The Smile Behind the Fear

Yesterday, one of the men on Mississippi's death row handed me the beginning of a reflection I had asked them to write. The question was simple:

If you were only known by your sentence, what would be missing?

He was excited for me to read what he had written so far. It was only a page and a half, but one sentence immediately stopped me.

"To know me, you have to get past the fear."

I haven't read the rest yet. He's still writing. But I have thought a great deal about that one sentence since then.

What makes it so remarkable is that it came from the man I have always associated with one thing more than anything else—his smile.

Yesterday, we were already in the middle of our Prayer and Share time when he quietly walked up to the small window in the door. He didn't come in because he didn't want to interrupt. Through that little pane of glass, all I could really see was his face. And there it was again—that big, beautiful smile. It made me smile before he ever stepped into the room.

The first time I met him was also during Prayer and Share. He had recently come out of solitary confinement. That day he shared a song he had written. He played it on the guitar and sang it for us, and it was beautiful. Since then, he has shared several more songs. God has given him a remarkable gift for putting truth into music.

Every time I go to Unit 17, we greet each other with a familiar dap, a hug, and a few minutes of conversation. There is a joy about him that is difficult to explain.

And that is what makes his sentence so powerful.

"To know me, you have to get past the fear."

As I read those words, I realized something that had never occurred to me before.

Fear had never entered my mind.

Not the first time I walked onto death row. Not the first time I met him. Not yesterday when all I could see through that little window was his smiling face.

It wasn't until I read his sentence that I realized fear was something he assumed I would have to overcome before I could truly know him.

The truth is, I had never thought about fear at all. Somewhere along the way, without my even realizing it, God had quietly replaced fear with friendship.

I haven't read the rest of his reflection yet. He's still writing. But those eleven words have stayed with me ever since.

I wonder how many people never get past that first obstacle.

Fear allows us to keep people at a distance. It convinces us that we already know someone because we know what they have done. It reduces human beings to headlines, convictions, and labels.

Love does the opposite.

Love moves closer. It listens. It learns names. It hears stories. And it discovers that every person is more than the worst chapter of his life.

The truth is, I don't know what brought this man to death row, and I have intentionally chosen not to ask.

That may surprise some people.

It isn't because justice doesn't matter. It does. It isn't because victims don't matter. They do.

It is because I want to know the man before I know the crime.

I don't know what he wrestles with when the lights go out. I don't know what memories still haunt him. I don't know what fears he carries or what burdens he quietly places before the Lord. The joy he shares with me may be only one chapter of a much deeper story.

But I do know this.

Every time I go to Unit 17, we dap, hug, and visit for a few minutes. There is a joy about him that is difficult to explain.

To see that kind of joy on the face of a man awaiting execution on Mississippi's death row is hard to explain. I honestly don't have the words for it.

Maybe that's because joy rooted in Christ has never depended on circumstances. Paul sang in prison. The apostles rejoiced after they were beaten. And sometimes, in a prison in the Mississippi Delta, a man with a radiant smile reminds me that the gospel reaches places most of us would never expect.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest lessons God continues to teach me at Parchman.

The men I have come to know are not simply inmates or death row prisoners. They are image-bearers of God. They are fathers, sons, writers, musicians, pastors, encouragers, and friends. Their crimes may be real. Their sentences are certainly real. But neither is the truest thing about them.

For those who belong to Christ, the truest thing about them is what Christ has done.

Yesterday I looked through a little window in a prison door and saw a smiling face.

God used that little window to remind me that we often see only a small part of a person's story, while He sees the whole person.

Stephen Jernigan, August 5, 2026