By Jessie Nilo
Have you ever watched a person’s expression crumble after they broke something accidentally?
Nothing expensive or special.
Just… a broken old paint brush.
For eight years, I’ve been hauling the same 100+ paint brushes into various prisons to teach art classes. Eight years. That’s practically ancient in brush years.
They look the part, too.
Crooked ferrules.
Chipped wooden handles.
Bristles permanently crooked in what I lovingly call “a bad hair day.”
I always clean my brushes meticulously after each class using Speedball’s Pink Soap in my studio. I mean, the brushes last light years longer than some community studios I’ve been in. This is practically a miracle.
But sometimes — usually mid-lesson in the prison — the entire brush head pops off someone’s handle.
Kinda embarrassing for the teacher, right? Something to laugh at, no big deal.
But in prison, it is.
Because in prison, nothing is stable. For the men in prison, every day is oppressive, stressful, dangerous, and glum. Peace is what they long for. And art class — well, art class is precious.
So when a brush head tumbles off mid-painting, I see a flash of horror cross the man’s face every time. I cheerfully explain: “It’s cool! These brushes are so old. Sometimes the heads get loose. I’ve got glue — see? We’ll put it right back on.”
It doesn’t matter.
Their faces crumble with guilt.
Like a child who thinks they broke the only good toy they’ve ever been given.
I can never unsee it.
When you care about the humanization of people, you don’t hand them leftovers.
It turns out there are all kinds of creative ways to tell someone they matter.
The Oasis
One of our students walked halfway down the prison corridor after art class, smiling about the acrylic painting he’d made, before he remembered he was even in prison.
He came back to class the following week and told us, “You have no idea how much peace you bring us.”
Another resident said: “I come to art class to rest.”
Another: “This class feels different from anything in here.”
We don’t learn about their crimes — in fact, we don’t want to know. We’re not there to rehearse their pasts, but to bring hope in a restorative, forward-focused way.
In the classroom, the culture is starting to echo our voices back to Amy and me, much to our delight. We hear the men say to each other:
“No dude, you’re a great artist. No insulting yourself allowed.”
“You gotta talk positive about your work.”
“Whoa, that’s amazing texture, man!”
I hear them say:
“Be good to yourself.”
“Everyone is an artist.”
“Be proud to be a beginner. You’re doing great.”
It is my favorite cultural phenomenon.
Last week a student vulnerably asked: “Is there a place we can hear your voice after we’re out? So we can remember all you teach us?”
I had to blink back tears. Um, YouTube, we need to do something soon.
Amy and I host art exhibits for them in the prison, attend their choir concerts, and have met some of their families. We’ve seen the students’ goofy side. We pray for them when we think of them.
One morning as we kindly welcomed students into class, a sudden shift change rocked the facility. Class was interrupted, and the confused students were told to line up in the hallway. We weren’t sure they’d be allowed back in.
When the men were finally permitted to return, the room was rattled–shoulders tight, eyes darting.
Calmly I led everyone in a slow deep-breathing moment with eyes closed. Their shoulders started to soften. Silently, I prayed God’s peace over the room.
And just like that, God restored our atmosphere of hope and belonging, quicker than I thought possible.
I love flipping a room from chaos to gentleness, from outcast to welcomed. It’s Isaiah 61 and Matthew 5 every time.
“I Made an Amy Border!”
The chapel workers have discovered they can stream our God Loves Art online exhibits onto the big screen TV during class.
A student will look up mid-brushstroke and suddenly say, “Whoa.”
“What do you see?” I’ll ask.
And they’ll start describing what moves them about our artwork.
Some students have begun to emulate techniques from Amy and me.
“Look! I made an Amy border!” a student exclaimed, after dry-brushing a textured black border around his painting in Amy’s signature style.
We laugh a lot. We encourage our students to try new things, be inspired by one another, and be as free and creative as they want to be.
Then Came the Hard Conversation
A few weeks ago, I had to tell the students something difficult.
The nonprofit that originally sent me in to teach art — Idaho Prison Arts Collective — was closing down.
I stood in front of the room and said with compassion:
“Don’t worry. Amy and I are going to keep coming here to teach every Friday through God Loves Art. We’re not stopping.”
But I saw their eyes.
Their eyes said:
“I knew this was too good to be true.
It was nice while it lasted.
They won’t be back.”
Can anyone blame them for thinking that?
The Three-Day Miracle
So Amy and I decided something.
No more eight-year-old brushes.
We ran a fundraiser to replace every single one.
And in just three days — three! — the God Loves Art community raised enough to order 135 brand new brushes.
Five quality brushes for each of our 27 students.
The next class, I told the students that we ordered the brushes, and that we raised MORE than our funding goal.
“Whoa! What?! Really?” The room erupted in applause.
They were overjoyed. They asked what our website is, for their families to see Godlovesart.com.
The following week, Amy and I unrolled three new canvas brush-holders, each unfurling a long row of smooth new brushes with perfect points: 135 in all.
Lovely, short-handled Simply Simmons brushes were distributed across the tables.
The class went silent.
A weighty, reverent moment.
They picked them up gently. Turned them over in their hands. Tested the bristles in wonder.
This wasn’t just art equipment.
It was proof.
Proof we meant what we said. That we are staying.
Proof that outside these walls, people care.
During cleanup, one man discreetly approached me and said hopefully:
“I’d like to contribute some of my prison savings to help buy art supplies for this class. Where can I send it?”
Then came another man with the exact same request. And a third.
When dignity is restored, empowerment awakens.
The Ripple Effect
This story will keep unfolding.
The nonprofit that first opened its doors inside the prison has closed its chapter. But the story doesn’t end there. The brush has simply changed hands.
Now God Loves Art gets to keep showing up every Friday — with new brushes, new lessons, and the sense that Holy Spirit is doing something deeper than teaching technique.
God is restoring dignity and creating peace in a place that rarely feels peaceful. He’s reminding people they are made in the image of God.
You are part of that story.
Every time you give or buy a T-shirt, sticker, or beanie from our Freedom Collection, you provide prison art supplies to echo our message: you are creative, your presence matters, and your life is not finished.
And we’re just getting started.
Next, we’re buying water-soluble oil paints and oil paper for our prison art class. The excitement is already building, along with a new round of artistic breakthroughs.
Because God isn’t finished with this canvas yet.
