A COMATOSE GROOM

Divorced by some 10 years, here's my beef still:

Her maiden name is Johnson, but the last name on her drivers license was Masera - which was her previously married name before her and I were married, you follow so far?

For some reason she preferred to keep her old married last name - Masera, over her new married last name - Groess, or even her maiden name – Johnson. She always said something about, "Masera sounding cooler," but it never made sense to me - and I'd bet from a Diddle Eyed Joe to a Damned if I know that it still says Masera right now.

So, for the three scandalous years we dated, plus the two embarrassing years we were married, the name on her driver’s license remained her old married last name - Masera. Ugh. 

Maybe, after her first divorce, if she would have at least changed her last name back to Johnson, I wouldn't have always thought she was holding on to him. There's nothing wrong with wanting a cool sounding last name, except, when it isn't that cool - or her last name anymore. There was no reason to refuse changing it – no kids, no professional identity, and certainly no more marriage, ha. Dating, I didn't pay any mind to it okay I did but I didn't let it get to me because we weren't married and I assumed she'd changed it after we were married, but, married, it always rubbed me wrong that she said she would change it while having no intention of taking my last name. 

Obviously you’ll have to take my word on this.

Maybe this is no big deal. Maybe I'm being a baby about it. 


Nah, that ain't it.


Refusing to change her last name from the old, diseased first marriage to a cooler, better looking, younger, darker skinned, medium built and newer last name would have been easier for me to handle if there were some anthem behind it like if she were trying to distance herself from her immediate family, BING - there's an idea - or if she were some type of million dollar Sales Exec hold your laughter who had million dollar customers that only knew her by Masera and to change that name would disrupt her million dollar career just enough to potentially lose millions of dollars in business, which is to lose salary, which is to lose standard of living, which is to lose lifestyle and if I remember correctly, which I’m pretty damn sure I do, none of those scenarios were a reality - so refusing to change last names sends the message that there’s something else. Possibly something else still stirring? Did you follow that last paragraph? Go ahead, read it again.

And again, you’ll have to take my word on this. 

I was mistaken for Mr. Masera for almost two years. Identity dead, right? Maybe, maybe not. During my run as Mr. Masera I took the beating of my life and was put in a coma that I'd gladly lie in for almost two years. But when I woke up, ...I had what we problem drinkers call, A Moment of Clarity. I had a moment that slapped me in the face and woke me the hell up.

None of the coma stuff is literal, of course, I was never in a coma but I did have a moment of clarity when her sister's husband and I ended up throwing each other against the garage walls and someone 
body-slamming someone else onto the hood of a car denting the hood for life and causing sister's husband to miss an entire week of work. But prior to that, as Mr. and Mrs. Masera, and not Mr. and Mrs. Groess, I decided the best course of action, till I get my bearings, was to play possum. 

...you know, eleven years ago, when we lived together in the Hollywood suburb of Burbank, Ca, and I sang, "Your Song" from the movie Moulin Rouge, into your ear right before that waitress brought us dinner and you cried and kissed me - if I had to make a list of impossible things that could never happen - You performing a coup-de-grace on my feelings by getting pregnant by some other guy - while married to me - would be right at the top of the list. I'd've been wrong, wouldn't I?

There are consequences to choices like that.

RISK (PART 2)

"This is stupid."  ..and then I take another puff.

"Why do I even - it's gonna kill me one day," and that is what sparks the thought of my still alive Father.

Alzheimer's will get him, lifestyle change or not, it will get him. 

If you and I were eating lunch with him I don't think you would notice. I barely do, but dad has Alzheimer's. 

It's not down the road or around the corner. It's kicked open the door, rearranged the furniture, and jumped in bed with him.

I had no intentions of writing about this moment between me and my dad, until I felt the nudge to write about risk - which is nothing more than a challenge to leave my own comfort zone in the face of someone else's needs, or saying something nice to someone that I wouldn't normally think I'd need to say something nice to. This moment with my dad has been holding the gun to my head. There was nothing good enough on the net to forward, or share, but to ignore it would be an epic fail. Almost as epic as that epically stupid phrase.

The other reason I haven't written about this is because I've officially been praying on how to share the work of God with actual moments of my life when He shows up for us but for whatever reason - we never acknowledge it. For whatever reason. This might be it - I don't know.

