“I never seen a tomato before.”   He held the tomato gently in his hand, cradling it like an egg.   “I swear, I never seen a whole tomato before.”   I had to turn away to keep from laughing.   As you might imagine, the food served in prison is quite terrible. Our students come to class hungry, making it difficult to pay attention. This simple fact was one of the reasons why we started horticulture programming, so students could grow their own food to supplement what’s offered

“Yo Mr. Spence, can we speak in private?”   His name was David. A young Hispanic kid with a marijuana leaf tattooed on his neck.   We walked to the corner of the yard.   “What’s on your mind, David?”   He spoke quietly. “You think you could get me one of those poem books? I’m trying to write a letter to my girl. I want to use big words and s***. Oops, big words and stuff.”   I laughed.   “Sure thing, man.”   You see, a month ago, I’d printed out four different poems and broug

The Georgia Department of Corrections has a problem. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and Department of Justice have documented these problems extensively. A few highlights: Aging facilities. Staff vacancies rates of 70% or higher. Unprecedented levels of violence (an estimated 60+ homicides in 2024). Widespread corruption (one warden arrested for arranging a murder-for-hire).   And as far as I can tell, there are two ways to solve these problems.   Option 1: Throw more money

Reading Spencer’s emails is not just informative—it’s an experience. His passion for working with the juvenile boys at Burruss is evident in every word. Each email offers a glimpse of transformation: another future saved, another family restored, another life touched by hope. I know this firsthand because I attended one of HeartBound Ministries’ programs in prison—and I am one of their success stories.   As January came to a close, Spencer sent an email titled Worth Its Weigh

Mikel slipped me a note.   The previous week, I had told him some good news.   A lot of people had read the newsletter about Mikel. The newsletter that ended with us asking for donations to help us through the “slow months” of the giving season.   Many of you answered the call. In fact, one of you donated $5,000. I told Mikel that the words he shared helped inspire and guide our newsletter. I told him that his words had helped us receive a gift of $5,000.   I told him that th

Remember Genesis? The boy who Ethan encouraged when he was feeling down? Who didn’t shower enough and was intellectually disabled? ​ Well, Genesis did something pretty remarkable the other day. He volunteered to speak at our graduation ceremony.    Totally out of the blue. Not sure what compelled him to raise his hand. When no one else had the courage to do so, he volunteered. I had no idea what he would say. All I knew was that I was excited to hear it.     The day of the gr

Several months ago, I shared about Ethan, a horticulture student who had recently tried to commit suicide – twice. I’d be remiss if I didn’t share an update.   Genesis arrived at Burruss Correctional Training Center unlike many other juvenile inmates – he was upbeat and smiling. He actively participated in class and gleefully shouted out answers to the little puzzles we use to warm up at the start of each class. His answers were nearly always wrong – he is undoubtedly intelle

“Like Elizabeth Taylor said to her fifth husband, ‘I’m not going to keep you long.’”   I laughed and settled into my chair. This was going to be a treat.   It was a Sunday afternoon in Atlanta. I sat in a prison’s visitation room, listening to the words of a wise man. One of the inmates had asked us to contact John Eldridge, a pastor who had once been the chaplain at Walker State Prison. The inmate hadn’t seen Chaplain Eldridge in some time and was wondering if he’d be kind e

Something was wrong with Hagan.   His grades were quickly falling. Easy assignments that he’d previously complete in almost no time were returned to me blank. One of the prison’s staff approached me and pleaded with me, asking me to talk to him before it was too late.   As our horticulture class ended that day, I told Hagan to stay after class. I excused my teaching assistant and we sat alone, soft sunlight filtering into the classroom through the razor wire outside.   I pull

You’ve probably never heard of Bill Lane. I never had. One day, I get an email out of the blue from “Bill Lane.” He wanted to volunteer with HeartBound.   I get these emails frequently. I’d estimate that only 1 in 10 emails results in someone actually volunteering. People are busy and volunteering in prison isn’t easy, nor is it for everyone. I’ve made peace with that.   Bill was part of that 10% that followed through by volunteering. He shadowed a couple of our classes at th

