Serving Troubled Teens
Laughter Behind Barbwire (Messed-Up but Managing #19)
I was four or five years old when I first saw my dad in a jail jumpsuit. We had just finished playing Atari. Yeah, an actual Atari from the early 80s, where the graphics looked like someone was trying their hardest to make a geometry lesson fun. We were sitting around the dinner table in our apartment in the White Oak complex and I believe we were eating pizza. We heard a pounding at the door: “Open up! It’s the police!”
From what I remember, it was quite like in the movies, just with real trauma. My dad went to jail that night. Some time later, I saw him behind glass holding a phone to his ear. I don’t remember how long after that was or how long he was in, or the full story of what went down. I was told he got framed by his boss at a gas station. At that age, the facts didn’t stick but what definitely did: my feelings.
I remember visiting my uncle in a similar setup later on, a county jail. Visits like those left imprints on me and they never really faded. They’re like tattoos on my soul. And even though I’ve done everything possible to stay far away from those places as an adult, life has decided to walk me back in that direction. Or maybe it’s God and he’s up to something. I’m not exactly sure.
In middle school and high school, my childhood best friend’s parents, David and Linda Hammond, were deeply involved in ministry, and they’d often go to the local juvenile detention center to visit and serve the kids there. Around Christmas, they’d take gifts and be a loving presence to the incarcerated teens. They even took one in when she was released and helped raise her and her daughter.
You don’t forget the sound of a steel door locking behind you when you’re fourteen. And you definitely don’t forget how small your little human heart can feel in such a big, cold building. Fast-forward to now and, somehow, as I said, I’m back in it. I’ve been helping out my friends Rick and Deverlyn Kang here in Hawai’i, and from where I sit, if sainthood came with a punch card, theirs would be full.
They do prison ministry on all sides, that is, before, during, and after incarceration. They’re in the juvy halls trying to prevent kids from ending up in jail. They go into men’s and women’s facilities and lead studies, prayer, and worship. They’ve even opened clean-and-sober houses for folks coming out of prison. They’ve even converted the front half of their home into a living space for women exiting incarceration. They want to give them a real chance, a real shot at living well. It’s a beautiful ministry.
When I was pastoring, our little congregation helped get the men’s clean and sober house up and running. I was so proud of everyone who leaned into that. More recently, I’ve been helping the Kangs at Hawai’i’s Youth Challenge Academy. It’s kind of a last-chance program for teens who’ve been given ultimatums by life. I’ve gotten to preach and teach there, and I’ve also taken my own teens with me to participate.
These cadets have stories that will shatter you. Some of them come from places where pain is the norm and hope is what’s treated like contraband. I can’t say too much about their circumstances, but I can say this: if your heart doesn’t ache after listening to some of them, you may want to schedule an appointment with your cardiologist, because your heart might be made of stone. It would be super easy to look at these kids and see them as menaces to society, as civic nuisances, as the future’s problems. It’s easy to think that way when you’re looking from a distance. It’s different when you’re up close.
Meeting these kids, hearing their stories, learning their names, and sharing a laugh with them changes all that. When I got a little closer, I started to realize they’re not statistics, they’re lonely. They’re not criminals, they’re hurting. They’re not the dregs of society, they’re kids who were usually dealt a really bad hand. They’re kids who are trying to climb out of pits, whether they helped dig them or not.
And here’s where I make the leap you might not expect: comedy. Yes, that’s right: comedy. I know that sounds absurd, but one thing I’ve learned and taken to heart is that laughter is one of the most honest and freeing things a person can do. This past weekend, when I took my kids to YCA with me, I saw my daughter, an honors student and academic overachiever, the teen who earned the nickname “Pastor” at her high school, studying Scripture with the female cadets and laughing with them. They were all just being normal teens and laughter was the great equalizer.
The truth is, tragedy and comedy aren’t opposites. I’ve often heard they are. But I’m starting to think maybe they’re more like twins. They share a room, eat the same cereal, come from the same lineage of pain. Some of the funniest people I know come from the most broken stories. They’re usually the most resilient, too. I think it has something to do with the fact that, when life repeatedly punches you in the mouth hard enough, you either laugh or break. But it’s laughter that lets you get up again and breathe just enough to stand up and take another hit.
I’ve told jokes in comedy clubs that got people belly-laughing, and then I’ve prayed with people afterward who told me their stories. Some of those stories were darker than anything I’ve ever said on a mic and ever will say. And that’s just it: people come to comedy shows to laugh but I have a sneaking suspicion that they also come to feel. They come to feel emotions because that makes them feel human. It’s the same with the cadets. Yes, we go and teach, we preach, we lead worship, we share testimonies, we serve them, and we laugh with them. And it softens them. They feel again. They feel human again.
When I look back at that little boy eating pizza before the cops knocked, I don’t think he knew he’d ever be in juvenile facilities sharing his story and listening to others. He also had know idea how much brokenness he’d encounter in this life. But I think part of the reason I’ve been drawn to comedy is also the same reason I’ve been drawn to these kids. Both remind and teach me that when we face what’s ugly in this world with honesty, we start to find something beautiful again. Both remind me that when we can laugh in the face of pain, we’re bulletproof. Both remind me that laughter is a great uniter and equalizer. A good laugh is made from the same exact stuff that turns graves into gardens, mourning into dancing, and ashes into beauty.