Stanley and God for the revelation. If Bo was able to do anything, it was only because God was able to do everything.

The best part was that it wasn’t just a chastening thought. It was freeing.

Since success wasn’t about me, I didn’t need to feel the pressure of being everybody’s hero and the solution to everybody’s problems. People needed to see God as their solution and their hero, not me!

I took notes on that sermon. It helped me understand that if someday God wanted to do something, He might use me. Maybe I would be off the bench eventually. Maybe I’d be used to do some God things.

Maybe.

Moving Mountains

As my recovery continued, my list of needed changes lengthened.

One shift I wanted to make was to stop being reckless. Too often I’d been climbing to the top of the temple and jumping off —putting God to a foolish test.

I promised Gari I’d be more cautious. There’d be no more hurried, 10-minute meetings where I signed papers as I had for the “straw borrowing” loans.

So I put together a “personal protection team” I’d consult before doing anything in business. It included Gari, an attorney, an accountant, a bookkeeper, and two friends who’d given me wise counsel.

Before prison, I’d thought there was something to be gained from moving fast. I’d assumed thinking and acting quickly were rare but needed talents. The new me thought recklessness wasn’t a good quality at all. It was just ego, pride, self-effort —even showing off.

Now, instead of rushing, I’d say, “No, I need to pray about that and talk with my personal protection team.”

Sometimes people resisted. “Well, I need to move faster than that,” they’d say.

It took a while, but eventually I became comfortable with saying, “Good. Go ahead. But you’re going without me.”

I’d learned that fast didn’t work.

Another habit I needed to form was asking more questions.

Before prison, I might ask a prospective ministry or business partner three or four questions —the most pertinent being, “Are you a Christian? Do you know the Lord?”

If someone said yes to that, I figured it told me most of what I needed to know. As the “straw borrowing” fiasco proved, that was a good way to get burned.

My natural style had been to lead with my heart and engage my head later. I learned the hard way that having your head and your heart in balance was a good thing for everybody concerned.

So after prison, I thought, There’s no harm in asking 25 questions and learning about the person, the deal, whatever you’re looking at. I learned to ask a whole lot of questions.

In addition to asking questions of other people, I was learning to ask a few of myself. One was, “Who is ministering with us, and who are we ministering to?”

I hadn’t asked that about the banker who’d wanted me to borrow money. I thought we were Christian brothers in business and ministry together.

But after he acted the way he did, I realized I should have been ministering to him, not with him. Apparently he didn’t know Christ —or at least his actions seemed to indicate that he probably didn’t.

I knew Scripture called that kind of mismatched partnership being unequally “yoked” (2 Corinthians 6:14). Being naive and overly optimistic weren’t valid excuses for the mistake I’d made. Even behind bars I’d started thinking, I need to know who’s with me and who I’m ministering to. When I get out of prison, who do I want to invest my time with? And who have I wasted enough time on?

That didn’t mean I wasn’t planning to hang around people who didn’t know Christ. It meant I’d keep my eyes open to what other people’s belief systems really were.

Another change I wanted to make was to stop playing to the crowd.

I’d seen plenty of basketball players who’d had that problem. They’d try too many fancy moves just to entertain the fans —a behind-the-back pass or an acrobatic hammer dunk. It was easy to tell when a player was oriented toward something other than winning as a team.

I’d had the same problem —maybe not on the basketball court, but in my whole approach to life. For years I’d caused my family, my friends, and myself a great deal of suffering because I oriented my life toward projects and people. I was performing for the wrong audiences. I was driven by these goals and other people’s needs —not by Christ and His lordship in my life.

I needed to live to please Christ in what I said and did. I started to focus on the question, “Would Christ approve of what I’m doing?”

Too often my project orientation had led me to use poor leadership skills with people. I’d hurt many along the way, usually unintentionally. Now I was seeing that God’s people and my love for them was much more important than any project.

When I thought about all the changes I needed to make, I wondered whether God and I would ever manage to move this mountain. Sometimes, though, I found reasons to hope.

One turned up at a Promise Keepers event the summer after I was released from prison. I ran into Coach Bill McCartney again, who apparently was still speaking to me in spite of all the tears I shed in front of his men’s group.

Bill looked at me and said, “There was a worldliness about you before prison, Bo, that is not present anymore. And I’m glad it’s gone.”

I knew the kind of worldliness he was talking about —flirting with attractions like Cherry Hills Country Club, and the seduction of money.

I was relieved he could see a difference in me.

One change down, a few thousand more to go.

