I hope you’ve been to prison before. As one of our volunteers, of course. To those that have – Hi!!! We are so grateful for the countless ways that you serve those in need. And to those that haven’t – we invite you to come alongside us as we minister to our incarcerated neighbors. Simply reply to this email to find out how you can be a part of our team. But even if you’ve been to prison before, you’ve probably never been inside a cell. I’ve been working for HeartBound

January 14, 2006. The setting was Washington State Prison in Davisboro, Georgia. HeartBound Ministries had invited a man to speak who knew firsthand what it meant to be behind those walls - James “Hollywood” Henderson, a former Georgia inmate and five-time national and world bench-press powerlifting champion. “Hollywood” is a force of nature, a gifted speaker with an extraordinary ability to command a room. He could walk into a crowd of rowdy men and, before long, have them s

Inside Whitworth Women’s Facility and Metro Transitional Center, something remarkable is happening. Women who once wondered what their future could possibly hold are earning college degrees, studying Scripture, and training to become Christian leaders. This isn't simply a college program. It's a second chance. Since 2018, HeartBound Ministries has partnered with New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary and now Truett McConnell University to provide an accredited Christian Stu

He did not wear a look of pride. His hands shook as he held the paper up. He read quickly and quietly. I might have caught two out of every four words. When he finished reading, he bowed his head and made his way to the back of the room. He pulled headphones down over his ears. I tried to flash him a smile and an encouraging thumbs up, but he avoided me, staring straight ahead at nothing. Later, when I tried to talk to him, he lightly shook my hand and uttered a pol

I could feel her desperation. The desperation of a mother who has run out of options. I scrolled through my phone, trying to make sense of the slew of emails. There were six emails, all forwarded to me with no context. I passed my phone to Lillian, our intern for the summer, hoping she could make better sense of what the mother was asking for from me. Lillian was silent as she focused on the chain of emails. After a few moments of visible confusion, I heard her click

Hot’s mouth was running a mile a minute. Hot has what we call “the gift of gab.” A body in motion stays in motion and Hot’s always on the move – whether it’s moving his mouth or waving his hands while he speaks animatedly to you about whatever is on his mind. You never know what he’ll say. Everyone seems to be his Uncle or “Cuz” or partner. He’s a natural born hustler, friends with everyone he encounters – guards and inmates alike. I’m not sure how he got the moniker “Ho

Something was different about Kyle. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Finally, it hit me. “Kyle,” I said. “Did you shave?” He smiled and raised a hand to his face. He stroked his beard. It looked like it’d been styled earlier that morning. “You noticed?” he asked. “Of course I did. You look so much better. I like the look.” He threw his shoulders back and stood a little taller. “I finally decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. When I first got here, I adopt

“’Juice, jam, jelly.’ You guys know what time it is.” We proceeded around the table. Before us were plates heaping with mac and cheese, pork tenderloin, and baked beans. A song by Wilco played in the background. We ate while we shared one by one. Here’s how it works. On the third Tuesday of every month, HeartBound hosts a small-group meeting at the Atlanta Transitional Center in Midtown Atlanta. I cook dinner for the men and we all break bread together, play “juice, jam,

The man who stood before me was not the same boy that I’d met three years ago. He stood resolutely before the class, hands firmly grasping the paper before him. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “A while back I went to an AA/NA meeting to speak, to tell my story,” he began. I looked at him carefully. The baby fat on his cheeks had disappeared. He was now lean and tall, string-bean-esque. His black beard, though wispy and far from complete, no longer sported th

Jody knelt in the soil. Her hands raked the earth over the roots. She moved slowly and deliberately. A careful song and dance. A few weeks ago, Jody had asked me if we could plant a memorial to her deceased daughter. Almost a year ago to the day, her daughter had perished from a fentanyl overdose. She was only 23. That morning I’d wandered the garden center, looking for the perfect plant to serve as a memorial to her daughter. I thought I would find something delica

