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"Don't give up"

A few years later, God did remind me. I had begun teaching inmates at a state prison; I wanted to bring a Christian influence to these forgotten pariahs of society. My classroom, I had decided, would be a place where these men would feel God's love and forgiveness.

But then I started hearing their stories: One inmate had murdered a four-year-old girl. He had tied her to a tree and raped her before pouring gasoline over her and setting her on fire. Could God really love him? I wondered. Forgive him?

One day I conducted a short literacy seminar for five men on death row.

"Why do you want to learn to read now?" I asked one condemned man.

"To read the Bible before I die," he responded.

That night I couldn't sleep as I pictured the atrocities those inmates had committed. Were they truly created in God's image? Did God even want such depraved men to read the Bible?

After five years at the prison, I accepted my present position at the public middle school in our town. On my last day at the prison, the inmates, who knew I would be working with seventh graders, were full of advice.

"Tell those kids not to make the mistakes we made," a burly inmate told me.

"And, Mrs. Swartz," another inmate added. "Don't give up on the bad kids in your classes. I wish someone hadn't given up on me."

John moves restlessly, breaking my reverie. He's still scowling, not working. For the moment, I choose to let him go, to not meet him at the battle line he's drawn. I give out other assignments, sign library passes, answer questions, and hand back papers.

What should I do about John? I pray repeatedly as the minutes tick by. My mind sorts options, but none seem right for John today. Finally, as the period comes to a close, I pull a stool next to his desk.

"What's wrong, John?" I ask quietly.

There's no answer, but almost imperceptibly he shifts toward me, so I wait.

"Mom left us last night," he says at last, his face stoic. "She says she ain't never comin' back."

Suddenly his teeth clench and his eyes light with fire. "And I'm glad," he hisses, "'cause I never want to see her again. I hate her!"

The bell rings and John shoves off from his desk. As he slides away, all I have time to do is awkwardly pat his shoulder. Three steps from his desk, however, he pauses and momentarily faces me. For the first time all year I see a hint of softness in his eyes. Then abruptly, he swivels on his heels and swaggers through the door, once again the tough guy.

The classroom is empty now, and my sigh echoes off the hard-wood floor. Though I am touched by what he has told me, I am still tempted to give up on him-in two weeks the school year will end, and like most students, he will walk out of my classroom never to be seen again.

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