Lessons Learned

Coach McCartney’s encouraging words were a big help. But it pained me to remember the day in Boulder when I’d wept uncontrollably at that speaking engagement. Ever since, I’d been reluctant to try public speaking again.

But then came another invitation. It was from a pastor in Denver, asking me to talk to his church’s men’s group. I didn’t know if I was ready. But finally I said yes.

Sitting down with paper and pen, I pondered what to say. I thought, I’ll just talk about what I’m living right now. Freshest on my mind were some of the lessons I’d learned in prison.

I called it “12 Tips So Men Can Win.” I even worked some rhymes in, making each tip a sort of catchphrase that guys could memorize.

But as the appointed date approached, I wondered whether I could pull this off. Could I function in front of a group, or would I have another meltdown?

The evening of reckoning arrived. I was introduced and stepped to the front of the room, my heart thudding in my chest. I was supposed to talk for about 45 minutes. After a few introductory remarks, I glanced at my notes and began:

1. Don’t take too long to admit when you are wrong (1 John 1:8). I told the group that when it came to prison, I wasn’t a victim. Things hadn’t gone too well for me in the judicial system, but I’d also made some bad choices that put me behind bars. So this tip meant, “Own up to your side of the deal.” When you find yourself in a mess, ask yourself what mistakes you made that contributed to it.
2. Identify, confess, and forget your sin; He died on the Cross so you could win (1 John 1:9-10). I explained that if you were too hard on yourself, wallowing in the fact that you did something wrong wasn’t good either. Identify what you did wrong, confess it to the Lord, and accept His forgiveness. No matter how much I’d messed up by making wrong decisions relating to ego and pride, I’d seen firsthand that God was in the business of fresh starts and second chances.
3. You can overcome anything —if your faith is in the King (John 3:3; 2 Corinthians 5:17). The object of your faith, I said, is a critical component. You could have faith that you’d start this year in center field for the Colorado Rockies —only to get a reality check when you realized you were 50 years old and had never been able to hit, run, or throw. Putting your faith in the King of the universe was safe, smart, and secure.
4. To avoid a mental riot, get alone with God and be quiet (Philippians 4:6-7). I described how, before prison, there was too much clutter in my mind. I took on too many things at a time, and ran constantly at a pace that wasn’t healthy. Prison was the first place I could really get quiet and learn what God was teaching me.
5. Read your Bible every day, or soon there might be hell to pay (Hebrews 4:12). Prison was also the first place I could sit still and read Scripture —two, three, sometimes four hours a day. I told the guys how I’d talked to Chuck Colson about how the Bible-reading habit could change once you’re back in the real world; Chuck and I had agreed that when you got out of prison you tended to fall back into a pace that wasn’t healthy spiritually. We couldn’t pinpoint the reasons. Maybe in prison we were more anxious to search the Scriptures because our needs were so great.
6. Every single day, take the time to pray! (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). I mentioned how, in prison, my good friend Carl and I would do our Sunday morning exercise walk. Circling around the track for about two hours, we’d pray for each inmate in the camp —roughly a hundred guys. We did so out loud with our eyes open, praying for them by name, for specific things we knew were going on in their lives. Most weren’t Christians, so we prayed for their salvation. There was time to listen to God, too, as I sat quietly in my metal chair in the corner of our room or walked around the track.
7. To set your heart and mind on things above, concentrate on building your ladder of love (Matthew 22:37-39; Colossians 3:12). I noted that when Bob Beltz and I started doing marriage retreats around 1980, we’d taught that the Scripture about loving the Lord with heart, soul, and mind laid out His order of relational priorities for us. Number one, Christ; number two, self; number three, family; number four, friends; number five, one’s fellow man. We’d described it as a ladder with five rungs. In prison I was able to think seriously about those priorities and how to live them.
8. Honor your wife every day of your life! (Ephesians 5:25). I explained how Gari had gone above and beyond what would be expected of a wife when I was in prison. We not only remained married; our marriage improved as well. Now I chose my words more carefully when I talked to her, and was committed to my personal protection team —of which she was the captain. She’d become more of a partner in everything we did.
9. The law of the harvest you should know; you’ll eventually reap the seeds that you sow (Galatians 6:7-8). This is more or less what I’d said to my kids in Phil Anschutz’s conference room before going into court for my hearing. “It’s harvesttime, and some of this harvest is already bad. But there will be good parts to this harvest also.” I told the men that the seeds we’d sown in friendship reaped a bountiful harvest in prison, as evidenced by the letters and support we received. I’d contributed to the negative harvest by planting bad seeds, making bad choices. I’d done too much, too fast, too arrogantly.
10. Take daily action to communicate; write, call, encourage —love in action is great! (James 2:17). Having experienced this 137-day period where I’d written letters and sat at visitation, deeply communicating with family and friends, I felt even more responsible to “catch someone in the act of doing something good and tell them about it.” I admitted to the guys that I hadn’t always stopped to say, “You’re doing a good job,” or “You have the right personality for this.” Now I tried to do it daily.
11. Do not get entangled in worldly affairs; keeping things simple will limit your cares (2 Timothy 2:4). The last couple of years had taught me that simplicity could protect me from dangers I didn’t even know were lurking. Now I didn’t want to do needlessly complicated and entangling things like borrowing money for friends or from a bank for that matter, or forming partnerships with people I didn’t know well. Not counting the cost up front had set me up for problems.
12. No matter how deep you are in the hole, remember that God is still in control (Revelation 4:2). I told the men that in prison, incredible peace would come from thinking, I’m sitting in the stairwell here, in a federal prison cellblock, but I still don’t doubt God’s in control. I’d prayed that I would learn all the lessons I could through this experience. I believed that how you conducted yourself in The Hole affected how soon you’d get out of it. When you commited to the Lord, even in prison you could see God’s power released.

