Saturday Morning Traditions

Most mornings begin the same way.

A cup of coffee on the back porch as the sun begins to rise.

There was a time, though, when Saturday mornings looked a little different. When my daughter and two sons were little, we'd often begin the day by heading to Shipley's Donuts. Everyone had their favorite, packed in their own little bag, along with a carton of chocolate milk. Before the day became busy, we'd gather around the table, laugh, talk, and simply enjoy being together.

Those mornings are more than twenty-five years behind me now.

This past Saturday, as I pulled into the parking lot at Shipley's, those memories unexpectedly came rushing back.

Only this time, I wasn't taking donuts home.

I was taking them to Parchman.

Eight dozen of them.

As I drove across the Mississippi Delta, I smiled at the thought that instead of donuts and chocolate milk, this morning would be donuts and coffee. At the time, I wasn't sure why those old memories had surfaced. It wouldn't be until later that afternoon that I understood.

My first stop was the Spiritual Life Center. When I arrived, a friend’s ministry team was busy making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Their goal was simple: take them into prisons across Mississippi, offer a sandwich, and share the gospel. Most of us wouldn't think twice about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But to someone who rarely receives anything from the outside, it's more than lunch. It's a reminder that someone remembered them.

I left a few donuts for the men there, spent a few minutes visiting with the chaplains—who have become like brothers to me—and then made my way to Unit 17.

When I walked through the doors, most of the men were still on their bunks.

Earlier that week, one of the residents had asked me if I could bring him something.

Not snacks.

Not money.

Just pens and paper.

He has spent more than forty years on death row. He has no visitors, no one writing letters, and no one putting money on his account. His request couldn't have been much simpler.

The day before, I stopped at Walmart and bought forty packs of notebook paper. I also gathered pens that had been donated after our Christmas outreach. One thing I've learned is that if I bring something for one resident, I bring something for every resident. So one of the residents and I walked from cell to cell, leaving each man a pack of paper and a couple of pens.

It wasn't much.

But sometimes the smallest gifts communicate the greatest love.

The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen as the unit slowly came alive.

One of the men grinned and said, "That's a pretty good Saturday morning tradition—coffee and donuts."

I laughed.

"It gets even better," I said. "These are Shipley's."

Soon the room was full.

Coffee.

Donuts.

Conversations.

Laughter echoing off concrete walls.

If someone had walked past without knowing where they were, they might never have guessed they were standing outside Mississippi's death row.

Throughout the morning I visited with one man after another. One conversation especially stayed with me. A man who has spent more than thirty years on death row described coming within less than three hours of execution. Then, almost without changing tone, he talked about losing his mother and how that loss still leaves an empty place in his life.

Some losses never stop leaving an empty chair at the table.

Later that afternoon I returned to the Spiritual Life Center, where friends had prepared homemade gumbo. We sat around the table talking, laughing, and enjoying one another's company.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that some of life's most meaningful moments happen around a table.

Families gather around tables.

Friends gather around tables.

Jesus gathered people around tables.

There is something sacred about slowing down long enough to share a meal.

During lunch, one of the men quietly mentioned that he had been incarcerated for fifty-six years.

Fifty-six years.

Only two years less than I have been alive.

I tried to imagine what that really meant, but I couldn't.

As I drove home that evening, I finally understood why those memories of Saturday mornings with my children had come back to me.

It wasn't because of the donuts.

It was because of what they represented.

Love has a way of making ordinary things feel sacred.

Donuts.

Coffee.

Chocolate milk.

Notebook paper.

Pens.

Peanut butter sandwiches.

Bowls of gumbo.

None of those things are extraordinary.

Yet, in God's hands, each had quietly become an expression of love.

Somewhere along the way, without realizing exactly when it happened, the men of Parchman stopped being "the inmates I visit."

They became my friends.

Jesus once said, "Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother."

For years I understood those words with my mind.

Now, every time I drive through the front gate of Mississippi State Penitentiary, I have the privilege of living them.

Stephen Jernigan - July 25, 2026