Chapter 4: The Soldier and the sidewalk

Chapter 4: The Soldier and the Sidewalk

By my second week, I was just beginning to settle into the rhythms of working with the homeless population. Most of the people I had met so far were chronically unhoused, living in tents or makeshift shelters, surviving one day at a time. Their stories were layered and complex—but not many of them came in carrying the kind of baggage he did.

And I don’t mean luggage.

He had just been discharged from a recovery program—not because he had completed it, but because he had broken the rules. I don’t know if it was a relapse or a conflict, and maybe it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was now standing outside a gas station with nothing but the clothes on his back and nowhere to go.

This wasn’t the first time I had gotten a call like that. The gas station down the road had become an unofficial drop-off point for men and women exiting treatment programs too soon. A bus stop sat out front, and the staff had gotten used to seeing people abandoned there—sometimes with a small bag, sometimes with only the hollowed-out look of shame. The gas station attendant would call us, knowing we’d do our best to help. Buy a bus ticket. Offer a blanket. Try to send someone back to wherever “home” might still be.

But this call came late in the day. Too late for a same-day ticket.

When I pulled up, I could see him pacing on the sidewalk, trying to hold himself together. He was young. Strong. You could still see traces of the man he was meant to be. But his eyes told a different story—one of trauma, regret, and a hope that was hanging by a thread.

He had once worn a uniform. He was a soldier.

But when he came home, the war didn’t stay overseas. It followed him in the form of nightmares, anxiety, and a deep ache he couldn’t name. Eventually, he found relief in a bottle—but it only blurred the pain until it bled into worse decisions. Legal trouble followed. Then court-ordered treatment. He had tried to walk the brave path. But the chains were heavier than anyone realized.

And now he was here. Alone. On the sidewalk. With one night to get through and nothing but a ticket for the morning.

We couldn’t find a hotel voucher in time. No one could sponsor a room. So I gave him food. A couple of blankets. A prayer I couldn’t say out loud. And then—I had to leave.

I still remember looking back at him as I pulled away. He lay down against the brick wall of the gas station, curling up as the evening chill began to settle in. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

All I could think about was how close he had once been to a different future. How he had served his country. How he had reached for help. How the system failed him, not because it meant to—but because it wasn’t made to carry what he was carrying.

And what haunted me most was this: he still had hope once. But it seemed to have gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Years have passed since that night, and I still think of him. I don’t know where he is now. I don’t know if he made it home, or if the chains won again. But one thing I do know is this:

I will never again believe that addiction is just a matter of bad choices.

Because I’ve seen the face of someone who fought like hell to stay clean, but whose pain ran deeper than any program could reach.

Now, when I see people trapped in addiction, I don’t see failure—I see suffering. I see stories no one asked to carry. I see people Jesus still pursues. People He still calls beloved.

I rejoice when they find freedom—not because of the statistics, but because I know what it costs to crawl out of that pit. And I rejoice even more knowing that we serve a Restorative God—a God who runs toward the prodigal, who lifts the head of the shamed, who leaves the ninety-nine to find the one.

Because at the end of the day, every one of us has been that lost sheep.

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Final Takeaways:

• Addiction isn’t a character flaw—it’s a cry from a place of deep pain.

• People don’t need our judgment; they need our presence.

• Systems can fail. Programs can fall short. But Jesus never does.

• The greatest miracle isn’t just recovery—it’s redemption.

• We are all the one He left the ninety-nine for. And He’s still coming after us.