"Wearing red baggie pants, a green shirt, a bell tinkling on his Santa's hat, T.J. frowns at me with a wink. 'I'm the Grinch!' I laugh and he darts back to his chores of carrying boxes and organizing tables laden with gift bags. I wave good bye to him as 1 leave the gym with the Christmas care packages that the community has so generously provided for us. T.J. cautions me not to use all my new shampoo at once.

This memory of T.J. hugs me persistently and year-round. T.J. used to be one of the annual Christmas elves at the Fluvanna Correctional Center, the maximum-security prison for approximately 1,200 women. Every year he enjoyed dressing up in silly clothes to bring a little joy to the bleak Christmas season at the prison. He thought this kindness was ordinary.

T.J. and I both arrived at FCCW in 1998. I transfered in from another prison; he came in answer to God's call. 'God told me to get out of church politics,' he told me and then smiled shyly. 'But I'm still on the church building committee.'

After 37 years with the Department of Agriculture and traveling in as many countries, including living in Pakistan for three, he came to prison after praying to work with real people who had real problems. He thought it was an ordinary prayer.

T.J. and his wife, Willie Mae, his ministry companion, met when he was a senior in agriculture college. For 43 years they shared the Christian adventure. Together they served at the prison leading Bible studies, discipling one-on-one with inmates and supporting the behind-the-scenes machinery of a dynamic and large chaplaincy. Together they counted and packaged thousands of pieces of stationary, delivered donations to shelters, purchased and donated books, raised funds and made themselves available for all the mundane tasks--hours at the photocopier--that made so many inmate programs possible. T.J. thought this an ordinary way to spend his time and energy. Willie Mae continues to pour her love and time and energy into Fluvanna.

Aside from the love, wisdom, good humor and kindness of the Byram presence in our midst, their Christian lifestyle and attitude extended to every corner of their lives. For holidays they visited with missionaries and attended prayer vigils in the Middle East. Except in 2002--T.J. would hang his head and smile mischievously when he spoke about it--when they fulfilled a lifelong dream and traveled to Alaska.

When T.J. was at home, but not in the prison, he served in his local church, Effort Baptist, and mentored a young man recently released from prison. He thought this was an ordinary way to live.

I used to tease T.J.. about being 'ordinary.' He quipped back, 'Like every other guy, I put my pants on one leg at a time!'

It's true he was a man who grew up in the most humble and ordinary of circumstances: without electricity or indoor plumbing. Moreover, he was only the second in his famiily to graduate from college (but was the first to talk with heads of state.) T.J. even looked like an ordinary guy (except when dressed as the Grinch) in his jeans and flannel shirts. However, only a brief conversation with him revealed his extraordinary passion for God.

He truly believed that a purposeful and meaningful life was fueled by prayer and by making ourselves available to God instead of being busy with our own plans and agendas. He shrugged off excuses about inadequancy with a twinkle in his eye.

'All the people in the Bible were just ordinary folks who didn't make excuses-'cept for Moses.' T.J. thought his perspective was nothing out of the ordinary.

What I loved most about T.J. was that he was totally down to earth. He freely admitted that prision ministry was way outside of his comfort zone, but he didn't allow that to stop him from loving us with all of his time and energy. He frequently acknowledged that his years with the Department of Agriculture had prepared him for this ministry because it taught him how to talk with anyone. In truth however, T.J. did more listening than talking. He spent many hours listening and absorbing the hurt and pain of broken, abused, bitter and angry women. He spent many hours using his administrative gifts organizing, troubleshooting and navigating through the extensive prison bureaucracy, chaplain services and their politics.

Furthermore, T.J. did more suggesting than preaching. For example, in our in-depth Bible study where we spent a whole year on just 13 chapters of I Corinthians, T.J. tried to corral us into stewardship. After much debate within the group, he innocently remarked, 'So do you want to form a committee on that?' T.J. thought he had an ordinary sense of humor.

