The Joy of Bearing Witness

To Witness.

For me, to bear witness is to hold space for another person. To be present for their sacred humanity. It is a way of saying: I see you. Your existence matters. Your achievement matters. Your happiness matters. This moment matters.

I am here with you in it.

The Joy of bearing witness feels a bit like evidence. Proof that says, we were here. Maybe that is why it reminds me of those old junior high bathroom stalls covered with carved names and declarations. “So-and-so was here.” A small mark left behind in a worn-out space. A simple record of existence. Someone was here. Someone mattered enough to leave evidence.

Witnessing another person’s joy feels similar, though hopefully with fewer bathroom stalls involved.

In a world that can feel harsh and indifferent, joy becomes medicine for both the person carrying it and the person fortunate enough to witness it. The human spirit is tested constantly by systems, by loss, by disappointment, by time itself. Yet somehow, people continue finding ways out of no way.

It is graduation season, and I find myself seated inside a California state prison, waiting for the graduates to arrive.

The excitement within me is palpable.

I am seated among the dignitaries. Through casual conversation, I learn that many are required to attend. It explains the mood. Professional. Routine. Expected.

My eyes drift away from the officials and settle on the families.

There they are.

Smiles. Proud faces. Tender glances exchanged across the room. Eyes fixed on the doors in anticipation.

I found my people.

Then the familiar graduation song begins to play. The graduates enter.

Caps and gowns have replaced prison-issued uniforms. Black robes. Tassels. Graduation caps. Their smiles transform the beige brick room. For a moment, the prison recedes into the background.I make a point of looking at every graduate.

Really looking.

As though I am seeing them not only for myself, but for the loved ones who could not be there. As though I am collecting fragments of the moment and carrying them home.

Perhaps one day someone will need to borrow my eyes.

After the graduates take their seats and the customary speeches begin, my attention wanders across the room. Bright eyes. Proud smiles. Faces carrying stories I will never fully know.

Then the first student approaches the podium. He is a new graduate. A man in his seventies. An elder. Dirty blond hair tucked beneath his graduation cap. Well over six feet tall. A medicine bag hangs around his neck, resting gently against his black gown.

As his name is called, he begins making his way to the stage. His feet, legs, and knees seem to negotiate each step. The audience waits patiently.

As he approaches the podium, my eyes keep returning to the medicine bag resting against his chest.

Death row had been his home for decades.

That day, he was one of five men from the dismantled row graduating.  He nervously told us it was his first time giving a speech.

I sat there thinking about that. A man in his seventies. Standing before a crowd of one hundred people. Delivering his first speech.

And what did he choose to talk about?

Paying attention.

He spoke about the moon. About skies full of stars. About touching grass beneath your feet. About the joy of noticing a flower.

A flower.

He reminded us that most of us move through our days barely noticing what is right in front of us until it is gone. Until access to it is taken away. Not for a day. Not for a month.

For decades. Or possibly forever.

As I listened, I felt an unexpected joy. There I was, watching a new graduate deliver his first speech about the beauty of witnessing nature. It compelled me to ask myself: What am I overlooking? What does my freedom allow me to take for granted? What beauty passes before me unnoticed because I assume it will always be there?

The practice of bearing witness asks something of us. It asks us to be present. To slow down. To take notice. To honor one another.

When the ceremony ended, the room shifted.

The speeches were over. The diplomas had been handed out. The official part of the day had concluded. But something more important was beginning. Families moved toward one another.

A mother reached for her son. A wife wrapped her arms around her husband. Children looked up at fathers wearing graduation caps instead of prison-issued blues. The room was filled with pride and tears of joy. Some simply stood together, letting the moment settle into their bones.

There was no podium for this part. No microphone. No program. No dignitaries offering remarks. Yet this was the moment I could not stop watching. This was the sacred ceremony.

Joy moved freely through a place built to contain it. Love found its way through concrete, steel, razor wire, and every barrier designed to separate human beings from one another. For a few precious moments, the prison surrendered to something larger than itself. Joy.

It is never lost on me that the men confined within these walls have gifted me countless opportunities to bear witness to their humanity. To their brotherhood. Their laughter. Their commitment to education. Their refusal to surrender their spirit.

During my limited visits, I have witnessed a depth of community that many people living freely never experience. For that, I am grateful.

I thank them for gifting me these moments. To witness their achievements. To witness their joy. And most importantly, to witness their humanity.

And in doing so, to remember something about my own. Perhaps that is the gift of witnessing. Not simply seeing another person’s light. But allowing it to illuminate something within ourselves. A quiet reminder that despite all evidence to the contrary, we are still here.

And that matters.