Last summer my dad phoned me to help set his irrigation system. A million dads have probably phoned a million sons to help do that, but my dad takes pride in his lawn and has sometimes pompously noticed the difference between his irrigation-assisted lawn compared to my water-hose-handicapped lawn. But this time he said he was getting confused with the switches and the time options, "I'm just getting confused with the, ah, switches, and all the, oooooh, what are they called, the time options." Mom says the last three stints he's has had trouble getting it done, "Your Ma, she doesn't know." This was my moment, my chance at redemption for all the yard digs over the last four years and I wanted to torture him with, "sorry, bud, can't help ya with that," and, "what? what's that, you need my help?? Say it - SAY IT!!", but I couldn't pull the rip-cord. I could only mutter three measly words - "no worries, dad, I'll be right there," fine, seven.

Dad has Alzheimer's, and while I know full well that my dad can set his irrigation clock blind-folded and in the dark better than any TruGreen Chemlawn staff member, but never better than me, I also knew the disease was the cause of his fumbling. It was the first noticeable bout of Alz that I was going to witness.

On the drive to his house I held my own dry run: "'It's no big deal dad,' and then don't make a big deal out of it. Eye contact will make it emotional. Keep your eyes on the timer. Don't make it uncomfortable." That's all that would be needed.

Within minutes we're in the garage and he's holding the timer, stubbornly unwilling to hand it over, going over what each switch does and what every arrow means. I already know what they mean because I've done this before and because I can read, but I let him ramble. Suddenly, he trips up. I catch it right away and remind myself to stay calm. He stutters, which is new to me, until he can figure it out in his head and when he feels like it's been too long he hands the timer over to me, and irritated, tells me to try, "...here, try."

I gently touch the timer making a point of not pulling it away from him until he has completely let it go with his hand. When he does, I pull it close and start setting the times of each zone. I go down to one knee and dad sits down on the foot-stool behind me. Lord knows what's going through his head.

After a moment, I hear faint whimpering, like a boy trying not to cry in front of his dad. Then I hear a sniff and a throat-clear which is the family tell at the poker table. The confirmation that my dad is crying. What do you do?

My mind raced. Alzheimers, breathing and at work just behind me, and I don't know what to do or say to my own dad.

"Set the timer," I repeat. It's easier to keep him behind me it's easier to let him cry give him space allow him that moment to mourn the loss of a small tiny little moment in Alz, it's harder to look but suddenly, against all instincts, I set the timer down and I turn to my dad, who, yeah, was crying, and I look at him and my mind goes blank but I'm looking at him and thinking thinking thinking what the hell do I say and then I blurted out:

"It's okay, dad."

Through tears and a lumped throat, he whispered back, "No, it's not - it's not okay."

My mind is racing and panicked with shaking knees, and I don't have any words and want to turn away.

"Dad, it is okay. This is part of it. We know this is what happens."

With the same hands that picked me up barely more than 40-years earlier, he covers his face and I notice his cuticles and the new wrinkles on the back of his hands and that his wedding ring is a lot tighter than probably the day that he put it on which I'll let go for now, the man is crying, but I'll return to it.

The only difference at this moment between me and dad is who is and who isn't trying to prove they're okay.

"I'm not ashamed of you, dad. I love you. I love you, dad," tears gushing down my face and my top lip in a convulsive fit that I have zero control over. I intentionally put my hand on the back of his neck and rub his head, "I don't think you're stupid. You don't embarrass me. I've seen you set this timer for 10 years, I know you can do it and I understand why you can't."

I said that. Bleeping-Amazing.

That's God showing up and getting to work if you let Him.

RISK (PART 1)

I'M IN A BIG TIME RUSH.

Saturdays I have to be to work by 11AM but I like to stay home so long that I'm almost intentionally late and relying on the fact that I can drive faster than anyone else.

I DASH OUT THE FRONT DOOR CHECKING MY WATCH.

I jump in the car.
Stick keys in ignition.
Pull seat belt over my lap.
Look over my shoulder.
Hit the gas, pull away from the curb, and at the last possible moment, noticed the gas was on E.

(WIFE!!!)

I had about thirty seconds to hit a gas station and fill up.

While filling up I'm totally multi-tasking:  calculating in my head how much cash I'll have left over for a coffee or a muffin vs how much time I have left to get to work.