His goal was for the inmates to develop their own relationship with God so that God could heal and transform their lives and then those inmates could encourage and minister to other inmates. He envisioned an inmate church that functioned on the general principles of Alcoholics Anonomyous or Narcotics Anonymous: a person who has experienced internal healing and transformation guides a person who is hurting and hungry. T.J.'s eyes would sparkle and shine when he related how he had begun in 1999 praying for an inmate church. At that time, there was no evidence of any inmate-led church and seemingly no way in a maximum-security prison for such a thing to happen. Now in 2004, many of the living units have a prayer group or Bible study that meets regularly--all led by inmates. T.J. thought his vision was ordinary.

Nonetheless, T.J. didn't experience total satisfaction in his ministry. He confided that he had moments of discouragement and feeling of failure and inadequacy. He was a man who liked to see results and often the fruit of his labor was disappointing. I asked T.J. how he dealt with his perceived failures and he admitted that he had to battle with his definition of success. In the beginning, when he counseled someone who later landed in segregation for misbehavior, he felt at though he had failed. However, he began to see that he was part of a larger success. T.J. would say, 'God always takes the long view and very often we can't see past our spectacle rims.' He began to see himself as a seed sower, as an initiator and enabler of the process. (One of the greatest consolations to me after T.J.'s death was that he would now know the incredible fruits of his labors. I hope he derives much pleasure in the results.) T.J. was the person who always came back, who faithfully and unconditionally was always here, available, attentive and helpful. Moreover, T.J. thought his love was ordinary.

When I asked T.J. who he thought he most resembled in the Bible, I thought he would say Abraham, since he responded to God's call to venture onto foreign turf and had the promise of endless spritual children, but he said Peter. I suppose I looked astonished and he explained: 'He was impulsive and fickle, impatient and I really have to work on these things.'

'How in the world can you say you're impatient?' I rolled my eyes. 'Good grief.'

'Well, he replied and put a finger to his lip, which he always did when he was striving for tact. 'I'd rather ask for forgiveness than permission.' It was this quality of boldness, of pushing the boundaries of his life, that made T.J. such a powerful tool in the hands of God. Just as Peter's undisciplined rashness got him into trouble; in the Master's hands, this weakness became strength that spread the gospel and built churches. But then again, his spiritual mentor was an ordinary fisherman.

A couple of weeks before T.J.'s death, I had sat down and talked with him about a crisis of faith and ministry struggles. How to keep going when everything works against you? In response he quoted one of his all-time favorite scriptures. 'Greater is he in me than who is in the world (1 John 4:4).' T.J. was ever aware that it was Jesus Christ who made him special. This awareness made him fearless and gentle, submissive and steadfast and loving to the unlovable. He saw himself only as God's clay pot. And he wanted so much for each of us to know that we, broken felonious women, could also be vessels of God's glory and have a purpose in the world and a place in the kingdom.

'God,' T.J. would eye me with his twinkle, 'is no respecter of persons.'

When I asked T.J. for advice on how others could serve God as he did, he replied: 'We have to be careful that we don't think more highly than we ought of ourselves. The reasons we come [to serve] are more important than what we do after we get here. The Holy Spirit is the teacher who opens hearts and understanding. Without the Holy Spirit, we have ears but do not hear.'

Of course, T.J. believed he was just an ordinary teacher.

T.J. saw opportunities to serve and responded with faithfulness, obedience and love. He never saw anything odd or extraordinary about what he did. This article would mortify him.

'Tell them how Jesus heals hearts and transforms lives,' he would urge. 'Tell them that I loved you guys because I would want someone to look out for my daughters in the same way.'

But what I really want to tell you is how this life, the life of T.J. Byrum, is proof of how the touch of ordinary kindness, a common courtesy, thoughtfulness and compassion becomes significant and large when you are a social leper.

In his own eyes, T.J. may have been an ordinary guy but he was a friend to me and the women of Fluvanna and he made an extraordinary Christmas elf." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, August 26, 2004)

Lake Monticello resident T.J. Byram was killed in a Route 53 cycling accident on July 17.

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. She is serving a 90 year sentence as an accessory to the murder of her parents in 1985. This column is from a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'