Hearing the Caged Bird Sing

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 get out of the way before I got hit again.

The women worked diligently. After 45 minutes, they’d done it – they’d moved all 6,000 pounds of soil. Ten of them working together, shoveling and raking at a manic pace. I’d told them I had to leave by 11 and if the work wasn’t done by then, we’d have to delay planting in the garden by another week. They met the challenge head on.

Afterwards, they leaned on their tools, panting, profusely sweating in the hot sun.

We had a few minutes before I had to leave. HeartBound was sponsoring a lunch for the staff later that afternoon and I had to pick up the catering. Correctional officers work a thankless and unseen job. We believe that the only way to affect real change in the prison system is by approaching it from all angles. Our programming is not restricted to just inmates. We minister to staff and family members of the incarcerated. All we’re trying to do is confront the problem of mass incarceration holistically. A thank-you luncheon reminds the staff that they aren’t forgotten either. We’re just trying to live out our mission to “remember those in prison” found in Hebrews 13:3.

I decided to do something different to end class. I asked the women to gather in a circle and close their eyes. A prison chaplain once told me that you can’t close your eyes to pray while in prison because someone might do something bad. I told myself if I ever kept my eyes open while praying, if I ever didn’t trust God to protect me, if I didn’t trust our students to do the right thing, I’d quit.

That chaplain doesn’t work in prison anymore.

I asked the women to focus all their energy, all their thoughts, all their worries, all their stress and anxiety and whatever else they had, take it all and focus it on the very tip of their nose. Then breathe.

We stood in the circle, eyes closed. They were all probably thinking the same thing, “What does Spencer have us doing now?”

I wanted to speak up and reassure them that I wasn’t crazy. Instead, I told myself to do as I told them. I concentrated my own thoughts and anxieties on the tip of my nose.

In the background, I heard a bird flutter. A cow mooed. The birds called out to one another, creating a beautiful song. Had it been there the whole time and I’d just missed it? Had my worries and stresses and sound of my own voice drowned out this beautiful song?

I could feel my heart rate slow down. We stood in silence, for how long, I’m not sure.

Finally, my thoughts returned to the present.

I was inside a prison, surrounded by incarcerated women, teaching a gardening class. We’d been shoveling compost - decomposed cow manure and plants - all morning. The garden smelled appropriately.

I asked the women to keep their eyes closed.

“Together, let’s breathe in joy.” Deep breaths followed.

“Now breathe out peace. Breathe in peace, breathe out understanding. Breathe in gratitude, breathe out compassion. Breathe in compassion, breathe out love. Breathe in love, breathe out joy.”

It’s a simple mantra I’m practicing. I take one of the descriptors for love found in 1 Corinthians 13 and breathe it in. I breathe out another descriptor. It calms me down during the frustrating parts of my day. Just that morning, I breathed in peace and breathed out understanding. I could now forgive the person who cut me off in traffic.

We sat in silence. I could have sworn the earth stood still. The birds sang their song. The cow mooed.

I asked the women to open their eyes once more. We all winced as our eyes adjusted to the sunshine. Several women discreetly wiped tears from their faces.

Prison is a harsh place. I pray you never see the inside of a prison cell. There are times I wish we could pack it up and do something different, something easier. Something that doesn’t involve long drives out to the country to reach a prison, something that doesn’t involve cow manure and dirty pants, something that doesn’t involve all that’s evil in the world.

But prison can be filled with so much beauty. You can take everything from a man or woman, strip them of their identity and luxuries, and yet still, they find a way to survive. They don’t give up on God.

Maya Angelou writes of knowing why the caged bird sings.

I’ve seen that bird sing. I’ve heard its song.

It’s a beautiful one. One written by God. It’s filled with hope and yearning and peace.

I pray you hear it too.