"Thanks Spencer.”

Pain poured off the pages. Hopes and fears and dreams written in black ink and graphite, scrawled on pieces of torn composition paper.

The more I read, the more I regretted giving the assignment. Their hurt was becoming my hurt, their fears my own. But I had to push through. They’d done the work; it was my duty to grade it. Reading their responses, I knew I couldn’t just stamp a letter grade on the cover page and move along. I had to do more.

I opened up my laptop and opened Word. My own responses would be far too long to write by hand. I wanted to take my time, respond thoughtfully, show them the same respect they had shown me. They went above and beyond the requirements of the assignment, I could at least try and do the same. I struggled to find the words to type. The page sat blank.

Several weeks ago, I finished reading a book on relationships called Eight Dates. At the very end of the book the authors attached a list of questions for group discussions. I copied down the list and printed it out for our students. I told them to choose at least three questions to respond to with a minimum response of two paragraphs for each question. One student laughed and said, “Only two paragraphs? You’re getting soft, Mr. Spence.” I jokingly threatened to increase the minimum response to one page for each question. He quickly apologized, much to his classmates’ relief.

When the time came to collect their responses, I was pleasantly surprised that many students had written multiple pages. Staples aren’t permitted in prisons so instead my students have learned to fold the corners over. I saw a lot of folded corners in the stack. The new year was off to a great start.

Later that week, one of our programs was cancelled due to a statewide shutdown of the prison system. In case you didn’t hear, four inmates were killed during a recent outbreak of violence at Washington State Prison. Ironically, minutes before the violence, I was speaking at a church in south Georgia. In my prepared remarks I discussed how dysfunctional and violent the prison system has become. Afterwards, many congregants said the same thing to me, “Thank you. I had no idea.” On my drive home, I wondered if I had been too harsh, too critical of the system. Then minutes later, the notifications came through to my phone. The events at Washington, four dead, a dozen hospitalized, reaffirmed my conviction. One of the slain men was three days away from release.

Because of the lockdown, I had a few extra hours to grade my students’ assignments. I brewed a fresh cup of coffee and sat down at my table, excited to read their words.

The first paper was from a 19-year-old student. I’ve known this kid for two years now. He was first enrolled in our horticulture class for juvenile inmates and upon turning 18, was moved to our adult class. As a juvenile, he was an excellent student – smart, determined, eager. One semester he even earned the Valedictorian award. But as soon as he turned 18, things changed. He stopped showing up for class. He tattooed a scythe and reaper onto his face. His color changed to a pale, ghostly white. He was clearly on drugs. He would nod off in class, unable to stay awake. Despite my attempts, he rebuffed any concerns I expressed. His own life was “none of my business.”

Unsurprisingly, he stopped showing up for class. I had to withdraw him from our rosters so someone else could take his place. All I could do was say a prayer for him and let his friends know that I was still thinking of him, that he was welcome back in the future.

And he did show back up. But not for class. For our Christmas celebration - the day I cook a ton of food and bring it to our students to celebrate the holidays.

That wasn’t going to fly with me. You can’t skip all the work and expect the reward. The rest of the students had earned this meal, dutifully attending lectures and completing assignments, spending hours toiling in the garden under the hot sun.

As soon as I saw him, he ducked his head. He knew I was going to ask him to leave. One of our teaching assistants even pointed at him, saying he had only come for the food. The assistant asked if he could send him away. It was the right thing to do.

But I waffled. I asked to think about it for a second. I heard the words come forth from me, words that weren’t my own. I said he could stay.

Now don’t get me wrong. I wanted him gone. Feeding him would take food away from the rest of the students. He hadn’t earned it.

But something in me said, Jesus wouldn’t turn this kid away. Jesus would feed him.

He stayed. He ate. Lots. Whatever drugs he was on had caused him to lose a lot of weight. Afterwards, he slipped me a note, expressing his desire to re-enroll. I told him that our next class was in two weeks and it was his job to show up on time and prepared. I wouldn’t go out looking for him. The ball was in his court.

Fast forward two weeks. He was there. He looked sober…ish. He didn’t sleep through the entire class. But he didn’t take notes either. And he sat next to the class clown. Not a great sign.

He took the paper with the questions from me and tucked it into a notebook. I doubted he’d complete the assignment.

When I opened the sheath of papers, his was on top. A smile spread across my face. He’d done it. I began reading.

He chose a question, “What are you biggest worries about the future?”

I’ve left his response unedited.

My biggest worry that I wake up thinking about every day is whether or not I’m going to die in prison, whether it be from old age or getting killed.

My smile evaporated. I kept reading.

“If you could be a superstar in any sport, what sport would you choose and why?”

His response.

If I could be a superstar in any sport, I would choose basketball. The reason being is because I’ve always liked basketball and I used to really enjoy playing the sport ever since I’ve been little. I’m not gonna lie, I became a little emotional watching Cooper Flagg get drafted into the NBA. This 18 year old is the #1 pick and has everything going for his self while I’m here rotting away. I spent like 2 hours imagining that I was in his shoes that night.

The Word document sat blank before me.

I didn’t know how to respond, what to say. I flipped to the next student’s paper. He too detailed his fear of not making it home. Another student wrote of how his biggest accomplishment was earning his high school diploma – in prison. He was the first person in his family to “accomplish this achievement.” Each response seemed to be more heartbreaking than the last.

It felt heavy. Like too much for me. Too much for HeartBound. So many problems, so much trauma, so little it felt like I could do. I knew it wasn’t my job to fix these men or to heal them, but the human in me had trouble letting that go. I’m a fixer. I don’t like to be given unfixable problems. Reading their grammar, looking at these torn out sheets written by men in prison, it all seemed so unfixable.

I finally got towards the end of the stack of papers. I’d had enough. I really didn’t want to read this one student’s paper. This particular student is very, very old. Perhaps the oldest student I’ve ever had. He probably has some cognitive issues because he can never remember my name, he’s always late to class, and he always tells me that it’s his last class because he’s going home the next day. Week after week, I arrive to teach, hoping to see him released. His chair is almost always empty. I get hopeful, thinking to myself, this is the day! He’s home! And then he walks in late, apologizing, saying “Sorry I’m late Sheldon, I forgot we had class.” He thinks my name is Sheldon. Not even Mr. Sheldon. Just Sheldon. Watching someone get old in prison is not pleasant.

At the end of his paper, he attached a P.S.

“I learned more in your class in the last year than any other year of my life. Thanks Spencer.”

Spencer