Understanding prisons and the people who are held within them isn’t always easy. What I’ve generally found is that the incarcerated carry a lifetime of trauma. Abusive childhoods. Drug addictions. A litany of tragedies that led them to crime and incarceration. Sometimes the trauma is visible – scars, tattoos of pistols or drugs. When I walk through the men’s prisons where HeartBound serves, I see trauma almost immediately. Many of the men wear harsh faces and limp while t

“Wait, wait, wait.” The boy pointed at the screen. He squinted his eyes. “You got $401,000?” he asked. The other kids sat up in their chairs. “Mr. Spencer,” another exclaimed. “You rich!” I couldn’t help but laugh. The classroom had gone from quiet and concentrated to an erupting caldron of excited looks and whispers. The boys couldn’t believe how rich their financial literacy teacher was. I waved my hands to hush the class. “Guys, guys, guys. That’s not $401,00

Cati had a request. “Can you get us a hummingbird feeder?” I rolled my eyes. Surely a hummingbird wouldn’t visit a prison, I thought to myself. But who am I to tell them no? “Let’s try it,” I said. Thanks to the support of donors like you, our Roots to Reentry class had previously built a greenhouse, a pond for water lilies, a compost bin, and a worm farm. Cati had spoken with the other students and they wanted to try something new. I ordered a hummingbird feede

A few months back, I had the honor of speaking at the “Faith and Justice” night sponsored by Trinity Anglican Church. Members of the community had gathered to hear from HeartBound and the Police Alternative Division (PAD) about ways that we as a church community can support our justice-involved neighbors. I am one of those people who cannot be quiet when I see injustice. I feel as if it is my duty to speak up. What I see happening in the Georgia prison system today is sim

Last August, I wrote a list of thirty things I’d like to do before I turned thirty. My then-girlfriend, Madi (who is now my wife!!), had done something similar for her thirtieth birthday. She encouraged me to do the same. I thought about the things I wanted to accomplish in a year’s time. Get engaged. Travel internationally. Visit that mysterious place they call “H Mart.” Some fun, some serious. We had a good time coming up with things to add to the list. But I began to

I called Larry back and waited patiently. One ring, then two, then three. Part of me was hoping that he didn’t answer. It was past 7:30; I was ready to be logged off for the day. I’d already worked a full day and was ready to just drive home and listen to music rather than talk on the phone. Just before I reached his voicemail, he picked up. His voice was somber and quiet. I told him I had about 10 minutes to catch up before I was back home. He apologized for “bothering

I’ve taught Lamar for nearly two years now. In those two years, I would bet good money that he’s only finished a third of all our assignments. There’s a part of me that wants to kick him out of class. To offer up his spot to someone else – someone who will do the work, who will actually try. But then there’s a part of me that knows there’s more to the story. I learned the “more to” Lamar’s story the other day. I was glad I hadn’t listened to my head and followed my hear

I nervously glanced in my rearview mirror. I could feel my heart pulsing. I ran through the scenarios in my head. Someone rear ending me. A sharp turn. A blown tire. One wrong move and thousands and thousands of angry, pent-up bees would be suddenly released from the cage sitting in my back seat. I shifted the car into drive. “Here goes nothing,” I thought. The hum of the bees grew louder with the car in motion. There was nothing to do but pray. Let me explain. Al

The braids twirled through the sky. The beads in her hair jingled in the wind. She twirled over and over, cartwheeling across the yard. The smile on her face shone bright. She paused for a second and waved to me. Then she returned to her cartwheels, travelling across the prison yard. One cartwheel after another after another. I felt the sun shine on my cheeks, the warmth enveloping me. I heard the sounds of the families playing and talking around me. I looked around. Re

We can’t will our way to a less cruel world. Tweeting, putting up a yard sign, even voting, these things are good, but they aren’t going to get us to where we need to be. The just, kind, healthy world we all desire can only arrive one way – through love. God’s love. I was reading about Jericho the other day. I recounted the old Veggie Tales episode of Jericho, the cucumbers and tomatoes marching around the city, blowing their horns until the walls crumbled down. My how