I walk thru the doors and the line was eight-people-deep. I'm stuck waiting. Adding and subtracting the miles vs the minutes. It never ends up being accurate.

Seven people left. Six people. Five.

And the line stops. For this man trying to buy three donuts, a bag of chips probably for later, and a Monster, not an actual monster but a monster energy drink with cash, and it's taking forever.

I start watching because the longer it takes the more I want to see, and the more I watch the more it looks like he has cash and his card on the counter.

This man in line, he already has a mouthful of doughnut and the rest of his stuff is laid out on the counter for the clerk. While they talk he starts feeling around for pockets. Back pockets, then the front pockets of his shorts as if he misplaced his keys or something and I'm thinking he's looking for more money. The clerk swipes his card, "...no, Sir, it's not going through."

Poor guy.

I've been in his shoes. It's really embarrassing.

I have cash and I'm even gonna have some left over. I have money in my account. Not a lot,but enough to buy this man his doughnuts, chips, and energy drink.  

He looks around, like he's stalling until someone in line will bail him out.

None of us do.

My eyes follow him as he walks out. I notice his dirty t-shirt, droopy basketball shorts, and he's wearing nothing on his feet. Barefoot and dirty at 10:15 in the morning. “Too bad I’m stuck in this line,” I thought to myself. “If only I had been behind him, I’d give him a few dollars, but…”

I keep watching him and in a blink I'm next in line. Almost out of here so I can let this situation be forgotten.
I pay.
I get four dollars and change back.
I walk out the door and he's all the way across the parking lot. Against my own comfort, I glance his direction - a random car has pulled up next to him. The traffic drowns out any chance of hearing what the driver is saying, but their hand extends out the window squeezing the middle of a stack of dollar bills. Maybe they're five-dollar bills, maybe they're ten-dollar bills, who knows, but he takes them and nods in thanks.

I hate myself.

SO disappointed in myself.

I’m a decent guy, but do you know what it takes to be a better person? I don’t know either but here's my guess: insight, foresight, discipline, sacrifice, willingness, guts, and the most problematic for me would be the willingness to risk… anything. ANYTHING. My pride, my vulnerability, my emotions, my wallet.

Chance encounter? No way. 

I felt Your nudge to help but I chose to do nothing? I didn't help this man because I was afraid to make the first move. Afraid of being a fool in front of other strangers instead of being the man You want me to be in front of You.

You asked me to take a risk. I know because this isn't the first time I've been in this spot --

I can feel it, and I'm legitimately scared because I don't know how to get them to see you through me.

BUT WHAT I HEARD INSTEAD WAS THE CLOSING OF THE BASEMENT DOOR

Sunday, June 2 2013

Lils,

Quick backstory: we had a bunch of rain. 2 or 3 days. The basement flooded, 2” standing water all around the walls and floor, blah blah blah... turned out that we (when I say we, I really mean, I) needed to rip everything off the wall - framing, planks, insulation, jerry-rigged waterproofing, the whole 9.

For 2 seconds during that afternoon, mom and I were downstairs together evaluating (big word) the standing water while you were upstairs waiting for us to come back. You walked to the downstairs doorway and we asked you to “stay there, honey. Don’t come down.” Which you did, thanks for listening by the way. I fully expected to hear the pitter-patter of your little feet running through the kitchen, into the dining room, and right into the living room which is where the pitter-patter stops because of the carpet floor.

But, what I heard instead is the closing of the basement door.

Mom and I didn’t think anything of it at first. We thought you just closed the door. That seems sort-of funny but not beyond a 2-year old’s ability. So it didn’t cross my mind. Matter of fact, I thought it was me. When we tried to open the door, I thought I mis-turned the knob and so I did it again. Then I did it again, not giving you any real possible chance. I did it again, and even again.

Finally mom said, “she locked the door.”

We started laughing. Oh, we were laughing. We got it on video and you have to watch it. It’s a classic. I kept asking you to unlock it and you kept replying, “I can’t.” “I can’t do it, daddy.”

Mom and I laughed the entire time we were locked downstairs trying to talk you through the process of unlocking the door. I even took the door knob apart thinking that at some point the lock would have to detach, but the lock was a separate entity. It wasn’t connected to the door knob at all.... we laughed. I’m not talking a chuckle. I’m talking belly laugh, red-faced, can’t breathe laughing.

