Singing a New Song

If you’ve ever “bombed” in front of a crowd, you’ll understand how I was feeling. But let me back up before I explain.

A torrential downpour welcomed me as soon as I arrived at our monthly Tuesdays Together meeting at the Atlanta Transitional Center. I was drenched to the bone as I waited outside for the volunteers to arrive.

I glanced at my watch—three minutes to showtime. Only four volunteers had arrived. We’d been averaging 15 the past few months. I figured the rain had kept people away.

I hustled through the doors and down to the basement, dragging a wagon behind me loaded down with bars of soap graciously donated by Anna Ruth Flagg. My shoes squeaked as I trudged solemnly down the long hallway to the classroom we use for our gatherings. I was wet and a little discouraged.

Then I walked into the room—and stopped short.

Thirteen volunteers were lined up and serving food prepared by Amy Durham to 45 men. Nine volunteers had arrived before me. They didn’t need instructions. They knew exactly what to do. Thirteen men and women had shown up, willing to give their Tuesday night to serve men in prison.

An elderly man called out, “They have hygiene for us!” You’d have thought I was wheeling in bars of gold by the way they looked at the cart of soap.

I plugged in my guitar and set up my laptop with lyrics while the men ate. The room was oppressively hot—no air conditioning, just two industrial-sized fans pushing warm air in circles. We were slated to sing two Johnny Cash songs. After a quick intro and a couple of games, it was time to sing.

Let’s be brutally honest—I cannot sing. I’ve pleaded with volunteers for months, hoping someone would be brave enough to sing while I play guitar. But standing in front of 60 people and singing? That’s intimidating. I get it. So, I keep going, singing off-key at the top of my lungs.

One volunteer, Shelvia, has been helping the last couple of months. But her repertoire doesn’t include Johnny Cash. So, tonight, I was solo.

Normally, I cut the songs short to spare the crowd. I try to pick tunes people know, hoping they’ll sing along and drown me out. But for some reason, no one seemed to know either song this time. I sang alone, sweat soaking me from head to toe. I was bombing.

We always end the music with a worship song, typically one everybody knows. But this week, I chose something different:

“40” by U2.

I waited patiently for the LordHe inclined and heard my cryHe lifted me up out of the pitOut of the miry clay

I will sing (I will sing), sing a new song (sing a new song)I will sing (I will sing), sing a new song (sing a new song)How long (how long) to sing this song (sing this song)?How long (how long) to sing this song (sing this song)?

I had rehearsed it briefly with Shelvia. We planned to make it a call-and-response: the women following the men on the italicized lines. But when I hit the opening chord, my heart sank. Things weren’t going according to plan.

When we repeated the chorus. I looked into the crowd of men. An elderly man locked eyes with me. He was singing, “I will sing, sing a new song.”

I don’t have the proper words to describe what I felt in that moment. He didn’t just sing. I watched him feel those words, proclaim them. He was singing a new song.

In our last newsletter, Andrea wrote about our Little Readers program helping incarcerated men and women not just read stories, but rewrite them. For themselves, and for their families. And really, that’s what all our programs aim to do.

We help the story get rewritten.

We help the broken pieces—the bad decisions, the shattered lives—come back together and be reborn as something new. We help incarcerated men and women find redemption, not through courts or systems, but through Christ. We help them discover an identity that will never leave or forsake them.

We help them become more than “prisoner” or “inmate.” 

We help them write new stories. 

We help them sing a new song.

May we all sing a new song.

With gratitude,

Spencer