A couple of months ago, I sat in a room of staff interviewing a potential candidate for a position with Prison Fellowship. After the usual peppering with questions, the candidate got a turn to ask questions of his own. He didn’t miss a beat. He wanted to know: “How do you do it? How do you have compassion for these people?” I was taken aback by the question. But it caused me to to retrace my steps on this journey of compassion the Lord has invited me on.

I had only recently celebrated my sixteenth birthday when I read Crime and Punishment. I remember settling into a hammock on my parents’ back porch not far from St. Petersburg, Florida, and being transported to the arctic cold of St. Petersburg, Russia, as I devoured page after page of the arrogant Raskolnikov envisioning, plotting, and finally killing an innocent old woman. As the investigating inspector circled closer and closer in on the guilty Raskolnikov, I found myself feeling paranoid. In fact, when my mom opened the back door to ask me a question one day, I literally jumped in fright. I knew it was only a matter of time before, we—I  mean—he, was caught.

In my jumpiness and paranoia that summer, something happened to me. I felt guilty. My mind could follow the logic of Raskolnikov’s crime, in all its hideous and horrible complexity. For a kid whose closest brush with the law had hitherto been sitting out of recess once in first grade, this was a startling realization. Peering into the heart of Raskolnikov, I saw that I, too, had the heart of a sinner, the heart of a criminal. Little did I know then that God was laying the foundation for me to have a heart of compassion for criminals. The first step was seeing our hearts are made of the same mettle.

Ten years later, I joined the staff of Prison Fellowship as a writer. I knew next to nothing at the time about prison, prisoners, or their families.  To get acquainted, the woman whose job I’d be taking handed me several overflowing manila folders of letters from prisoners. I took them home that first week and sat down to read. By the time I finished reading through half of one folder, the letters were streaked both by the yellow highlighter and my tears. If you’ll indulge me by reading a few snippets of the letters, I think you’ll see why. These are from inmates:

“I have been down for seven years serving 40 years to life . . . I am now in lock down, I am told for good; no longer have any contact with the free world other than a word of depression now and again from my parents. I . . . came to prison at 15 years old—I didn’t see the wrecking ball coming. As I become more and more isolated, I begin to question all the why’s . . . I learn things about myself pacing away the nights. I am lacking . . . something. Sometimes I feel so alone. I can shrug it off . . . and do well in my cement coffin, but I begin to think is this it? It should not be—a person should not be alone, a person should have friends and loved ones—but I do not. …This is my home.”--Benjamin

“I was reading an artacel (sic) . . . about an inmate in prison who was dying from AIDS. As I was reading I began to cry. I know that some day I too will die from AIDS . . . I have been HIV positive for four years now and I know things happen for a reason, but I still do not understand why God has wanted this to happen to me. There are times I ask myself why me? Why has God left me to die in such a way as this! I feel so alone here in my prison cell. I would like to know if He still loves me as His child?” –Christina

“I have a daughter who will turn seven in August, her name is Leslie, and a five-year-old son named Brendan, both with blue eyes and red hair. They are my precious gifts. . . . My problem is that they are getting ready to start to school. My daughter will be entering the second grade and my son will start kindergarten.  They live on public assistance. I know that what they get will not even cover the utility bills. My children are doing without a lot by me being her. What I am wondering is, could you or anyone you know help my children in receiving any kind of school clothes or supplies?” --James

The letters like a crowbar wedged opened my heart even further to this forgotten people group.

To be continued...

This article originally appeared in Inside Out, a free ezine of Prison Fellowship which you can sign up for here.