Joy in Unexpected Places

When’s the last time you felt joyful?

Not happy, not content—I mean truly joyful.

The kind of joy that makes you raise your hands high and scream out with every ounce of your being. The kind of joy that proclaims to every ear that you are alive and in the spirit. The kind of joy that can’t come from a drug, a drink, or a dollar bill. Joy.

You can ask my mom or Grace—I’m not always the most joyful person. Sometimes I get stuck in my own head and just want to crawl into a hole and hide from the world. In those moments, I’m not much fun to be around.

And let me be clear—my life is good! I have so many wonderful things going for me: a loving family, a lovely home, a job I care deeply about that pays my bills. I have every reason to be joyful, yet sometimes, I’m just not.

I’ll tell you where there’s not a lot of joy. You can probably guess—it’s a newsletter from a prison ministry, so you probably already know.

Prison is not a place of joy. It is a place of darkness. I get an email alert every time an article is published about the Georgia prison system, and the overwhelming majority of stories detail the latest in-prison homicide or contraband bust. I believe that prison is as close to hell on earth as you can get.

In a recent newsletter, I briefly mentioned that I had the honor of speaking during a Sunday church service at a women’s prison. The chaplain had asked me to preach, and after clarifying that I’m not a preacher, I accepted her invitation. I spent a few hours preparing my talk and left early on a brisk Sunday morning in January. The drive was peaceful and serene, and I felt about as good as I possibly could.

But as I pulled up to the prison, I saw a family congregating in the visitor parking lot. They were about to visit a loved one confined in the prison. Seeing them—especially the husband trying to wrangle his young children—brought me back to reality. My heart broke for this family.

I walked into the chapel, quite nervous. I’d never spoken at a church service before, let alone one inside a prison. I knew my talk might get me into trouble with the prison staff, as some of it was critical of the system. I’d been tempted to remove those lines, but it felt disingenuous and cowardly. I needed to speak the truth to these women.

The night before, God laid on my heart a few thoughts about addiction. I quickly scribbled them into my speech—just a general outline, no specific lines to follow.

The women began filing into the church. I was greeted by a sea of faces, some covered in tattoos, others adorned with piercings. It was a church crowd unlike any I’d ever seen before.

An elderly woman in a choir robe walked to the front. She was short, stout, and unassuming. A guitar rang out with a low, mean blues lick I was more accustomed to hearing in a rundown roadhouse than in a church.

The woman stepped forward, leaned back low to the ground, and growled.

I’ve got joyyyyyyyyyyyy.

The guitar echoed her howl. She sang again.

I’ve got joyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Oh Lordy, I felt like weeping. The guitarist’s fingers flew across the fretboard. The room stood frozen.

I’ve got joyyyyy in the morninggggggg.

Suddenly, a shout burst through the room. The choir joined in with a resounding sound. A soul clap rang out, and in that moment, the chapel was swinging. It even felt like the rafters were swaying with us.

I knew then I’d come to the right church. One woman in the choir wept as she sang. My own vision blurred with tears.

Joy. In prison. In this place of darkness, despair, and death. Joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

The chaplain stood beside the singer as she panted for breath. “Ladies,” she said, “this woman here has done 31 years in prison. And still, she proclaims that she is joyful. If you’re ever feeling down, come talk to her.”

Needless to say, it was a tough act to follow. I prayed silently that God would give me eyes to see, ears to hear, and lips to speak.

I stood at the podium, shuffled my notes, and began.

After my talk, I nervously glanced at the tough-looking guard sitting to my left. He was strong, beefy, with a military haircut. I prayed fervently that my words hadn’t ticked him off too much.

He stood to address the room. It was his last church service before retiring after 30 years of service to the department.

He pointed at me. I gulped.

“I had some words prepared,” he said. “But that young man there”— he continued pointing at me — “it’s like God sent him to us today. Because he said exactly what I was going to say.”

From my experiences inside women’s prisons, the number one issue is addiction—to men, to other women, to drugs, alcohol, and attention. These same addictions plague our beautifully broken society at large.

When I first started a gardening program at one women’s prison, the women wore their addictions on their faces. They carried their burdens in the way they dressed and spoke. It was depressingly sad to see them in such sorry states. But working in that soil each week gave them brief glimmers of hope, of goodness, of joy. As our class progressed, things started to change. They began showering before class, making sure their clothes were clean. Some even applied makeup and eye shadow. They regained dignity. They had hope.

These changes were tangible. Staff began to approach me, telling me how much happier the women were, how they were attending new programs and reading more. Change had begun.

I closed my “sermon” at the women’s prison with a simple line:

Light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehends it not.

There is joy in prison.

So, what song will you sing today?

I pray it’s one of joy.

Spencer