And then I was done.

I’d cried a few times during the talk, briefly. But this time, the message had been delivered.

I sat down, relieved that the Boulder disaster appeared to be behind me. The group and the pastor seemed happy with what I had to say, and I was happy to have said it in a way that didn’t leave anybody sobbing —especially me.

It was a small step, but it seemed to be in the right direction.

Making Progress

Some things were looking up.

Ashley was having a great time back at the University of Kansas, earning good grades. Andy had been offered a full scholarship to play football at the University of Colorado, which made us all very proud and happy.

Well, I told myself, you haven’t completely disrupted your children’s lives.

My job situation, though, was another matter.

I’d been selling aluminum roofs for about six months. I’d done the best I could. I’d done it faithfully, anyway —and the boss seemed pleased with me.

I wasn’t pleased, though. I was miserable.

About that time I got a call from my friend Richard Beach. His organization, Doulos Ministries —which specialized in discipling, training, and placing Christian servant leaders to help youth and their families —was having a problem. Doulos was a little short every year of raising the funds to meet its budget. In fact, at the moment they were in such bad shape that their employees were five paychecks behind.

Richard asked me to fly to Branson, Missouri, with him to help.

Soon I was sitting with the board of directors. For an hour and a half we discussed possible solutions.

Suddenly the chairman of the board asked me to step out of the room.

“Have I done something wrong?” I asked.

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “You’ve done something right. But we need a private discussion here.”

When I returned to the room, the board offered to hire me as a consultant. I was asked whether I could raise a certain amount of money to help the ministry with its financial problems. I believed that with God’s help, I could.

It was the first time anyone had treated me that way. It felt good.

For decades I’d been asked to raise money for Christian causes —but always as a volunteer. It had never crossed my mind that someone might pay me for what I’d been trained for 20 years to do, since the time I’d quit pro baseball and worked as a fund-raiser at the University of Colorado.

The board and I came to an agreement. I became a part-time fund-raiser instead of a part-time salesman of aluminum roofs. Richard and the ministry and I did well together, and eventually we caught up on those paychecks.

It was a great blessing for my family. Counting the part-time job with the Anschutz Family Foundation, we could now meet our income needs.

In my euphoria, I told Gari, “We’re getting back off the bench.”

But in my darker moments, I wasn’t so sure.

Despite my progress, I still managed to cry every day.

About a year after my release from prison, I finally decided to see a counselor. A friend recommended a lady named Mary.

Going into the first session, I was doubtful. After the two bad experiences I’d had with counselors, I wasn’t exactly filled with trust. But I couldn’t stomach the endless emotional roller coaster anymore.

“Mary,” I said, “I’m sick of the sound of my own voice. I’m sick of my story. So the sooner you start talking, the sooner I can quiet down and stop explaining all this —and the more likely it is I’ll come back here for a second visit.”

About 20 minutes into that first appointment, she said, “Okay, you can stop. I can help you.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Have you ever read a book called Boundaries?”

“Never heard of it,” I said. “But the word intrigues me.”

She told me about the book by Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend. It had been published while I was in prison. Setting boundaries, Mary explained, was learning to say no —not taking on every project that came my way. Just hearing her description made me feel a little better.