There are some fancy formulas that nonprofits use to advertise just how good of a job they’re doing. I’ve researched them, weighed whether or not if it’s worth the time spent to calculate them, and decided, it’s largely not. You could attempt to place a fiscal value on the goods and services we provide and simply put, it wouldn’t be accurate, nor would it portray the true impact of our programs.   One such formula, “social value,” is a metric that puts a dollar value on how m

I asked Daniela, “What did you see inside that prison that surprised you the most?”   She had just volunteered with HeartBound for the first time and used to work for a nonprofit up North, so she’s seen a thing or two.    She paused carefully before answering.    “It was abundantly clear that nearly everyone in that prison had some sort of disability. Whether developmental or physical or psychological.”   I nodded.    One thing I’ve learned is that prisons exist for people wh

I wasn’t sure the day would ever arrive. I had been preparing juveniles for baptism for over three months. When the conversation started, an inflatable pool of water would have been refreshing, a cool dip on an Indian summer day. When the day finally arrived, the ambient temperature was 50. The breeze was stiff. The occasional mop bucket of 160-degree water from the prison’s indoor plumbing would hardly put a dent in the frigid water coming from the outside tap. Circumstances

A quick funny anecdote for you – if you want to become a certified volunteer with the Georgia Department of Corrections you have to go through volunteer training. One section that they cover is what to do if you’re taken hostage in prison.   Here’s what you are told to do - you should eat grass so you either soil yourself or throw up. No one wants to hold a hostage that’s sullied themselves.   Two days after this training, I was in prison and told my students about the traini

Henry Adams writes, “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.”   I’ll let you in on a secret, I didn’t read this quote myself, a student of mine in prison slipped it to me.   A revelation of sorts came to me recently. My students in prison, though they live together, eat together, shower together, spend 24 hours and 365 days a year together, don’t actually know each other at all.   I believe there are two major reasons for this disconnect:   Pe

“My name’s Kevin and I’m an alcoholic.”   It was a rainy Tuesday evening in the visitation room at the Atlanta Transitional Center. Fifteen of us were arranged in a circle. We’d gathered together for HeartBound’s new drama program at the Center. Twelve residents and three volunteers sat anxiously, feeling each other out, trying to figure out how this thing would go.   Winn, our volunteer instructor, had told us all to introduce ourselves and explain why we had joined the prog

He solemnly whispered that he had failed his GED exam by three points.   I asked what happened – this young man is quite bright and usually a good student. He responded despondently, “I gave up. Couldn’t do it.” Just at that moment, another horticulture student, Chance, walked up to us. This young man has been incarcerated since he was 13 and by all measures, Chance shouldn’t be succeeding academically like he is. He’s a former gang member facing a lengthy sentence. He never

“Before we begin, I would like to make it abundantly clear that I cannot sing. Prepare your ears accordingly.” ​ You can’t say that I didn’t warn ‘em.   It was a Thursday morning. I was locked in the dining hall at Metro Regional Youth Detention Center. I do not like Metro. The plexiglass windows are covered in graffiti, the doors hammer shut with a resounding boom, nothing ever rarely occurs on time or in an orderly fashion. It is chaotic, dimly lit, sterile, and a horrible

Put yourself in their shoes for a minute.   You’ve committed a crime. A judge or jury of your peers has deemed you unfit to walk about freely. A prosecutor has decried you as a “menace to society” or worse, a “superpredator.” The gavel falls, your wrists and ankles are shackled, then your loaded onto a white re-purposed school bus and driven down to Forsyth, GA. There, you’re unloaded, given a set of starched white prison shirts and pants, and told, “Welcome to Burruss Correc

“I’m going to preach to you today directly from the word of God,” Ryan said. “If it wrinkles your collar, don’t be mad at me, be mad at God.”   He continued, drawing a deep breath.   “Count 1: Malice murder.   Count 2: Malice murder.   Count 3: Possession of a firearm by a convicted felon.”   Ryan continued all the way to Count 13, reciting each of his convictions by heart.   My jaw hit the floor. This man standing before me, a man I call a friend, had committed each of these