Kelvin and Conner

Conner is a quiet kid with a big smile.

He loves the University of Alabama Crimson Tide. He also loves biographies of musicians and books that help him refine his blossoming art skills. Each week he comes to me with a list of books for me to procure on his behalf – Dolly Parton’s autobiography, Johnny Cash’s Man in Black, Dante’s The Divine Comedy. He’s a voracious reader, impressive considering the fact that he’s only 17.

Since he first arrived at Burruss Correctional Training Center six months ago, Conner has enrolled in every program HeartBound has to offer at his facility – horticulture with me, art with Fred Eason, guitar with Eric Waugh, and the “Get Your Assets in Gear” financial literacy course with Chaplain John Richardson. Chaplain John even baptized him in the prison’s gym a few months ago.

When Conner first arrived at Burruss, few people – me included - could have predicted such tremendous growth. He was timid and didn’t speak up often because of his thick southern accent. Also, he’s white and sticks out like a sore thumb among the fellow juvenile inmates. But when he learned that I brought books to class, he dutifully showed up each week, patiently enduring the awkwardness of being the new guy. I imagine that HeartBound’s classrooms are a safe place for Conner. In our most recent horticulture class, he graduated the top of his class, earning himself some Oreos, Chick-Fil-A sauce, steak seasoning, and ramen noodles. The Chick-Fil-A sauce was a big deal to him.

Kelvin joined our horticulture class the week before we graduated. I had to tell him that he was joining too late to be able to graduate, but following the graduation, he could enroll in the next class. I felt for him – not only would he not be able to graduate with the rest of the students, but he was now “the new guy.” Like Conner, he’s white and has a thick southern accent. As the new guy, he was subjected to a few students imitating his accent when he introduced himself to me. I watched him visibly shrink from his 6’1” frame when he heard their childlike taunts.

Normally, I’d have a harsher rebuke for the rest of the students upon hearing their comments. But this time, I was caught off guard. One taunt was coming from Conner, who was undoubtedly trying to look cool in front of his fellow classmates. I gave Conner a stern look and continued with the day’s lecture. On the way out the door, I pulled Kelvin aside and shared a few words with him.

“You heard Conner mocking your accent? I know you did, I saw it. Well, here’s the thing. When he first came in this classroom, he was just like you. Scared, alone, not sure of where he fit in. But look at him now, next week he’ll graduate as Valedictorian, and he’s become friends with everyone in the classroom. He even draws birthday cards for them sometimes. Keep coming to class and you’ll be just fine, I promise.”

A smile broke across his face. “Thank you. I also heard you can get us books. Have you ever read Blood on the River?” I hadn’t. I promised to look it up and get it for him. When I got home, I looked at the book online. It’s a classic from elementary school; I remembered it fondly. But it wasn’t a book for a 17-year-old. I suddenly realized Kelvin probably had some developmental or learning disabilities. A 17-year-old shouldn’t be reading at such an elementary level.

The following week, I pulled some strings to allow Kelvin to be able to attend our graduation ceremony. On the drive to Burruss, I wondered how Kelvin would be adjusting to Burruss now that he’d spent a full week in prison. By the time I entered the visitation room, the students had already gathered. I ran around frantically putting out plates, getting the food read, tidying everything up. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kelvin. He was sitting at a table full of boys, laughing and talking with them jovially. They had accepted him. No more taunts, no more teasing, no more “look at the new guy” shtick. Amid the hustle and bustle, I took a second to saunter over. “Kelvin, I have something for you.” I handed him a gently used copy of Blood on the River. His face lit up. “You remembered!”

In mid-June I saw Kelvin again. We were celebrating Father’s Day with the men at Burruss, and although he isn’t a father, Kelvin was able to attend. In his hands he gently held his prized possession, the book HeartBound had given him. This time, he sought me out. He stood tall and proud, unrecognizable from the scared, lonely boy I knew just a few weeks ago. I’d checked the rosters for all of our classes at Burruss and just like Conner, he’d enrolled in every class. His southern accent drawled out, “Mr. Spence. This book, it’s so good. You gotta read it.”

In the book of Ecclesiastes, King Solomon writes, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there anything of which one can say, ‘Look! This is something new.’?
It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time.”

I’ve been teaching at Burruss every week for four years now. I’ve ministered and taught hundreds of boys and men at this point. I keep their names in a notebook - Evariel, Mikel, Marquavious, Ronnie - the list goes on and on. The beautiful part of this work, of this ministry, is that God has been there long before me. He’s watching over Conner and Kelvin and every boy incarcerated in that prison.

Prison is a place of darkness and despair. But what is darkness compared to God? The old saying is true: the darkest night comes just before the dawn. For Kelvin, arriving at prison was that darkest night.

Thank God, dawn is breaking.