Late last year, Joe Cedillo and Richard Nelson stepped out of the gates of Muskegon Correctional Facility in Michigan after a combined 63 years of incarceration. 

Their freedom not only meant something to them. It inspired their fellow students in the joint bachelor’s program that Hope College and Western Theological Seminary offer at the prison. The two faith-based colleges partner to provide a liberal arts education to 76 men — including nine who graduated at the end of June — incarcerated at Muskegon. What moved these students most wasn’t just seeing their classmates walking through the gates — it was witnessing, in photographs, college faculty and staff waiting in the parking lot to welcome them home. Artist and writer Alvin Smith, who was among last month’s graduates and a frequent contributor to College Inside, worked with his fellow students to put together this collection of reflections on that transformative moment. 

The testimonies gathered here are a testament to how genuine relationships can rebuild trust even in environments where trust seems impossible. Smith’s artwork — depicting a student surrounded by books within institutional walls yet transcending them through education — accompanies his essay, which opens the series of reflections below and maps how a lifetime of self-protective distrust gave way to hope.

These voices capture a moment when students realized they weren’t just “prisoner[s] taking a college class,” as one participant wrote, but actual students whose success mattered to an academic community that wouldn’t abandon them. 

— Charlotte West

Imagine a life where the only people you trust look and think like you, and live on the same block in the neighborhood where you grew up. Imagine that anyone who doesn’t resemble you gets met with disdain. 

This icy way of viewing outsiders didn’t start with you. Think back to the adults in your life, the way they vehemently distrusted anyone they didn’t know, especially those who looked different. Remember answering the knock on the door and informing the social worker, the insurance agent, the police officer: “My parents ain’t home.”

You carried that distrust into school, leaving the teacher to wonder why they couldn’t reach you. Meanwhile, the people you did feel safe to trust were forced to live less than stellar lives; they had their own issues with trust. You followed their example. You got in trouble. Before long, you ended up with a probation officer, whom you also distrusted.  Your cold distrust, their impatience: the combination rendered them ineffective at preventing your unnatural trajectory to prison.

Once behind bars, you found even less incentive to trust anyone outside of your circle. Hopelessness set in. The ice thickened. 

Then something happened. You were invited to participate in a seminary program inside your prison, alongside a motley crew of other mistrustful men. You were suspicious of the program organizers, of course you were. Soon the truth of who these people were would show through, you thought. They can’t be who and what they say they are. And who provides a quality education without strings attached? 

But a phrase they kept repeating stuck in your mind: “We are here for you.” We kept hearing it again and again in the classroom, and in our interactions with staff. 

Soon enough, a miracle occurred. Two of your classmates were granted parole after being incarcerated for 25 and 38 years, respectively. Both were initially given life sentences. You saw the pictures of both of them out in the parking lot with their families. The ice began to thaw. 

You were moved by their accomplishment: They had become members of the seminary program, that special community. In the pictures, those men were surrounded by directors, professors, student advisors, administrators and others who welcomed your brothers back into society just as they said they would.

Your defenses continued to melt — and not just yours, but other students in the program. The melting is a kind of freedom. It allowed you and your peers to commit fully to the education process. You knew you were not alone. For the first time in a very long time, you trusted.

— Alvin Smith

In the movie “Antoine Fisher,” starring Derek Luke and Denzel Washington, Luke portrays a character (Antoine) who runs away from home and later becomes a stand-up member of the military. Growing up, Antonie was a victim of molestation and abandonment. After his escape from the relentless abuse, he has a recurring dream of being embraced and welcomed by a community. Late last year, two fellow students in the Hope Western Prison Education Program walked out of the metal jaws of incarceration. These were men like Antoine, who dreamed of one day belonging. After their release, they were met in the prison parking lot by family, friends and members of the college program. 

Still-incarcerated Hope-Western students recently saw photographs of this beautiful encounter. The images filled them with hope. It astonished them to know that the program and its mission embraced students even beyond prison walls. The program’s primary aim is to educate students for lives of leadership and service, but these pictures were proof that this mission also extends to supporting reentry of its formerly incarcerated students. 

The two students will complete their educational requirements on the program’s main campus in Holland, Michigan.

When Antoine’s dream of finding [belonging] finally came true…members of his family hugged him and applauded his arrival and presence in their lives. This is what Hope-Western did for two of its students as they returned to society. Such a reception makes it more than a prison program.

— Anthony D. Robinson

After seeing the photograph, a tear rolls down my face and falls onto a blade of grass at my feet. In the image, two men are met outside the prison by family and members of the Hope College community. A second tear flows, chasing the first. It contains joy. The third tear rushes behind the second, and contains reflections of many other tears belonging to the proud people on the outside of prison — hardworking, honest, wage-earning, law-abiding members of society — receiving the recently released students. It hits me that these men will soon experience opportunities only a community can provide.

— hassan a. mohammad

For nearly 18 years, I held the belief that people in society had no interest in the education and rehabilitation of prisoners. 

Then, in June 2024, I began my first semester as a student in Hope College and Western Theological Seminary’s Prison program. For sixteen weeks I experienced some of the most loving, honest and committed humans in Michigan. This genuine and warm embrace from Hope-Western staff felt a little awkward at first, and I was skeptical of their intentions. My distrust is a byproduct of being lied to my entire life by those who pose as helpers but in fact intend to harm you. 

But my doubts were dispelled at the end of the semester when I saw pictures of two fellow students in the parking lot met by family and college staff on the day of their release. This reception proved to me that when it comes to Hope-Western, word is bond. 

— Lee Hughes

Witnessing a roommate go home after doing almost 40 years behind bars is amazing. It’s as if part of me left prison for a moment. 

When I went over to the school room where we both studied and saw pictures of Joe (my former roommate), Richard and Shawn (a graduate of Calvin University who was a former tutor in our Hope College program) being released, I felt even further removed from prison. 

As a first year student of Hope College and Western Theological Seminary’s Prison Education Program, I hear often of the support that accompanies pursuing this degree. But I cannot help but notice the men around me with degrees from other programs who appear to have nothing and no one to support them. 

The pictures of college staff welcoming those students home made me feel like we were actually students, like we had a family who provided comfort and encouragement. 

I guess my human nature tries to define me as a prisoner taking a college course. But the show of support for those coming home made me feel like a college student who’s just housed in a prison.

— Dontaye B. Hardeman