Love, Drugs, and a Loving Father

Reflections on an overdose

Five days ago, I was called to the house of a young man who had overdosed. The church I pastor has had a lot of recovery people come and go. They are a transitory lot. The chaos of Covid has exacted a toll on the more vulnerable among them, including this 33 year old. I’ve grieved each one, but this one sucked the wind out of me.

Within minutes of posting the last article, I received a call about Ryan. Remember that last article? It was a look at Psalm 11. Learning to walk with spiritual swag in the midst of uncertainty and tragedy. A singing-in-the-rain kind of theme, set to the tune of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” (literally or metaphorically, a difficult tune to dance to). This week I staggered more than I swagged.

Ryan grew up a nominal Catholic in the home of two highly addicted parents. Any chance of consistent sobriety ended when he left for college.

I met him almost 4 years ago as I was leading a spirituality group at the local halfway house. He and his best friend Rob soon were drawn to me. They began attending worship and, upon graduating from the house, began attending Bible study. The three of us began to meet often for Chinese food and more Bible study. They both became church members and actively involved . . . for a season.

Gifted, high energy, handsome, and hardworking, Ryan was drawing a lot of attention from folks. Eventually he was drawn away from church by commitments to AA, NA, and other recovery programs. We talked about these options and choices. He gravitated toward what seemed more fun and fulfilling.

But during the pandemic, drug usage began to creep in. First with marijuana. Then a pain-killer. Eventually a LOT of harder stuff.

Of all of Ryan’s gifts, hiding his habit in plain sight was perhaps his best. Work associates, recovery folks, even rehab personnel never quite caught on. We had gradually lost touch.

But one day I’d heard he’d had a terrible car accident. I called. When he answered, he began sobbing. Having totaled his car, suffered a mild concussion, and been charged with yet another DUI, all that he had worked so hard to achieve was now gone. Simply gone. He would likely lose his license again, go to jail, and have to start to rebuild.

The greatest pain came from knowing he had let so many people down. He dreaded the reaction from the recovery community. So many looked up to him. Now they would know he was a fake.

His hard-earned savings would be emptied out to go to rehab. Four weeks later, he returned. The reception was heart-piercing. His perception was that no one at AA or NA welcomed him back. In his brokenness, he felt only judgment. Groups that prized anonymity had apparently been gossiping. Judgmentalism, that hazardous material, seemed to swirl around him. “Yeah, I knew you would slip and fall!”

When we go through trauma, we don’t see clearly. In his pain, he may have been blind to the love and concern that some had. But the judgmentalism hit him like a 2X4.

He claimed that no one had reached out to him at rehab except an ex-girlfriend and me. And the love and acceptance I showed blew him away.

Soon upon his release, we met in my office. Predictably, it was Chinese food and the Bible once again. He questioned why I had let him drift away from the church, so we turned to Luke 15. There I read two of the parables: The Shepherd who sought out the lost sheep, and the Father who welcomed the lost son.

I stated that some people need a shepherd. They need someone to chase after them when they stray. But my sense was that he was more the prodigal, off to give himself to lesser things. And so I waited for the moment he would come hobbling back home.

He wept. We prayed. He confessed to God, asked forgiveness, and wept some more. Told me he had never cried so much in his life. I held him in my arms.

That was two weeks ago to this very hour that I am finishing this article. It is now 5:04, Sunday the 27th. His funeral in Erie has just begun. Our memorial service for him will be April 9th at 11:00.

Overdose and suicide leaves survivors a troubled mess, asking, “What could I have done differently?”

Today I am at peace. Psalm 11 is still true. God is my refuge and I will not flee to the safety of the mountains.

4 The Lord is in his holy temple;
    the Lord’s throne is in heaven.
    His eyes behold, his gaze examines humankind.

And . . .

7 For the Lord is righteous;
he loves righteous deeds;
    the upright shall behold his face.

I believe Ryan is also at peace. The Father saw him coming at a distance. He’s embraced him. The party has begun.