Singing Songs of Praise

Cassius [name changed to protect privacy] sat in the back of the room. His already small frame looked even smaller as he sunk into the well-worn chair. He glanced around the room, eyes shifty and nervous. I had to call out his name several times to get his attention. When he finally answered, his voice was a hoarse whisper.

Every other Tuesday evening HeartBound leads a men’s group at the Atlanta Transitional Center. The topics vary from financial literacy to science to what it means to be a man. The curriculum is usually based around something I’ve recently read and want to discuss with the guys – we go wherever the wind blows.

Luke had only been to one meeting before he brought Cassius with him. As soon as Luke walked in and introduced Cassius, the other students began to grumble. New students mean more mouths to feed, more food for us to prepare. Several of the “old-timers” warned me that some of the new men only show up to class because we provide a homemade dinner. They viewed Cassius with suspicion. 

I’ve heard this complaint from my students for a long time now. And to be frank, I don’t care if men only show up for the food. In fact, I know some of the men only show up for the food. They eat, sit in the back of the room, and take a nap. But if our classroom is a safe place where they can get some much needed shut eye, so be it. My only prayer is that God opens their eyes and ears enough so that maybe something we say between the meal and their nap sticks out and starts a hunger in their souls. And anyways, Jesus wouldn’t turn someone away just because they were hungry.

I could tell Cassius was different though. He told me that it was his first day at the Atlanta Transitional Center and that he had just been transferred from Walker State Prison. Walker is the only prison in Georgia with zero gang activity and no drugs, alcohol, or contraband cell phones. I could tell that the Atlanta Transitional Center’s relative level of freedom (men are allowed to wear street clothes and have cell phones) was a shock to him. He was still trying to discern the many unwritten rules of prison, and by the way his face looked, I could tell he was struggling.

The evening’s meal and discussion concluded and I shook everyone’s hand, said my goodbyes, and walked out the door. Just another day, another normal class.

Two weeks later, I received an email. Luke wanted to play a song at our Tuesday Together gathering in November. Cassius would be joining him. Would that be alright?

Luke and I have known each other for years now. I knew that he was a virtuoso guitar player – we once spent an hour geeking out over Stevie Ray Vaughn. But I didn’t know Cassius outside of our one meeting. I trusted that Luke knew what he was doing and gave him the green light.

Later, I walked into the room where we host our meeting and was shocked to see Luke and Cassius up front, in the spot that I usually occupy. They had their instruments already set up – Luke on guitar, Cassius on piano. They were nervous but ready to go. The crowd had swelled to 52 men and 18 volunteers, many forced to stand because we had hit the room’s capacity. We all ate together and then I turned the evening’s program over to Luke and Cassius for their performance.

Cassius began to play the piano. A soft, warm, calming melody filled the room. Luke joined in on the guitar. The room went quiet. After a few chords, Cassius began to sing.

It did not sound good.

The piano – beautiful. The voice – shaky. Then, all the sudden, a fire alarm went off. The high-pitched whining drowned out the words. My brain began to race; this had all the makings of an unmitigated disaster.

Still, Luke and Cassius kept playing.

One of the Transitional Center residents jumped up and ran to the front of the room. I wish the English language had a word to describe what happened next. For lack of a term, I’ll just call it harmonizing, except it was more like de-harmonizing. He made weird background hums and chants and danced wildly. It was horrible, but hey, he was feeling the moment. Who was I to stop him?

The first song winded down. The fire alarm stopped blaring. I breathed a sigh of relief. One more song to go.

I don’t know what happened between the first song and the second. Perhaps the tempo of the second song was more attuned to Cassius’ voice. Perhaps he knew the lyrics better. Perhaps the key was easier for him to sing.

But y’all, that second song, it didn’t just sound good, it was great. A joyful noise rang out. We all sang along. At the end, a raucous round of applause erupted. Cassius and Luke had performed wonderfully.

Afterwards, I spoke with Cassius: “Hey man! Good to see you again! That was awesome. I didn’t know you could play piano – where did you learn?”

His voice, a soft whisper. I strained to hear. “I cut out a cardboard keyboard. I learned that in my cell. Then one day, someone donated a piano to the prison and I could finally play the real thing.”

I shook my head in amazement. Imagine the sort of patience you must have to sit there and play a piece of cardboard, imagining the sounds in your mind. Couldn’t be me. I chuckled, gave him a pat on the back, and walked away.

Later, when I turned around, I saw Cassius, sitting behind the keyboard, holding court with two of our volunteers who were legitimate musicians, people who play in bands.

Cassius did not shrink behind the piano. He did not hide his face, nor did he glance nervously around the room.

He sat tall, proud, a smile on his face for all the room to see.

As we draw into the holiday season, please keep men like Cassius and Luke in your prayers. The holidays are an incredibly difficult time for those in prison – between familial separation, poor weather, and long nights, the strain can become too much for some to bear. Our hope and prayer is that throughout these months, the men and women we encounter inside and outside prison walls feel the warmth of God’s love shining down upon them.

Thank you for supporting this ministry, and Happy Thanksgiving.

Spencer