Audrey entered the room with a nervous energy that filled the air, thick and unmistakable. ​ “Is this the program where we get to read for our kids?” she asked, her voice filled with enthusiasm.   “Yes,” I replied.   A few minutes passed as we waited for other women to arrive. I realized that she’d be our only reader that afternoon. Normally, that might have left me feeling disappointed. But not today. Today felt different. We sat together and talked about choosing books for

They call him “Grasshopper.”   I don’t know his government name and if I were to ask around the prison, I doubt anyone else does. Just Grasshopper.   Grasshopper has spent more time in prison than anyone I’ve ever met. Over fifty years. He’s a short guy with a mean attitude.   Grasshopper doesn’t like me. He is one of the prison’s orderlies, meaning, he’s essentially tasked with doing the bidding of the prison’s administration. He walks staff down the hallway, conducts inspec

I recently read an article about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) being used by nonprofits in Chicago to prevent violence. Murder rates are falling nationwide and sociologists are trying to figure out why. Some believe CBT programming might be one of the reasons. I filed the article away in my mind, thinking that CBT might be worth trying in prisons one day. We are always looking for “what works”.   Later that week, I was at Burruss Correctional Training Center for a gradua

We wish you could’ve been with us at Whitworth Women’s Facility—but in a way, you were. You’ve been with us all along.   Grace, Andrea, I, and HeartBound board members Lucy Fugate and Lara Woods gathered to celebrate the third graduating class of the seminary program. In case you didn’t know, HeartBound funds the first and only seminary program for incarcerated women in the state of Georgia. To date, 16 women have received associate degrees and 11 have received bachelor’s deg

Today, I want to tell you about Tristan.   Tristan and I did not get off on the right foot.   I write to tell you about how far he’s come and what he’s accomplished. His story is one of the countless stories we encounter time and time again at HeartBound Ministries, thanks to your support, prayers, and a lot of help from God.   The first time I met Tristan, he was not happy to see me. He wore a scowl on his face.   I instinctually knew that it was his first day in “big boy pr

I asked the room, “Show of hands, how many of you have disappointed before?”   Before I could glance up from the lectern I continued, “Okay, I see that it’s everyone. Good.”   “You see, I’ve come to realize something. Everything in life will let you down. Your family and your friends will let you down. The parole board will let you down. Your teacher (pointing to myself), will let you down. Your girlfriend or wife will let you down. Sports will let you down, you’ll either get

“Spence, how old are you?”  I didn’t even know his name. It was his first day in our horticulture class at Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison. He’d introduced himself earlier but was so quiet I couldn’t understand what he was saying.   “Twenty-eight,” I replied. We’d spent the last hour or so working side by side in the garden. New to the class, he volunteered for the easiest task, clearing rocks out of the garden beds. As I watched him pick up rock after rock, I sa

Jasmine sat in front of a sewing machine for the first time, her hands fidgeting with unfamiliar knobs, her voice edged with frustration. She had come to HeartBound’s quilting class at the Metro Transitional Center, unsure of what to expect—and even more unsure of herself.   I stood beside her and gently pointed out the parts of the machine, explaining how they worked together. “Yes, you will,” I told her. “Because we’re here to teach you, to help you, and to show you how to

If you’ve ever “bombed” in front of a crowd, you’ll understand how I was feeling. But let me back up before I explain.   A torrential downpour welcomed me as soon as I arrived at our monthly Tuesdays Together meeting at the Atlanta Transitional Center. I was drenched to the bone as I waited outside for the volunteers to arrive.   I glanced at my watch—three minutes to showtime. Only four volunteers had arrived. We’d been averaging 15 the past few months. I figured the rain ha

I’ve been with HeartBound for four years now.   Whenever someone new hears about my job, I know to immediately expect a million questions. One of them being – “What are the people you work with in prison for?”   My answer is nearly always the same: “I don’t know.” And that’s the truth.   A common misconception about prison is that everyone knows what everyone else is “in” for. The details of someone’s offense are rarely – if ever – discussed. A lot of prisoners don’t talk to