Then she said, “You’re really not very good at setting boundaries for yourself. Consequently, you’re probably not very good at letting other people set boundaries for themselves.”

It was the first time I really understood that saying no could be a good thing. It was a way to protect myself and my family.

Nobody else was going to do that for me. I was used to attending meetings and hearing things like, “We need to raise $2 million. So how are we going to do it?”

“Well,” I’d say, “there are 20 of us. Why don’t we each raise $100,000?”

“No, that doesn’t work. Why don’t you raise a million and a half, Bo, and the other 19 of us will raise the other $500,000?”

I didn’t have time for that, and I didn’t have two hours a day every week for people to pick my brain about their next ministry vision. I knew that at the end of every meeting they’d ask, “Can you give me a list of your friends I can call and ask for money?”

“No,” I’d have to answer. As Helen Dye had suggested, better I should say that word in the beginning to avoid those meetings entirely.

I needed to say “no” to other requests too. In the 1970s and 1980s, one former friend would call me every few months and say, “My wife and I have overdrawn our account by $1,500 or so. Could you cover it for us?”

Since he was in tears and was my friend, I’d gift him the money and do it again when he called the next time. Things like this would happen with others, too, over and over. All of that needed to stop!

So Boundaries helped. When I read it, I saw that I’d been at everybody’s beck and call. That wasn’t how I was supposed to operate. I’m called to serve Christ, I reminded myself. I’m not called to be the answer to everyone’s problems.

Later, Mary helped me with another insight. One day she asked, “What word would you use to describe yourself, Bo?”

“Misunderstood,” I replied. “Can you help me understand why I’m so misunderstood?”

She paused, then nodded, “Yeah. You’re tall, you’re smart, you’re well-spoken, you’re loud, you process quickly, and you’re successful. To some people, that’s just overpowering.”

She hesitated, then continued. “I think, now that I know you, that all you’ve ever tried to do is empower people. So where the misunderstanding comes is that you’re trying to empower, and people get overpowered.”

I pondered that for a moment. “So how can I get better?”

“Well, when you say ‘could,’ or ‘should,’ that puts the power in your possession and is overpowering the other person,” she said. “If you slow down and say, ‘Would you be interested in my opinion?’ and they say, ‘Yes, I would,’ then they’ve invited you to give them your opinion.”

I thought of an example immediately. I could recall how my kids had reacted to my unsolicited advice.

When Andy was in tenth grade, I’d said, “You should be a big-time college kicker and punter. You don’t even have to get better. All you have to do is get more consistent. And you could take it all the way to a full scholarship at a big school.”

In Andy’s case that had worked fine; he’d taken it as encouragement. He’d said, in essence, “I’m putting my shoes on right now and I’m gonna go kick!”

But it hadn’t worked with Ashley. If I said, “You should be in the lead role in the school play because you have a better voice and more stage presence than that other girl, and you could be in any play you wanted to try out for,” she’d do exactly the opposite.

“Really?” she’d say sarcastically. “Well, thank you, Dad. Now I’ll go out for the tennis team instead. I’m not even going to do the school play.”

I’d overpowered her —and probably a lot of other people.

I sighed. Another lesson to learn.

How would I ever learn everything I was supposed to, much less apply it? This business of being refined never seemed to end —though I was beginning to wish it would.

On the Radio

Ever since the day I’d been sentenced, Jim Dobson had been nudging Gari and me to be guests on his Focus on the Family radio broadcast. He’d wanted us to do it even before I’d gone to prison, but we’d felt overwhelmed by everything else. He’d wanted us to do it while I was behind bars, to record the program at Camp Englewood itself. Now, in the spring of 1994, he was asking again.

This time we said yes. I was reluctant, knowing how close to the surface my emotions still were, and how I was struggling to learn the right lessons. I’d managed to make it through “12 Tips So Men Can Win” at the church in Denver, but this was different. I didn’t feel ready. And I knew Jim had a way of encouraging people to share their feelings on his show.

Sure enough, I choked up frequently during the interview. And my answers seemed too long to me.

As I’d told my counselor, I was sick of my story, sick of hearing my own voice. And sick of crying.

The broadcast received a good response from listeners. A prison inmate wrote this in a letter:

Dear Bo and Gari,

I am currently serving a six-month sentence in the [county jail] for commission of various offenses. . . . On March 9, 1994, I heard your interview on the Focus on the Family program. I just want you to know how much that program meant to me. My wife was also listening to the program at our home.