So there we are, me and mom. Standing in the dark, in the downstairs stairwell, with a hundred door knob pieces in our hands, no other way to open the door, and not having any idea how we would ever get to freedom and there you are on the other side of the door, looking at us through the peephole that used to hold the door knob with a blank stare as if we were asking you to eat your dinner.

I was reminded of Ch. 7 in Kill Bill: The lonely grave of Paula Shulz and I started tapping our side of the door for a soft spot because I was about to perform a Beatrix Kiddo through that door, but seconds before I did, mom asked if I had my phone on me? We were home in the basement so why would I have it on me? Why wouldn’t it by laying in it’s spot, between the couch cushions? But I instinctively felt my pockets and BINGO! It was there. Right front pocket.

We then called Auntie Heather to come over and she did and we got out.

You didn’t care either way. But you certainly gave it a good try to keep us down. Watch the video (CLICK HERE). It’s a classic.

Fun story. Love ya.

Dad.

** For more Lily journal stories, go to the LILYANA tab **

"THIS ISN’T HOW I WANTED TO WAKE UP."

Imagine, if you can - you haven’t had a vacation in almost four years, probably longer.

Imagine, the day comes and you go out-of-town with a couple of really close friends, and it rocks. You can relax. You can finally. breathe.

On the way out of town, you eat fast food; you drink pop; and you house an entire bag of Hint of Lime tortilla chips. It doesn’t get much better than Hint of Lime tortilla chips, so things are great!

You get there and it’s everything you pictured in your head. The days are filled with easy activity - fishing, camping, hiking, grilling and you love it. Or you just sit in the lawn chair with the shade. Doesn’t matter which.

Stay with me now.

Imagine, you just finished a long fast-paced wog, that drenched you with sweat, and you’re hungry. You’re standing at the kitchen counter in your out-of-town lodge, drinking a cool glass of water, eyeballing the cupboards for a snack.

Until recently, not even a really deep breath could help get your pants to button. So, months ago you started watching your diet - specifically sweets because your sweet tooth has gotten the best of you. Being months into this, you’re still fresh. You’re still strong. You’re still nothing less than confident because it’s a healthy lifestyle change and you’re proud of yourself. Good job.

Imagine, a donut sits there on the open counter top and it could be any kind of donut - glaze, chocolate covered, jelly, sugar, half-eaten, doesn’t matter - this donut looks GOOD.

You want it. But, no. You pass it as you walk into the next room.

But you’re on vacation!

You pass it again as you walk back from the next room.

Nobody is going to care if you eat it. You’re on vacation, you should eat it!

You haven’t had one of those in five months - over five months - and it’s probably closer to seven months if you want to be exact, so this one day won’t throw you off your lifestyle change.

Plus, you’re on vacation with your close friends, nobody back home will even know for cryin’ out loud!

Plus, your new schedule has you at the gym often enough to wash-out the donut calories even if you did eat it, no big deal.

If you think about it, you really only need to avoid sweets when you’re in the middle of the daily grind, in the midst of everyday stress that life can unleash. On this day, given the fact that you're on vacation, eating a donut is just fine! You have the right tools to fight the craving when you really need to, but not right now while you’re out-of-town. You can go back to not eating donuts when you’re back home.

So you eat it and although you fought the impulse off for a tick, you always knew in the back of your mind you’d eat it.

Sometimes we just can’t say no. It happens. Luckily, it’s just a donut.

When Raffs asked if I wanted a drink, I just couldn’t say no. It happens. Unfortunately, my battle isn’t over donuts, but now you know my thinking process. Every time.

How many reasons can I find to give myself permission to take the “donut.”

The next morning, before my eyes open, I know this isn’t how I wanted to wake up.

It seems I know I’m sick even before I know I’m awake.

Cold sweats, the after-taste of alcohol has soaked into my tongue, body aches, congested chest, gagging, fatigue, headache. The Vegas Death Plague.

I couldn’t stay sober for more than two weeks on my own.

I feel spineless, and that isn’t a hangover symptom.

I wish I would have called the sponsor that I never got because my counselors told me I had to.

“You need a sponsor, Dennis.”

“Sure thing,” I replied.

I’m stupid.

