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

“To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left.” I couldn’t hold back any longer. I started laughing, doing my best not to interrupt the scene unfurling before me. There we were, in the depths of a prison, men and women, free and incarcerated, black, white, Hispanic, and everything in between, singing Beyoncé together. What a surreal scene. Ashley sang, “You must not know ‘bout me, you must not know ‘bout me.” Will, an incarcerated man in his 40s,

Clods of earth arced through the sky. I ducked. Soil rained down on my pants and shoes. I looked up and saw a mischievous smile. “Sorry Mr. Spence!” she cried out. “Don’t be sorry,” I chuckled. “These pants are made to get dirty.” She wiped a hand to her forehead, brushing aside the sweat-laden hair plastered to her forehead. She let out a deep breath and turned, sinking her shovel back in the dirt. Shortly after, another clod flew over my shoulder. I decided to

He eagerly reached for the guitar. “You’re going to teach me?” he asked. “Of course,” I said. “By the end of today, you’ll have learned three songs.” “Aw man,” he said. “My dad plays guitar. He’s going to be so proud of me.” My ears perked up. This would be an easy student to teach. If his dad played guitar, surely he’d taught his son a thing or two. My how I was wrong. Very, very, wrong. He struggled mightily. His hands could barely reach across the fretboard. He k

His face was battered. He squinted to see through the slits in his swollen eyes. Shades of black and blue surrounded his orbital bones. He’d taken a beating. I wanted to turn away in horror. I wanted to ask him to stop staring at us. A guard called out to him. “Keep it moving.” He let his eyes close as he tilted his face upwards. A ray of sunshine beamed down on him. “I’m just enjoying the garden,” he said softly. “I’ll get moving.” He drew a deep breath, smiled, then

Dak wore a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that can’t be faked. The only word I have for it is glee. Dak was full of glee. His race radiated joy. I smiled back. And to think, just a few weeks ago I’d completely written him off. One Tuesday morning Dak wandered into our horticulture classroom. Because of construction, our classroom had been moved to the prison’s library. The library is located next to the medical offices. That means that anyone in lin

My eyes and lungs burned. I wanted to cough, vomit, anything to get rid of the burning sensation deep inside my lungs. We shuffled down the hallway, each of us coughing, wheezing, desperate for breath, trying not to puke. Fred called out to me, “Mr. Spence, you okay?” I was trying to act like the pepper spray deployed moments before hadn’t bothered me, but the jig was up. I coughed a warbled reply, “Yeah.” Our first class was not off to a good start. A loud voice echoed

“There’s no calvary coming. No white knight riding in on a horse. No politician, no movement, nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s up to you.” The men nodded along solemnly. I prayed my words would find a place in their hearts. I prayed that this time would be different, that someone would heed my cry, that someone would step up. The old adage is true. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. I’d led the horses to water. Now it was up to them to drink. I’ve sha

I cried. I am not ashamed to admit it. I cried. And not a little either. One man, Cody, had graduated from HeartBound’s Malachi Dads program at Walker State Prison. His fellow graduates had elected him to be the testimonial speaker for the program. He stood resolutely behind the podium, nerves steeled, brimming with confidence. He spoke with pride and clarity. A model speaker if I’ve ever seen one. He’d been taught well. Here are his words. “I always wanted to be

I went down the list, carefully reading each line out loud. Each time the men answered yes, they were to discreetly make a mark. #1. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often swear at you, insult you, put you down, or humiliate you? Did they act in a way that made you afraid that you might be physically hurt? #2. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often push, grab, slap, or throw something at you? Did they ever hit you so har

I had an idea. A grand vision. It came to me on the treadmill. Over the last five or six months, I’ve started running without any headphones, phone, TV, watch, or other form of entertainment. I just run. I let my mind wander. It’s wonderful. This idea was my best yet. I was certain of it. We’d gotten approval from one prison’s warden to begin a new beekeeping program. My mom made room in the budget for us to purchase supplies and start in the spring. The men were extr

They came bounding down the walkway. “HORTICULTUREEEEEE, HORTICULTUREEEEEE,” they called out. I hadn’t seen the boys in two weeks. They were eager to be back in class. The previous two classes had been cancelled due to a medical emergency and a statewide lockdown. We were all happy to be back in the classroom. As the boys come running to class, I stand by the door and “dap” them up. It’s the highlight of my Tuesday, these small check-ins with them. That Tuesday, one stu

Pain poured off the pages. Hopes and fears and dreams written in black ink and graphite, scrawled on pieces of torn composition paper. The more I read, the more I regretted giving the assignment. Their hurt was becoming my hurt, their fears my own. But I had to push through. They’d done the work; it was my duty to grade it. Reading their responses, I knew I couldn’t just stamp a letter grade on the cover page and move along. I had to do more. I opened up my laptop and ope

I’d waited for this moment all week. Over the past two years or so I’ve been leading a guitar class for incarcerated youth at the Metro Regional Youth Detention Center. Every Thursday from 3-4:30, I meet with three to six incarcerated boys ranging in age from 12 to 20, teaching them guitar. When I first began this class, I didn’t know how to play guitar. I’ve learned right along with my students. I’m not half-bad (my roommate who hears me practice would argue otherwise –