Your testimony helped me develop a new relationship with Jesus Christ. This new strength has given me the encouragement and inspiration to look to a new beginning. As I learn more about God’s unconditional love, I am discovering how to be accountable and to accept the subsequent discipline involved. I have also learned to replace my pride with humility and meekness. It is for this reason that I am glad my mistakes and deceit were finally discovered. Without this failure, I would still be controlled by pride and not the grace of God. With the help of the Lord, I will become the person I want to be, an honorable and responsible man. My past mistakes and failures will have a meaning.

Then there was this, from another inmate:

No, it is not pleasant how we are transformed into the image of Christ, but if we will trust, adhere, rely on His voice, guidance, and will to do what He deems necessary, then God will open the door to His power. I don’t know you, have never met you, and never even heard of you before today, but brother, if you will seek God with all your strength, He will give you a vision of His will. He will burn it into your heart, and nothing else will matter. There’s a work the Master is bidding you to do. “Seek and you shall find.”

But I was tired of seeking. Tired of finding. Tired of explaining.

Most of all, I was tired of crying.

I’d been crying practically every day for nearly three years.

It seemed I’d never be able to escape the weight of my imprisonment, the underlying sadness that wouldn’t go away.

I’d been making some changes. But if I was going to survive emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and maybe even physically, I was going to have to make one more.

It was a big one.

Gari’s Story

Many friends stepped up to help our family before and after Bo was released from prison. Some gave money, some brought food, some called, some wrote Bo letters. This meant the world to us.

One example of this incredible support came from a man named Dave, who attended our church. He was in a group of people who gathered weekly to pray for our family.

Every couple of weeks Dave would call me to get a report and ask, “How can we help you?”

I’d have all this amazing stuff to tell him —ways in which God had provided something, or protected Bo and the rest of us, or sent a whisper that He was still in control.

Dave would say, “I call to encourage you, and all you do is encourage me!”

I told him, “Well, God is here. And He is with us, and He is sustaining us. And you’re part of that with your prayers.”

As for our struggle to relate to the few former friends who’d made things harder for us when Bo was in prison, that was tough for Andy and Ashley, too.

Psychologists say that all anger comes from a deep hurt, and I think Bo’s imprisonment and the disloyalty of certain people hurt us all deeply, especially Andy. Our children were loyal; they didn’t like the man who admitted saying untrue things to hurt Bo during the prison days. They didn’t even want to hear the man’s name.

I would just say, “It’s not your battle. You need to let it go.”

That wasn’t easy, and this situation was extremely painful for our family.

I knew it was also painful for Bo to take the job selling aluminum roofs so he could support the family. I appreciated him doing anything. He has always been a hard worker.

When it came to all the changes Bo had made and continued to make, I could see many of them. I became number one on his priority list —partly because he needed me so much and I needed him, too. But to tell the truth, it was a little hard to get used to having someone care so much. I’d never had that before in my life. But it lasted.

I’d already decided that I needed to act as normal as possible even if I didn’t feel that way. Bo and I did the best we could for the next three years —the rebuilding years.

I wasn’t improving physically too much during that time, but I was able to function to some degree. Bo kept working hard, and we both enjoyed our kids and their activities. We’d always been their best cheering squad and celebrated their successes.

I tried hard to create a climate in our home that made it a sanctuary from the pressures of the world. Since life was at times chaotic when I was growing up, I wanted people to feel comfort, calmness, and security when they were in our house —even if Bo and I didn’t always feel that way as we lived through this period.

When we started selling things to stay afloat, my world didn’t come crashing down.

In other words, selling my wedding ring wasn’t quite the emotional experience one might assume. To Bo it was. But to me, at that point, it was just stuff. We needed to get Ashley through college, and I was thankful we had so many things we could sell.

Naturally I wanted things to return to normal, but Bo still had that underlying sadness.

I knew he was doing the best he could. But it was a sad time; neither Bo’s emotions nor his mind seemed to be operating normally. Helen would ask him, “Can’t you just get out of this?”

I remember driving around one day with Bo. He said, “You see that property right there?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“If I was in good shape, I would be doing a business deal on that, make some money. But I can’t even think clearly.”

He probably wished I was better too. With me operating at perhaps 50 percent of capacity, things were much harder for him.

For us, this period was a watershed. There was Before Prison and After Prison.

I kept hoping that After Prison would be the better part. Sometimes, though, I had to wonder. But I always believed we’d see light at the end of this tunnel.