John Chinnery: The man who never stopped showing up

For more than 3 decades, thousands of men inside CSC’s Pacific Region institutions have known the same gentle ritual: a familiar face, a friendly smile, and the steady presence of a volunteer who treated them as people first.

John Chinnery’s service record is the kind that seems almost impossible in a transient world, 34 years of volunteering, hundreds of kilometres logged each month, and countless escorted outings that have offered inmates precious moments of normalcy, dignity, and human connection.

Decades after he was first honoured by CSC for being Volunteer of the Year in 2000, he has kept on giving back. But his story begins not at the prison gates, but rather with 2,000 sheep.

John, who now lives in Abbotsford, B.C., grew up in rural New Zealand. There his days were defined by shearing, haying, growing turnips for winter feed, and riding his horse, Jimmy, across wide, wind-lashed paddocks.

“It was hard work,” he recalls, “but I had my horse to gallop around the paddocks, ice skating in the winter to look forward to, and lawn tennis in the summer.”

That mix of discipline, grit, and joy set the tone for a life that would zigzag across continents. Photography became his next frontier, and, restless for adventure, he first moved to England before immigrating to Canada in 1966.

After apprenticing in a photo studio back home, John found work in custom printing in England. He bought his first camera and carried it with him as he later built a career across Toronto and Vancouver. Eventually, he realized a long-held dream: buying his own photo studio in Tsawwassen, B.C.

John soon discovered the thread running beneath farming and photography was the same: patience, observation, and a knack for seeing people as they are. It was those qualities that eventually drew him into prison ministry through West Clearbrook Community Church after he and his wife, Josie, moved to Abbotsford. A pastor urged them to visit Mission Minimum Institution, formerly known as Ferndale Institution; John went reluctantly and left a changed man.

“There, I found men who just needed support and a second chance,” he says. Soon he and Josie were leading Sunday services for groups as large as 20. The men sang, talked, and found rare moments of fellowship. “Being non-judgmental, accepting people where they’re at, that’s what I carried forward,” he says.

As a CSC volunteer escort, his afternoons with inmates included accompanying them to social activities and sharing a meal together. “In those days our family was comfortable having men come for lunch or dinner after a church pass,” he recalls. He averaged 5 passes a week, sometimes driving men as far as Kelowna to visit halfway houses or reconnect with family.

Trust and respect became his currency. “I listen, share parts of my story, encourage them, and follow the golden rule,” he says. Not every story was as presented, he soon learned, but sifting truth from fear was only part of the work.

His wife, Josie, also became an integral part of his volunteer work: playing guitar during worship, preparing Christmas gift bags, and even joining him on training. During the COVID-19 pandemic, she wrote encouraging letters to men who couldn’t see their families. When John was named CSC’s Volunteer of the Year in 2000, they travelled to Ottawa together to be honoured.

But for John, the rewards were never the awards. They were conversations over ethnic meals during family passes, watching men reconnect with children, or hearing them talk about rebuilding their lives after getting out. “Many have a hard time forgiving themselves,” he says. “I tell them they’re not defined by their past.

“Some men have stayed in touch for awhile after their full release, and then they want to be free from anyone connected to prison. And I get that. Others we have taken out for coffee or lunch, helped with cell phones, invited them to our home and even helped a couple with their wedding arrangements.”

Even now, he still volunteers but limits the long drives, sticking mostly to church or garden passes. His days are filled with the comings and goings of his large family, including 12 grandchildren. But the carved eagle he received from inmates during a special appreciation ceremony this past summer, a symbol of watching over them, sits in his home as a reminder of the community he has helped build.

“There’s still a need,” he says simply. And so he keeps showing up.