Back to the Streets

Woke up this morning to a sad text.


Melvin is back on the streets again.


Two months ago he moved out of the tent he'd resided in for the last eight years and into an apartment. It wasn't much but it was his and it kept him safe from the 3-digit heat indexes and hurricane winds. His small SSI check covered the rent and utilities and he proudly showed me how he'd turned the 800 square foot space into a home.


Two days ago he blew his entire check on crack and prostitutes.


Was it worth it?


Most people would agree the answer is NO. But to anyone who's ever struggled with addiction, the answer is an obvious YES. At least for that night.


But then comes the morning after.


Reality sets in and you realize the voices urging you to just do it are now either laughing at or berating you. The self-loathing kicks in and so does the fear. What have I done?


Then the scrambling starts. Drug addicts can teach quarterbacks a thing or two about scrambling in the pocket. They become award-winning actors and NASA-certified engineers as they formulate game plans to both feed and hide their addictions.


But what is done in darkness will always be brought to light. Mark 4:22 tells us, For there is nothing hid, which shall not be manifested; neither was anything kept secret, but that it should come abroad.


Unfortunately, most addicts will always try to push it just one more time. Whatever the addiction, they mistakenly believe they still have control.


Melvin was no exception.


I'm saddened but not surprised.


Six months ago, we brought Melvin, at his request, to a Christian drug rehab facility. We picked him up for his week-end pass two months later as the director extolled his many accomplishments. We'd made arrangements for him to stay in a nearby Holiday Inn. Friday night he treated us to dinner. Saturday morning we went to Wal-Mart and Dollar General for snacks to carry him through his remaining month in the program. Sunday morning he came to church, followed by a dinner on the grounds in which I'd made his favorite foods. We brought him back Sunday afternoon and headed home for the evening service.


Thirty minutes into our drive the director called.


"You need to come back and get Melvin," she demanded, with a hint of something I couldn't identify in her voice.


"Why?" I'd gotten a similar call once before when a woman we'd sent to another program was diagnosed with scabies. Could it be health-related? I wondered.


"He failed his drug test," she continued. That's accusation in her voice, I realized. I was as dumbfounded that he'd tested positive for banned substances as I was that she seemed to hold me personally responsible.


My mind was spinning. When? Where? How?


I must have voiced at least one of these questions because she began answering. "He went to a relative's house Saturday night and said he'd done a little cocaine and smoked some pot."


She repeated, "You need to come get him."


I wouldn't. I couldn't. It was a two-hour drive and we had a service that evening. My husband is the pastor; we couldn't be late.


Besides, where would I take him?


Those on the streets know my rule: I'll visit you in Tent City. I'll help you get out of Tent City. But I WILL NOT bring you back to Tent City. I just can't.


He made the choice; he was on his own.


She called a few more times but I stood firm. Make him walk, I urged. Consequences bring about change better than words ever could. But she was sympathetic and drove him back to the woods herself.


I saw him three days later, dumbfounded as to what happened. He thought he could go around a known drug hangout and stay sober. He thought he could charm the director into making an exception just for him. And he thought I'd just pick up the pieces.


I had hoped this time he'd be able to stay off the streets. But until he stands up to the beast within him, this cycle will never end.