It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, November 2024. I was only three months into my new job when I had just finished our weekly Ladies Hangout, where homeless women would come for a shower and snacks. I put away all the extra hygiene packs, threw all the towels in the wash, and headed out to my car.
When those metal doors clanged behind me, I saw a lady that I hadn’t met before: pencil thin with straggly brown hair, and a chaotic mind. I hollered across the parking lot for her. When she got near me, I quickly noticed the regular queues of a person struggling with addiction. “What are you on?” I said. She looked at me with wide-open eyes, shocked that I was willing to ask. Then, punctually and harshly, she exclaimed, “Crack!”
She sat with me on the pavement in front of the locked doors of that non-profit. She told me about her daughter, and all the times that she had tried to get clean, just for her. Her damaged phone rang a few times during our conversation. She’d always answer quickly and squabble with her elderly mother before promptly hanging up, ensuring that she got the last word. We talked about her family, and how her relationships might change if she was willing to go to rehab. She made up all the excuses I had heard before.
I shared the story of Jesus with her, that He came to take broken things, and make them whole. He pled for her with His blood on the cross, and had a better plan for her life than this.
It wasn’t so sunny by the time we finished our conversation, and whenever my old Toyota finally rolled out of that parking lot, my new friend walked the opposite way on the sidewalk, back toward the train tracks, where she and all her friends lived in worn-out tents.
Months went by and I still hadn’t seen her again. She was gone — maybe gone from town, or maybe gone from this world. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t think I would ever find out.
Three months later, my coworker told me that a lady named Mary* was downstairs looking for me. There were probably a dozen homeless ladies named Mary in that town, so I expected one of my usuals. To my surprise, when I walked downstairs, I saw the same lady that I had talked to on that Tuesday afternoon. She had a healthy weight on her, her hair was clean, her mind was clear, she was alive.
Immediately, she hugged me tight. Still embracing me, she told me that she was running from the police when she met me that day. She eventually spent 30 days in jail, replaying our conversation over and over in her head. For the first time ever, she felt like somebody actually cared about her sobriety. She got clean in those 30 days and decided to keep it that way. By this time, she had been sober for the full three months that she had been gone. Tears rolled down my face and hers.
For about a month after this, I worked with her alongside some other folks to get her into a rehabilitation facility. These would be the foundational steps to long-term recovery. I prepared her that it would be hard. She called me every day, multiple times a day, for weeks. She was determined — excitedly counting down the days. She rehearsed with me, over and over, the truths of Scripture: that the Lord would go before her.
The day after Mary finally entered rehab, I sat in my office doing the paperwork to become an approved visitor for her. I glanced out my window and saw my friend walking through the parking lot where we first met.
My heart sunk.
I stumbled down the stairs and out those metal doors. When I met her outside, we were both overcome by grief. She attempted to make a convincing argument that she just couldn’t do it. I asked her if she was still sober.
Her eyes dropped down to her feet, “Don’t ask me that.”
I’m sure that I let out a long sigh as she explained to me that she didn’t want to disappoint me, of all people.
I asked her when she relapsed.
“About 20 minutes ago.”
My friend Mary is still walking those same old streets, still battling those same old habits. Each time that I see her, I slowly pull my car over, roll down my window, and ask her if she is okay, and if she needs anything. She usually asks me for pocket change.
I always say, “Do you know who I am?”
Her memory is clouded by the effects of sin and brokenness. Some days, she says my name quickly. Most of the time, she exhales sharply and says, “I know that I should, but I can’t remember.”
Her eyes grow sad when I retell the story. Like clockwork, I hand her what’s left in my water bottle and tell her that I love her before she goes on her way. She forgets me all over again.
Mary’s story cannot be finished yet.
Addiction isolates — it convinces people that they are forgotten, even whenever mounds of folks are praying fervently for them. And while programs are important, what Mary needs is people — people who are steady, consistent, and will remember her name when she forgets theirs.
This is why the church matters.
Programs help someone get clean. Community is what makes people stay.
—Rachel Davidson is a ministry resident at Reconcile Community Church where she serves in addiction recovery ministry in their neighborhood. She graduated from North Greenville University in May 2024 and studied intercultural studies.