Every other Tuesday, HeartBound hosts a horticulture/financial literacy class at the Atlanta Transitional Center. We cook a hearty meal for our 14 or so attendees, play a goofy game called “Juice, Jam, and Jelly,” and then spend an hour teaching. I love these men deeply; most I’ve known for over two years. Because it’s a transitional center, I can bring in my laptop, which makes teaching a lot easier.   That evening in my kitchen, my mind raced through the list of possible to

Michael. Cooper. Ronnie. Mikel.   These are, in a way, some of my “children.”   My boys at Burruss that I teach every Tuesday from 11:30-1:30.   I bring them snacks, books, and seeds, and they eat, read, and plant.   I’m 28, 29 in August. I don’t foresee biological children in my immediate future (sorry Mom!).   But I have these kids, and I love them SO much.   They all arrived in our horticulture class in sorry states. Michael couldn’t read. Cooper was a social outcast becau

An idea came to me recently.   I was speaking to a group of high schoolers at Trinity Anglican Church. The topic I’d been given, “How do I make the most of the rest of my life?”, led me to think back to my own childhood and what it felt like to be a teenager.   I think we can all agree that being a teenager today isn’t easy. College tuition costs keep rising, acceptance rates are plummeting, and perhaps worst of all - you’ve got to contend with your entire life being online.

Daryl was hungry for more. I could see it in his eyes.   Daryl is one of those kids who came from nothing and if I had to guess, never had anything to call his own. His life, according to societal standards, is full of failure. He is in prison, sentenced as an adult even though he was a minor when he committed his crime. Georgia is one of the few remaining states that still tries children as adults based on their crime. They receive the same sentences as adults and upon turni

Conner is a quiet kid with a big smile.   He loves the University of Alabama Crimson Tide. He also loves biographies of musicians and books that help him refine his blossoming art skills. Each week he comes to me with a list of books for me to procure on his behalf – Dolly Parton’s autobiography, Johnny Cash’s Man in Black, Dante’s The Divine Comedy. He’s a voracious reader, impressive considering the fact that he’s only 17.   Since he first arrived at Burruss Correctional Tr

I had two new students in our horticulture class at Burruss Correctional Training Center recently.   They weren’t there to learn. When they saw me enter the facility, they realized that I was wheeling a cart full of ramen noodle packs. They came to class for some ramen. Ramen is a form of currency in prison; with the food often arriving in minuscule, inedible portions, many rely on ramen from the prison commissary for sustenance.   Many students arrive in our classroom becaus

Mikel has a lazy eye.  ​ He talks almost exclusively in broken urban slang. I would bet that he doesn’t weigh more than 135 pounds, despite the fact that he’s 17.  ​ When he first joined our horticulture class I feared for his safety. He was an easy target to pick on between the lazy eye, small stature, and wannabe gangster vernacular. Not to mention that I quickly discerned that he was probably developmentally disabled.  ​ But the kid tried so hard in class. He didn’t blink

When’s the last time you felt joyful? ​ Not happy, not content—I mean truly joyful. ​ The kind of joy that makes you raise your hands high and scream out with every ounce of your being. The kind of joy that proclaims to every ear that you are alive and in the spirit. The kind of joy that can’t come from a drug, a drink, or a dollar bill. Joy. ​ You can ask my mom or Grace—I’m not always the most joyful person. Sometimes I get stuck in my own head and just want to crawl into a

“Spence, you gotta hear this.”   I was on my way out the door of Burruss Correctional Training Center. I desperately wanted to get back to my car where water and lunch awaited me. I didn’t want to spend another moment in that prison. It had been a long day already, with an even longer week ahead.   I stopped and turned around. Buford, my teaching assistant, stood next to a young man who was brand new to our horticulture class.   Buford nudged Shamar. “Go on, tell him what I h

Tuck hasn’t been the same lately.   I’ve known him for over a year. When he first joined our guitar program at Metro Regional Youth Detention Center he was talkative, bright, and engaged.   But over the last few months, something changed. He started showing up to class with his face hidden behind a surgical mask. He can barely focus. When the guard comes around to distribute medications, she announces out loud for all to hear, “Tuck refusing medications again.” Technically it