What I Do
The thing that brings me joy at work these days is that I have time to pray for these men that I love so much.
I pray because God is after them. Some need hearts softened and walls broken down. Some need guilt washed away and wounds healed. Some are bound by anger. Some need to be brought to their knees, eventually on their faces in repentance and fear and overwhelming gratefulness for God's grace and kindness.
I pray because addictions are demonic as well as physical. Some of the men cannot feel, cannot hear God's gentle or ferocious summons because they are numbed and deafened. Their brains are shorted out, and they fidget away from His call.
I pray because of the pain, the deep core of pain and grief that is in me and echoes in many of them: the reality that I cannot make them well, as - no matter what I tried - I could not make Mark well, that love was not all he needed and is not all these men need (at least not in the Beatles' definition).
I pray because all I can do is smile and say, "good morning," sometimes lend a listening ear, laugh at their jokes and make them smile. Not only can I not minister in any depth, but I even have to be careful not to be so good a listener that they feel an emotional connection with me. That is pain in itself, for me. So I pray.
I pray through the roster every day, placing my fingers on each name, moving through like rosary beads. Some checked in two days ago, a week ago, a month ago, kicked out of their homes, released from prison, nowhere to go when their pipes froze, brought by parents at the end of what they can do or by brothers who can't house them any longer. My fingers move to lines that are empty, where names used to be, where names have been crossed out and filled with others. The one who (maybe) accidentally took a pill and failed a drug screen. The one who had only needed a few months to get back on his feet. The one who spent a silent two months here and just as silently left. The ones who just could not say no.
I most love the group just beginning the recovery program, bedevilled by weaknesses but knowing this could be what keeps them from an overdose or from again breaking the hearts of those who love them or from ending up with nobody and nothing. They are choosing life each day, and they are so vulnerable.
So I sit in my reception booth and pray, and I am privileged to be here.
I wish I could put photos with this. I love their faces, lined and weathered, their eyes that have seen so much, the expressions of suspicion, wonder, kindness, frustration, anger, humour, anxiety, the peace that eventually comes to those who find they can rest in their Shepherd's daily care and strength. I love how they laugh, cackle, hoot, chuckle, guffaw. I have come to love the smell of tobacco on coats. And I love being called honey, sweetheart, kid, young lady, darlin' and dear - and, especially, sunshine.
I pray because God is after them. Some need hearts softened and walls broken down. Some need guilt washed away and wounds healed. Some are bound by anger. Some need to be brought to their knees, eventually on their faces in repentance and fear and overwhelming gratefulness for God's grace and kindness.
I pray because addictions are demonic as well as physical. Some of the men cannot feel, cannot hear God's gentle or ferocious summons because they are numbed and deafened. Their brains are shorted out, and they fidget away from His call.
I pray because of the pain, the deep core of pain and grief that is in me and echoes in many of them: the reality that I cannot make them well, as - no matter what I tried - I could not make Mark well, that love was not all he needed and is not all these men need (at least not in the Beatles' definition).
I pray because all I can do is smile and say, "good morning," sometimes lend a listening ear, laugh at their jokes and make them smile. Not only can I not minister in any depth, but I even have to be careful not to be so good a listener that they feel an emotional connection with me. That is pain in itself, for me. So I pray.
I pray through the roster every day, placing my fingers on each name, moving through like rosary beads. Some checked in two days ago, a week ago, a month ago, kicked out of their homes, released from prison, nowhere to go when their pipes froze, brought by parents at the end of what they can do or by brothers who can't house them any longer. My fingers move to lines that are empty, where names used to be, where names have been crossed out and filled with others. The one who (maybe) accidentally took a pill and failed a drug screen. The one who had only needed a few months to get back on his feet. The one who spent a silent two months here and just as silently left. The ones who just could not say no.
I most love the group just beginning the recovery program, bedevilled by weaknesses but knowing this could be what keeps them from an overdose or from again breaking the hearts of those who love them or from ending up with nobody and nothing. They are choosing life each day, and they are so vulnerable.
So I sit in my reception booth and pray, and I am privileged to be here.
I wish I could put photos with this. I love their faces, lined and weathered, their eyes that have seen so much, the expressions of suspicion, wonder, kindness, frustration, anger, humour, anxiety, the peace that eventually comes to those who find they can rest in their Shepherd's daily care and strength. I love how they laugh, cackle, hoot, chuckle, guffaw. I have come to love the smell of tobacco on coats. And I love being called honey, sweetheart, kid, young lady, darlin' and dear - and, especially, sunshine.
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