Chris HokeAssistant Jail Chaplain
Sometimes a few unsolved problems come together and solve each other perfectly, like separate unfinished song fragments completing each other minutes before a performance. I love it when that happens.
There are these two guys we've accompanied through drug and alcohol recovery, and now they're not sure what their next step is. And neither are we. One, Marco*, is living in the building with us at Tierra Nueva, working a night shift in a lumber mill, and trying to stay clean. His smiles, honesty and sobriety are growing daily with us. Another, Dan, we met in jail when he felt touched by God's Spirit and almost wouldn't leave us alone after he got out, eager to grow and quick to ask for the care he needs. After years of meth use, in and out of jail, he now lives three blocks away, works drywall construction, and is part of our faith community. Both Marco and Dan are hitting that space where they feel God is calling them to work with others who are caught in the life they are leaving. But they don't know where they are supposed to start, or if God can use them at all.
Enter John. I've been feeling increasingly irritated with his every knock on our back door. Most people who come to Tierra Nueva from the jail or streets are open about their real problems and we work together. John just uses the phone and asks for rides, always with a new, sketchy story and a forced smile. Acquaintances in the drug business tells us he's a known addict in the area, but I haven't known how to tell him that I know, you know? It's tricky, since I'm younger than John and don't want to accuse him. I want to offer real help, not facilitate his hustle and self-harm by playing along with the act.
So here's where the two pieces came together. Marco and I are in the apartment, hanging out. Dan bounds in with usual enthusiasm after a good day at work. Then the knock.
It's John. Can I take him to the place where I know he shoplifts and then exchanges with his dealer? Come on inside, John. He sits down with our two friends who are in their own process of recovery and faith. I try to tell John I want to be straight, not keep pretending. He acts shocked, confused, defensive. I am stuck.
Dan then speaks with sudden grace, maturity, and compassionate directness to John. "I've been there before, man. I recognize all the signs. I know—we know—what it's like. Tierra Nueva is here to help guys like us in recovery. You don't have to pretend. They don't call the cops, but help you however you need it most." This spoke so disarmingly to John that he had nothing to say—for the first time ever. We said we're here for him when he's ready. He nodded and bolted for the door with no argument.
A new feeling followed the slam of the door. Dan burst open, "I don't know where those words came from! It felt like something just pouring out of my mouth—it was perfect! I normally woulda cussed the guy out, or been arrogant . . . that was awesome! That was totally the Holy Spirit." Marco was all smiles. He felt he was part of something new: no longer ashamed of his odd position between old drug buddies and Christian community, like some sort of fake who's known for occasional relapse, but instead an example of that difficult transition who can invite others into honesty and grace in community. We stopped and prayed for John, blessing him in this decisive moment between bitterness or breakthrough, and dropping any arrogance or judgments we had toward him.
The interaction with John was small. But it was a perfectly timed, inaugural practice of Marco's and Dan's callings. John was addressed with grace and openness by his peers. Marco and Dan felt their first step towards reaching out to current users—with God backing them up with the right spirit and words.
There was such a feeling of unity and possibility afterwards that none of us wanted to go on with our day. Instead, Marco treated us to coffee across the street and we watched a documentary on meth in my bedroom, talking late into the evening like new, giddy friends.
*names changed