Now, I’m awake before I’m even awake, lying face-down in my pillow trying to figure out how to escape the Vegas Effect, wondering how no became yes.

I’m weak.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute.

Slow down.

Stop beating yourself up, stupid.

In the coming years, this would become a common frustration, but this was the first time. It’s true, you always remember your first. This was the first relapse, and all it took was two weeks out of my support system, an old reconnection, and Las Vegas.

I had failed, yes, and this story has been a secret of mine for years. The first chance I had to stand up on my new legs and I fell flat on my face.

Until this admission, Raffs and I are the only ones who know it happened. I’m pretty sure he has no idea how much that night impacted me. Even now, today, I’m ashamed of myself at how easily I let persuasion persuade me.

Here is my list of top five truths about that night:

1) I didn’t want to quit drinking. I still doubted that I had a problem.

2) I was terrified of being different.

3) I was afraid of what Raffs would think of the new me.

4) I was afraid of what I would think of the new me.

5) I was afraid the entire city would notice that I might be the only guy within the state lines without a drink in my hand.

6) I wasn’t strong enough to say no.

Okay, so that’s six but I could have listed a hundred.

That was a humbling experience. To wake up ashamed of myself again. Did I hurt anyone? Yes. Me. I let myself down, and that is harder to accept than hurting another.

But that time in Vegas stayed with me. Perhaps that's what it was meant to do because it was five years before I had another drink.

"ANXIOUS FOR THE BUZZ"

Flashback:  
After the Winona State debacle, WSU asked me not to come back. It was a polite letter, and I granted their request. I transferred to IHCC and that’s where I met Raffs.

I was rehabbed. Ready to join society again. I felt like Ellis Redding, minus sixty and one-half years.

Let Freedom Ring - never spoke more truth, but considering I’m talking about coming home from a short 60-day jail stint versus years of slavery, my definition of those words amounts to nothing. So I won’t say it, but I hope you get the picture of how happy I was to be out of jail.

I was ready to face all the new stuff that people would think about me. Fun. I entered jail able to say that I’d never been to jail. But now it’s a completely different story I would swear to never tell. I belong to the population of people that HAVE been to jail. News that I might have to tell my kids, my nephews, any new friends I make, any new girlfriends I have, or any new employer that’s hiring and specifically asks if I’ve ever been to jail. Fun.

I don’t know how I even handle it today, thirteen years later, with more maturity and life under my belt. So I have no clue how I got through it back then.

Yes I do. Looking back: Man, I ran as fast as the wind blows. Not jogging. I ran out of town. Not down 61 to Newport. I ran out of state. Not just to Iowa, but through Iowa, where I would only go if I absolutely had no other route to drive. I ran out of the time zone all the way to Las Vegas.

Before you confuse me with Forrest Gump, I didn’t really run; I drove.

Vegas.

I didn’t go there to party, who me? (Yes I did). No, I went there to work. (No I didn’t).

In the first two hours that I was released from jail, I kissed the air, kissed you and Dad, kissed the interior of the car, kissed the driveway when we got home, kissed the front door, and then collapsed in the living room. I slept without the worry of wondering if I was going to wake up with someone trying to mount me.

When I woke up, my biggest addiction kicked in - night. And what did I do?

I didn’t go belly-up at any bar hoarding all the booze I’d missed out on during the past sixty days, trying to satisfy the stereotypical uncontrollable urge. Drinking was the last thing on my mind. Liar. It wasn’t the last thing on my mind; it’s always right up there near the top of the list, but here’s what I did -- I did the exact opposite of what every counselor told me not to do.

One flaw of mine has always been the same year after year: Tell me not to do something, and I will justify a reason to do it. How has it been the one thing you and Dad never caught on to? Can I offer some advice to you, from me, about me? If you recommend something and tell me why you recommend that certain thing, I’ll take your recommendation to the bank. But if you forbid me to do something, I will do it to show you that only I can make up my mind. Only I am willing to be so stubbornly stupid. How could you never catch onto that??? (hint, hint).

So, when my counselors told me not to reconnect with my old friends, it lit my wick, and I laughed. “Whatever you say, counselor.” And without sharing, I instantly made a list of why TO reconnect.

