Peace in Prison - The Story of One Evening's Events

The weather outside was indeed frightful.

A cold wind howled outside the weathered windows at the Atlanta Transitional Center.

A chilly frost nipped through cracks in the window frames. I kept my jacket on and collar pulled tight.

Outside, a cold, bleak landscape. But inside this prison, there was joy.

The men sang Christmas carols. The volunteers handed out plates of food and Christmas cookies. Everyone seemed to be filled with Christmas cheer.

I stepped to the podium and gazed at my speech. It was about the impacts of trauma; I’d written it months before and saved it for an occasion just like this. Looking around the room, I knew in my gut I couldn’t kill the mood by speaking about something so dark, something so close to home for many of the assembled men. I folded the speech and picked up a copy of O. Henry’s short story, The Gift of the Maji.

The room was silent as I began to read.

As I neared the end of the story, I thought about what to say next. What did this story have to do with the men assembled tonight? How could I tie this all together? I prayed a silent prayer for the words to say.

An image flashed in my mind. That morning at Burruss Correctional Training Center, several new inmates had arrived. This prison transport was special, because on it were three 17-year-old boys who had been charged and sentenced as adults. It was their first day in an adult prison.

I emerged from the horticulture classroom just as the boys were being led by guards across the compound. By law, incarcerated boys and girls under the age of 18 must be separated from their adult peers. They have their own housing unit, a rectangular shaped building separated from the rest of the prison. To reach the juvenile unit, you have to walk across the entire prison, a distance of over a quarter-mile. Which means the whole prison can see the new arrivals as they make the trek. Put yourself in their shoes – 17, incarcerated, far from home, fresh off a prison transport van. It’s a sad sight to see.

The three boys carried cheap, thin mattresses over their shoulders. The two in front were tall and covered in tattoos. They strode with a swagger, holding their heads high, demonstrating to the rest of the prison that they weren’t afraid. I heard someone call out to one of the boys; they must have recognized him from back home. He exchanged a friendly wave and smiled big.

The last boy wore thick wire-rimmed glasses. He was pudgy and short and his prison issued clothes didn’t fit him right. His pants looked more like pantaloons and he struggled to keep up with the other two boys. As they turned a corner and approached their new dorm, the rest of the juvenile population was inadvertently let out of their housing unit. They immediately crowded the fence so they could see the new arrivals. A cascade of yells emanated from the fence – everyone trying to figure out the same thing: were the newcomers friend or foe? The young boy in the back passed by me, five or so feet away. His nervousness was palpable. He was fearing for his life.

This scene replayed through my mind all day. At the time, there was nothing I could do for the young boy in the back. All I could do was watch. Standing at the podium later that day, I thought back to the scared boy. The image brought a lump to my throat. I choked back tears and began to speak.

I don’t remember all the words I said that night. I know I said something about the world being cruel, and us needing to be kind to one another.

It wasn’t my best speech. I was tired and my spirit was low.

Afterwards, a young man came up to me. He wore flashy clothing and jewelry. He was most likely some sort of high-ranking gang member. After working in prisons for a few years now, I’ve learned to spot the shot-callers pretty easily. 

His eyes drooped low. He seemed sad. I had no earthly idea what he was about to say to me.

He jabbed me on the chest with a light punch. His eyes looked down. He was struggling to find the words to say. He finally looked up, and I swear I saw his lip quiver.

“Thank you. That was exactly what I needed to hear.”

Later, another gentleman came up to me. “You tell your Mother that I’m doing fine. You probably don’t remember, but a couple years ago, you painted my son’s face at Returning Hearts. I didn’t think that day mattered to him all that much, but he told me a few months later he wrote a school paper about it. That meant a whole lot to me. God bless you and your Mom.”

Another man approached. “How’s your mom? She used to visit when we were doing the braille program at Central. She’s a kind, kind woman.”

Story after story poured out of these men. Story after story about how God – through HeartBound – touched their lives.

It had been a bad day. But God showed me in the end, that no matter where we go or what horrors we see, He’s going before and after us. And I can rest easy with that.

Have a Merry Christmas.

Spencer