Inside a Prison Cell

I hope you’ve been to prison before. As one of our volunteers, of course.

To those that have – Hi!!! We are so grateful for the countless ways that you serve those in need.

And to those that haven’t – we invite you to come alongside us as we minister to our incarcerated neighbors. Simply reply to this email to find out how you can be a part of our team.

But even if you’ve been to prison before, you’ve probably never been inside a cell.

I’ve been working for HeartBound for over 4 years now and all this time I had never found myself behind the actual bars of a cell.

Until the other day that is.

I’ve thought about how to properly articulate how it felt. Depressing doesn’t do it justice.

The feeling was deeper. It was almost as if I’d trespassed into some forbidden place – a place where hopes and dreams die. A place of pervasive sadness, of gloom and despair. It was a scary feeling.

The cell was about six feet wide and ten feet long. Some students and I had been out in the sun for hours and hours, hammering and sawing wood, putting together raised beds, and the time had come – nature called, as my mother would say. My options were limited. Treck all the way back to the prison’s administrative unit where there was a staff bathroom or find an empty cell. I chose the most expeditious option and quickly slipped into the prison building where I found an unoccupied cell.

The cell was barren. Against the far wall were two rusted bunk beds bolted together. Thin, transparent plastic mattresses were rolled up and lying at the foot of the beds. There were no springs or cushions, just metal slabs that had been painted white years ago, now covered with writings and drawings from previous inhabitants.

Behind the beds was a thin window about six inches wide. The window was covered in a frosted coating so you couldn’t actually see outside. The only other light was a fluorescent light overhead. To the left were two lockers where one could store personal possessions. They were a little bigger than two microwaves stacked together and coated in the same chipped white paint. In fact, the floors and walls bore the same color. The only color in the cell was from the heavy red door. The stainless-steel sink and toilet were one cohesive unit designed to prevent disassembly to hide contraband. The surface was shiny and clean. There was no toilet seat or cover. The toilet bowl wasn’t filled with water and when I went to flush a trickle of water dripped down the bowl. I wondered if the water had been cut off, but I remembered that the building had water because we had hooked up to a faucet to water our seedlings. Above the toilet unit a stainless-steel mirror had been bolted into the wall. Through the scratches on the surface, I could make out a blurred reflection of my face. I couldn’t tell how my hair looked or if I had anything in my teeth. It was like I was looking at an image of myself through a hazy cloud.

I was in the cell less than 30 seconds.

I quickly stepped out and hustled back to the garden to resume working.

That night I sat at a local Thai restaurant, eating alone. I had to stay near the prison overnight in order to wake up early the following day to finish building our garden. I thought back to the three guys I had spent all day working with building the garden. The restaurant was full of life – smells from the kitchen, staff bustling around, and diners enjoying pleasant conversations. The place had been built and nurtured by love and it showed. I was happy and enjoying some solitude and delicious food after a hard day’s work (the heat index reached 107 that day!).

But those three guys – they were back in those cells.

The next day, I returned to the prison. The plan was to finish by lunchtime so that I could show the men how to use fresh fruits and vegetables from the garden to make healthy meals. I’d brought tomatoes, onions, and peppers from the local grocery store. We were going to learn to make pico de gallo together. The men were excited and worked fervently.

I had a surprise waiting. One of the students, Tee, is 28 years old. He’s been locked up since he was 17. His first prison was Burruss, the same prison I had been at on Tuesday of that week,  teaching 17-year-olds. The day before, he asked me a curious question: “Could we grow avocados?” He had never tasted guacamole.

We finished the garden and stopped for lunch. We gathered in a circle and turned over 5-gallon buckets to use as stools. I asked Tee to pull the ingredients out of the cooler and hand them to me. He reached into the bag and paused, looking down quizzically. His hand cradled an avocado.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

He followed my instructions and made guacamole. He was slightly disappointed that we didn’t have a mortar and pestle like he’d seen on TV, but we made do with a plastic spoon and paper bowl.

Driving home that day, I thought of Tee. He’s spent the last 11 years in prison cells. He became an adult in prison and if he’s anything like the kids I work with today, he still has a lot of time on his sentence. There is a night and day difference between Tee and the kids I work with at Burruss. Tee is more mature, much calmer, and so much more inquisitive. In short, he’s grown up. I could see no trace of the person he’d probably once been. If he wasn’t locked up, perhaps we would have been friends. He was a normal guy just like me.

The thought occurred to me: As a society, we have a choice. We can try something new.

In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “Gardens are simultaneously a material and a spiritual undertaking. We nurture health and well-being. We protect from harm. We encourage individual growth and development. We desire to be together. We generously share resources. We work together towards a common goal. We celebrate shared values. We display interdependence. We sacrifice by one for the other. We create beauty.”

In that cell, there was no well-being or generosity or beauty. The cell was cold and lifeless.

But not our garden - it is a healthy, beautiful, vibrant place for spiritual and individual growth. A place for people like Tee to learn new skills, to create career pathways, to experience the therapeutic benefits of gardening, and to plant seeds of Hope.

Alternatively, our society can build more cells and lock away more young men and women like Tee, hoping they get better before they come home.

That approach has gotten Georgia to where it is today.

Warren Buffet once said about nonprofit work, “You’re working on the problems society left behind, and they left them behind for a reason. They are hard, right?”

Yes, they are hard, but we believe – as we have for 23 years and counting – that “all things are possible with God.” So, please join us as we seek to change the culture from one of crime and incarceration to hope and restoration…one soul at a time.

Become a volunteer. Support our programming through your donations or in-kind gifts of books, seeds, yarn, art supplies, and clothing. Whatever it might be, we can hopefully put it to good use! Pray for those in prison. Pray for men like Tee. Pray for Tee by name. 

Volunteer. Donate. Pray.

That’s our challenge for you.

Have a blessed day.