One of those guys was Raffs. We drank together, but our friendship was more than just booze and college girls. Together, we were in three or four of the same shows at Inver Hills CC. I played Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web; he played Templeton. I played Sammy Goldenbaum in Dark At The Top of The Stairs; he played Sammy’s best friend. I played Jack Favell in Rebecca; he played a few different supporting roles. We acted together; we studied together; we hung out together; we listened to rap together; we played hockey together; we dated a couple of the same ladies together; and yeah, we partied together.

So, after jail I called him up. He was touring the country with the National Theatre for Children, and I’m looking for work. He ended up scoring me an audition.

I went, and knocked it out of the park. I’m hired.

So we go to Vegas. Las Vegas. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Literally two weeks after I was released, I was on my way to the city with the most sin. Fresh out of jail, fresh out of treatment, but I was stronger than King Kong. My mind was better than Einstein’s in his heyday.

Entering The Strip is unlike any other city entrance, it’s hypnotizing. Raffs and I, strollin’ through the hood, listening to secondhand rap from the car next to us. I rolled down the window for a cleaner view of the sights and I could smell it. I love that smell. The smell of a party. A really big party. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Inside, I feel the switch flip.

Suddenly, I’m in a hotel lobby in Vegas. The cocktail cutie looks hot in her skimpy outfit with fishnet stockings and drink tray in hand while walking around taking orders. She stops in front of me and asks if I’d like a drink. She immediately flips the napkin over to write down my order while I check her out from head-to-toe - except in reverse order. She notices and acknowledges it by giving me the stink-eye. Like a scolded step-son, I humbly look away and order my drink. She scribbles on the napkin and walks away with my order. Again I check her out. I get my drink and lift the cool sweaty bottle up to my lips, anxious for the buzz. I open my eyes and exhale. We’re still in the car on The Strip, hearing the secondhand rap from the car next to us and, the truth is, that scene is from my past. The realization is that I’m better than that scene.

Never mind the fact that Raffs and I were neither in school nor girls, but we were like little school-girls as we drove through the strip: wide-eyed and jaws dangling out the window.

We had the pick of the litter - whatever hotel and casino we could find within our per diem. But, it was still pick of the litter to us: Circus Circus, The Flamingo, Paris, The Monte Carlo, New York New York, MGM, Caesars Palace...

I’m tired as we unpack the car. If the actual non-stop car ride from Minnesota to Nevada wasn’t tiring enough, then the last mile driving through The Strip and the emotions that came along with it was enough to trip me up and make me want to stay away from boozin.

The Extended Stay was nice. We moved in and caught our breath on the provided couch and loveseat.

Across the street from it was The Orleans Hotel and Casino. It would become ours. We’d own that place by the time we left three months later.

NIGHT ONE.
I grabbed my bags, yawned, and picked a bed from the room we were to share.

“Hey, wanna go out?”
"Out? I’m ready to crash, bro."

Inside The Orleans, is exactly how I envisioned it to be. Full of people. Smells of booze. Slot machines ding. Coins fall loudly into the catch-bins. Vegas wives walk all over the place. They scurry by and I check ‘em out equally as fast.

I know where the bar is. I can see it. I was like a Vegas Princess, except I wasn’t afraid to drink due to a previous night in Vegas, just previous nights. The internal monologue is deafening - and unavoidable. I check myself:

Why don’t I drink again? Just got out of jail, dummy.
Do I need a drink? No.
Do I want a drink? Sure.
Do I want this trip to be fun? Yes.
Am I lame if I don’t drink? Yes.

I keep that conversation a secret, and I completely avoid the real-life dialogue. If he offers me a drink, I’ll deal with it then. But I’m not bringing it up because if I don’t bring it up, maybe it won’t happen.

My heart is beating 220 miles per hour, but I want to stay sober.

Raffs looks at me, “Drink?”

"THE MAN WHO NEVER SHOWED."

It was Sunday, approximately 10:15 a.m. 

Rumor already has it that Bob is here, which is great to hear but also increases my blood pressure. Service just finished, and I was inside the control room waiting for him to come back and give his thoughts. Rumor has it that he likes to give you feedback, so when Bob comes to your service make sure you’re in the back room when he is. I wasn’t leaving the room for anything.

After almost 3 minutes I decided to leave the room.

I simply leaned against the wall right outside the room. That was a safe play because then I’d see him coming, and he’d see me leaning against the wall. I bend my knee and rest my foot against the wall for casual approachability.

