Fred... The Light Source

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 down the hallway. “FACE THE WALL!” The students immediately turned and placed their foreheads up against the wall. Their hands reflexively snapped into place behind their backs. The voice was so authoritative, so deadly serious, that I started to turn too. Then I remembered, I’m a volunteer. I don’t have to face the wall. I turned back towards the middle of the hallway just in time to see a figure being wheeled past me, his bright orange sweatpants balled around his knees. The stinging in my eyes clouded my vision, but from what I could see something was seriously wrong with this man. He had to have been the one who’d been pepper sprayed. His body was limp in the wheelchair, his hands bound behind his back. He looked lifeless. Everything was rushing by so quickly, I couldn’t be sure what was happening. The sound of marching boots echoed down the hallway. Before I knew it, the guards and the man in the wheelchair were gone. We resumed our own walk down the hallway, double timing our gait, desperate to escape the lingering odor and effects of the pepper spray. My mind was racing. Was the man I just saw dead? What was happening? Why was everyone acting like this was normal?

The air in the classroom was a literal breath of fresh air. We all sighed and took big, greedy gulps of clean air. I wanted to wipe my eyes but knew better. I gazed around the room at the students, all of us blinking away tears. “Well,” I said, “Time to learn.”

I introduced Fred to the students. We’d come to this facility to start a new Project ART (Art to Rehabilitate and Teach) program for 15 incarcerated men. So far, nothing had gone right that morning. Our original classroom was occupied. The staff made us wait 30 minutes to get started. The pepper spray. A certified disaster of a day.

The men took their seats and listened carefully while I detailed Fred’s resume. I was talking too much, my adrenaline pumping after the nightmare in the hallway. Finally, I decided to shut up and turn things over to Fred.

If you’ve never heard Fred speak before, you’re missing out. He’s a native Georgian and his voice still possesses a twang of that beautiful, old-fashioned thing they call a “southern drawl.” He speaks slowly, carefully choosing each and every word. He’s not a man of many words and those that he does use have meaning.

Fred looked around the room slowly, taking in the scene from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. He, unlike me, did not immediately start to talk. The men sat gazing at Fred. He’d taken a seat at the front of the room. The teacher and the students were on the same level field.

Fred’s lips began to move slowly, carefully picking out his words. I smiled. I had the pleasure of watching a master at work.

His voice was soft, so soft you had to strain to listen. The men leaned forward.

“I look around this room,” he said before pausing. A pregnant pause if I’d ever heard one. “I look around this room,” he repeated, “and I see family.”

Fred’s an accomplished artist. His work has been on display at the Governor’s Mansion, Capitol Building, Luca Fine Art Gallery, and Oglethorpe University Museum of Art. But these students didn’t know that yet. They just knew that Fred was there as part of HeartBound Ministries’ new art class at their prison.

He continued. “You all have actually seen my art before.” The men looked around at each other, wide-eyed, visibly confused.

“When you go to the barber shop here and see that poster of the acceptable beard and hair cut styles, that’s my artwork. I drew it 20 years ago as part of a statewide competition after we won the lawsuit and they had to start allowing us to grow beards. They didn’t let me put my name on it because they’d have to pay me royalties.”

The implication of his words slowly began to set in. They realized Fred was one of their own. That he too had done time. That he too had worn the same blue and white uniform. That he too had felt the sting of pepper spray before. A sense of hope began to spread across the room. I could see it on their faces; I could feel it in the air – a buzz, a slight tremor disrupting the normal dull rhythm of prison. If Fred could make it, they could make it too.

“I did 36 years. Straight. I’m here today because volunteers helped me get through. When I started my sentence, there was a mountain ahead of me. Every day, I had to climb that mountain. It took me 36 years to climb over that mountain. But I climbed it, and now I’m over. And I’m here to give back.”

“I know what it’s like to be in your shoes, to wear those prison blues. From now on, we’re family. Don’t you ever say you haven’t gotten a visit from family or friends in a while because every Friday, God-willing, you’re getting a visit from me.”

One of the men couldn’t contain his joy any longer. “Mr. Fred. We’ve been waiting, so excited for this class. Thank you.”

A lone tear rolled down Fred’s cheek. I was witnessing a thing of beauty. I thanked God for the opportunity, for the blessing that is my job. Some days are Heaven sent.

The class continued. After a round of introductions, Fred detailed his artistic style. The students began with a simple shading activity. “If you want your art to look good, you have to have a light source,” Fred explained.

I looked up at Fred as he walked from student to student, guiding them, directing their hands, offering small tips and pointers. I had one of those things they call an epiphany.

Fred Eason…the Light source.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. - John 1:5

Amen.