What a Recovery Community Taught Me About the Good Samaritan
Finding hope from unlikely friends
I walked into the room in the basement of the church.
There were maybe 20–25 people there, sitting in groups at round tables.
The room smelled like strong coffee. Four pots of pitch-black liquid sat near styrofoam cups in a corner of the room.
I couldn’t manage to get to the pots, though I badly wanted a cup.
I sat in the back in a chair away from the tables.
I sat alone.
Stared at the floor.
Jumped when a man came up with a cup of coffee and handed it to me and said, “Welcome.”
I’d taken the time to put on a button-down shirt and a pair of khaki pants.
I wanted to look somewhat civilized.
The reality, though: I was a mess.
I’d been drinking all day and have no doubt the smell of cheap bourbon was oozing from my pores.
I introduced myself to the group as the meeting started and then returned to staring hard at the floor. Sipping the hot liquid. Alert but also confused and rather fuzzy.