Finally, I was approached.

“Do you work here?” asked a 19-yr old kid, who clearly was not Bob.

I immediately got the impression that this kid didn’t clog the toilet. He didn’t just bump into me and strike up a conversation because he had to kill a couple minutes. He had intent behind his steps and a broken smile. Almost hesitant. Almost scared. Almost second-guessing himself.

“I do,” I replied. Compared to his soft voice, it felt as though I was shouting, and my eyes starting darting across the big room to see if anyone else noticed me yelling. A voice like his you only hear when people seem to have lost their hope and are afraid to ask for help, but somehow manage to find the desperate strength to stand directly in front of you asking for help because they have lost their direction, and I don’t mean, "Where’s the bookstore?"

“I’m not looking for prayer right now, but my life has some holes in it, can you help me?”

I don't know what to say to him.

I don't even know how to look at him. But I am. I’m looking at him and he’s looking at me, expecting. Hoping for something from me.

This is what I feared. This is what scared me about working for church - being put in a position to have to act, like right now, for someone else. Someone I don’t know and someone I may never have known if I were to have stayed at my old job - the old, safe, predictable job.

But I recover - quickly. So quickly in fact that I don't think he notices.

"I would love to," I say, quieter.

I tell him my name and asked him to follow me.

My most natural instincts were to look for someone who could better serve this kid than I. So while he’s following me, thinking we’re going to go somewhere and talk, I set out to find that person to better serve him.

In the next thirty seconds, I walked and wondered. What the heck do I do now? Was there an official first step that I was missing? Where is everyone???

“Is this your first time here?”

“No.”

There’s a failed icebreaker.

“Well, it's great to see you,” and shook his hand.

For the next 10 minutes I listened to him share his story of struggle with addiction and sobriety.

OH! This, I knew something about. It surprised me that he was being so open. I was never this open. I was safe in secrecy. Preferred it actually. But, not knowing what to say, I shared my story with him.

In the bookstore - I showed him a Bible that he should buy.

Then, I walked him into the worship center. Everyone was busy. I led him into the gym hoping to bump into our Worship Leader, our Campus Pastor, or our Addiction Recovery Pastor. No one was there. And so we ended up full circle, back in the worship center.

Any other weekend I would have bumped into each of those people three times over, and in my head I’m pulling the hair out of my head because it’s laughable at how AT THIS MOMENT they are not to be found. There has to be a camera rolling right now and a room full of staff members laughing their heads off while I sweat. I’d be laughing if I were in that room right now.

Today, no such timing or luck. Either way I wasn’t getting out of this, and it was then I realized this kid named John was mine.

“Okay, it’s just me. Do Your thing,” was my prayer.

My knees started to shake as we went back to the bookstore. I walked him around so much that he must have worked up an appetite. I should have offered him a donut, but instead I handed him a Bible. He wanted one; I knew where there was one.

“Can you afford to buy one?”
“Nah, I, uh, have no money,” he whispered with his head down.

So I bought him one.

“So, you busy on Thursday night?” It felt odd to ask that to a guy.
“I don’t think so. Not that I know of,” he said back.
“I’m going to be at Quest 180 on Thursday. It’s our addiction recovery ministry. It’d be nice to see ya there. Maybe we can chat.”

We shook hands and he left. I walked back to the control room, wiping the sweat off my palms and onto my pants, wondering if I did or said the right things.

I learned that I didn’t know what the first step is if someone reaches out to me for help.

I learned that on this day, during this hour, this kid had no use for anyone other than me. Someone who didn’t understand his addiction or sobriety issues wouldn’t get the job done.

I learned that my job isn’t just planning and managing church services and then going home. My job is bigger than that. My job affects lives, and I get to be in the trenches.

I learned that when The Man Upstairs has something planned for you, there’s no escape. No matter how uncomfortable you are, He is confident in what He’s doing.

I thought of that scene the rest of the day and the days that were to follow. John's approach. His words. His walk. And why I was the one person that he was able to track down. I don’t believe it was a coincidence. Had I not waited for the man who never showed, John may have left church even more hopeless than when he arrived.

That's failure on a massive scale.

John came to Quest 180 that next Thursday. Again, I shook his hand and smiled at him.

Today, I’m his sponsor and if he truly wants it, I get to be part of helping this kid get his life on track.