"Don't worry Mr. Spencer!"

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 training I’d gone through over the weekend. I told them that I was advised to eat grass if they were to take me hostage. I then asked the students to look around. Eyes scanned the locked, sterile, cinder block room. “No grass anywhere!” I exclaimed.

One student, Curtis, stood up. “Don’t worry Mr. Spencer, if it goes down, we got you!”

I tell you this to say that I’ve never been scared serving in prison. My students know I’m simply there to help them learn, to show them God’s mercy and love. I know without a shadow of a doubt that they would protect me if necessity called for it.

But one day in class, I wasn’t so confident. It was final exam day for our students. They had each written a poem on plants that they had to read before the class. I try to encourage public speaking as much as possible because one day, I pray, they’ll have to stand before a parole board, or sit for a job interview, and give an account of what they have done and meant to the world. I want them to be ready.

It was Desy’s time to present. He’s 17-years-old, heavyset, often angry and quiet. I called his name and asked him to come to the front of the class. He shook his head, no. I tried again, same response. I stood and walked to the last row of the class where he sat alone. Mean eyes stared a hole back through me. I’d like to think I’m in pretty good shape and could take care of myself if needed, but in that moment, I saw a young man who appeared very angry. I wasn’t so sure I could handle Desy.

I returned to my desk. “Fine, if you want to be stubborn, we’ll wait.” Everyone else had already presented; we were nearly finished with class. Minutes ticked by. Seconds dragged on. The students began to get restless. I was not going to let Desy call my bluff. I twiddled my thumbs, flipped through papers, acting as bored as I could be. Some students started to cajole Desy, telling him they had phone calls to make back at their unit, lunch trays waiting on them. His face began to turn red. Then the swearing started as he called me all sorts of nasty names. He pushed his desk around and threw his paper down. Still, I refused to budge.

Finally, he realized I wouldn’t play his game. He rushed to the front of the class, hid behind his paper, read three lines of his poem, then returned to his seat. “Thank you, Desy. Class dismissed.” On the way back to the dorm, I pulled Desy aside, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you did it.” His anger remained.

Returning home that day, I thought to myself, perhaps I was wrong to make Desy read in front of the class. Perhaps I was cruel. But I had made him fight his fear and there was no going back now. The class had ended, and I had no way of knowing if he’d join our next class. Sure enough, next week, he wasn’t there. He didn’t come for a month. Then one day, there he was, in the back row, sitting alone. I treated him like he’d never been gone.

Initially, he didn’t participate. Still mad at me. That’s fine, we had plenty of time. The new class was focused on landscape designs. I brought the students nice paper and stencils and colored pencils. Desy would work alone, never asking for feedback from me or other students. He finally turned in an assignment and to my amazement, it was wonderfully done. This kid knew how to draw. Still, given our history, I was careful with how I approached him. I scribbled a few notes offering improvements and words of encouragement. When I returned his paper to him the next week, I told him bluntly, “Desy, you have a real talent here. Keep going.”

I wish I could say things between Desy and me got dramatically better after that week. But they didn’t. He missed a few assignments and despite his talent, wasn’t in contention for valedictorian or salutatorian. At each graduation ceremony the valedictorian and salutatorian are asked to speak and receive a generous prize pack with instant coffee, trail mix, and other hard-to-find goods. It’s a big deal for the students because we shop at Costco and a 5-pound bag of coffee lasts for a long time in prison.

As I read off the names of the valedictorian and salutatorian, I saw Desy’s face drop. They stood and gave their speeches, beaming bright. Desy kept his head hung low. Then, an idea hit me. I returned to the podium.

“Gentlemen, we have one more award. For the Most Improved Student. Mr. Desy Suarez, would you please stand and be recognized.” His head shot back up, he blushed. He looked at me wide-eyed, mouthing, “Me?” “Yes, you,” I told him. He shook his head side to side, the same shake he had once given me in anger, now in bewilderment. He rose to shake my hand and receive his prize pack.

When I first started working for HeartBound, I was a Christian in name only. Ironic considering I worked for a Christian nonprofit. I was skeptical about a loving God. But in those early days of my job, I began to see that there was goodness in a dark world, there was kindness and mercy and remarkable wonders that I couldn’t possibly understand or explain. I finally realized there had to be a God in Heaven making it all work. Otherwise, it just made no sense. In this job, you have to invoke the power of God to explain some things.

In Resilience, Eric Greitens writes, “As a community, we cannot abandon our wounded. They still have something to offer - perhaps the very thing we need. Our wounds and mistreatment do not wipe out our obligation to serve. Being hurt by life does not diminish our duty to others. Even wounded and mistreated, we owe to others the labor that can make our lives glorious.”

Desy, and so many like him, are our wounded. It would be easy to abandon them; they are, after all, exiled to prison. But there’s so much they have to offer, and if my own life is any testimony, it’s a testimony to how much we can learn from them. And my life is all the more glorious for it.

Thank God.

Have a blessed day.

Spencer