Two metal doors stood between me and the residents of the juvenile center in my hometown. In response to a ring at the doorbell, each clicked open, then clanged shut. By now, this is so routine, I don’t even think about it, but then I had to wipe my damp hands on my skirt, and swallow to cover my quick breathing.
What would these teenagers, locked away from the rest of us, be like? Would I be able to communicate with them?
As it turned out, I struggled to talk with them—for the first year. I would prepare to talk about the Bible, and what I believed about God, in a way that seemed relevant. Many times they would look at me, silent, a few sleeping by the end, most nearly joining them as they listened.
One day, I was so frustrated and out of ideas, that I tried a different approach. I asked them a simple question. “What would you ask Jesus if he were sitting where I am? Right here. What is the one question you would ask?”
This time, something was different. The questions came, quickly. Questions like, “How do you get faith? Other people pray and God answers, but He doesn’t answer my prayers.”
“Why would God let people in my life hurt me? How do I trust people, and Him, again?”
“How do I talk to God as a Father when my dad died and I hardly knew him—and he barely cared about me when I was alive?”
Everyone was awake, hearing the tears the kids could barely hold back, and looking expectantly at me for answers. This time, I looked back at them, wondering what to say. I asked more questions, to understand the story behind each question. The discussion we had that day was painfully vulnerable but opened up a real connection.
Since then, I still forget, and give lectures sometimes, but more often, we sit and talk about the questions they have—most of which are nearly impossible to answer. Yet talking about them helps me to stay away from glib spiritual clichés, and helps them to sort through questions they’ve been asking.
They have become my friends; they have become my teachers. Here are eleven things I have learned from kids who have come to the Bible studies in detention. I miss each of them; they are honest, brilliant, and vulnerable, by turns.
Sarah* taught me that the church doesn’t always know how to bring people back. She told me that she had attended church before. “I used to know God, but I wandered away. I’ve been into alcohol and drugs and all that stuff. I talk to church people, but they don’t get it. They haven’t been through the stuff I have. How do I come back?” I wasn’t sure what to tell her because she is right—many churches do struggle to bring back people who have struggled with substance abuse. I could only say that there are a few churches who do ‘get it,’ whose members are recovering users or care about those who are. I encouraged her to look for one like that and hoped she would find one before she gave up.
Kenneth* taught me that Bible gets it—even when we’re talking about drug addiction. He asked me, “Why can’t I change? Other kids come in here and get scared to walk the line again. I keep coming back. Why can’t I kick my habit? I’ve been in here five times. I can’t do it.”
He talked a bit more about his life, and somehow we started reading the part of Romans where Paul writes about the habits he couldn’t kick, either. When he read, “I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing,” (Rom. 7:18-19), he looked at me, dumbfounded.
“The Bible understands what I’m going through!”
Seth* taught me that sometimes the system provides a safe space from the chaos of addiction. The state system didn’t help Kenneth’s addiction, but it did help Seth’s. When I first met Seth, his face was gaunt, his blonde hair chopped short, and his blue eyes blank and blood-shot. He never slept, but he listened without expression. Yet he came, week after week, and slowly I saw his face fill out and his hair begin to look healthy. Finally, one day, he asked me a question, and his eyes lighted up at my answer.
I don’t know if Seth will keep cycling through the system, but I do know that he found a place where he could recover. The detention center I visit employs staff members who genuinely care about the kids, and the space they’ve created has helped Seth.
Alex* taught me how important it is to remember people’s names. When he told me his name one morning, I laughed and said that was my brother’s name, so it should be easy to remember.
He looked irritated. “You’ve told me that exact thing for three weeks, but every time you forget my name!” I apologized to him, realizing how I needed to pay close attention; he knew by my carelessness that he was just one more face to me.
(To clarify: "Alex" is not my brother's name, but I can't share this kid's real name, which is the same as my brother's.)
All of the kids have taught me how much it matters to have someone genuinely care about them. Alex showed me how I can mess that up, but I can’t remember how many kids have appreciated my attempts to listen. They thank me every time I leave. “See you, Jewel! Thank you for coming in!” They extend grace to me, and it humbles me every time.
Nate* taught me to listen—even to people who seem to be losing it. He was telling me about his anger, and why he feels he needs it. “Unless I do raise my voice, my family doesn’t listen to me. They ignore me, but if I get angry, they’ll actually talk to me.” Creating conflict, I realized, was his plea to be heard, and I learned from Nate to listen before reacting to a person who's angry.
Micah* taught me that sometimes the kids listening to me know the Bible better than I do. He corrected me on the story I was telling, and I realized all over again not to assume that I know more than they do. I used to be self-righteous about knowing more of the Bible; now I know to ask them to help me rehearse the stories. It’s more fun when we can all laugh about my mistakes.
Scott* taught me why sometimes people choose suicide. “What would you say to someone who doesn’t want to live any more?” he asked quietly, after the group discussion was over, and the other kids had started watching TV.
“I would probably ask them why they don’t want to live,” I said. “Scott, what’s going on?”
“Before I came in here, my mom tried to kill me,” he said. “She choked me, and I managed to record it on my phone so they could see I hit her in self-defense. If even my mom hates me, why do I want to live?”
People who commit suicide, I had always thought, were selfish, caring more about themselves than about the people who grieve them. Scott taught me that sometimes people who want to kill themselves believe no one will grieve them.
Tyler* taught me about how to enjoy a discussion with someone who disagrees with me. He wanted to discuss his Wiccan beliefs during one of our morning discussions, and the questions he asked provoked a rousing exchange. When one of the staff checked in to make sure he was being respectful, we both laughed. “Man, this is an awesome church!” he said. “I like when we get into this stuff.”
He loved that time. Even though he knew we came from different perspectives, he was willing to dialogue about them—and enjoyed it.
Angie* taught me about being willing to ask for help. She didn’t ask any questions during the group time, but afterward, she stopped me as I was leaving. “Can you come during the week to teach me about God?” I told her I would ask permission.
The next week, I came back and told her that we could meet after the group time, so we walked over to a corner table in the room, where we could have a bit of privacy. “I don’t know anything about this God stuff,” she said, “except that the Bible has Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
“Well, you know where to start then,” I said. “That’s where you’ll find out the most about Jesus.” Angie’s honesty amazed me. I try to cover up my ignorance; she admitted it and learned more than I do when I’m too proud, to be honest.
Harrison* taught me about real freedom: “Can you pray that we can remember that even when we are physically trapped, we can be mentally free?” Indeed, I thought. He gets it: whether or not we live behind locked doors is not what determines our freedom. Freedom, he knew, is living with hope—not despair, not bitterness, not shame.
I pray for freedom for each of my teachers in juvenile detention.
*This name has been changed to protect privacy.
