As I turned left off Hwy 116 just west of Hamilton, I could feel a knot in my stomach. For the last two miles I had been trying to convince myself that this was the right thing to do. In my mind, I wasn’t sure if I was ready. In my gut I knew I wanted to do something useful with some of my free time. I was conflicted.

I have been talking for years about visiting the Crossroads campus. It’s an extension of the Valley Rescue Mission down on Second Avenue in Columbus. My buddy, Shawn, and I have been volunteering together one night a month at VRM for probably 18 years or so now. We get the guys to sing a few songs. We teach a Bible lesson. We do our best to offer some support and encouragement for what these men are there to do.

They are recovering addicts. They have no place to go. A few of them volunteer for the program. Most of them are there by court order. If they make it through the program at VRM then they head off to the rural hills of Harris County for a more intensive program at Crossroads.

I pull into the parking lot. The asphalt is stained with age. There are no painted lines, just a wide piece of blacktop on two levels with one lone Sweetgum for shade. The building reminds me of all the old government buildings you’ve ever seen from the 1960s. Story and a half red brick. Dormers on the upper level. Small but adequate white columns that support a porch roof that extends the full length of the building. Three different white entry doors across the front.

I did not call ahead, so I have no appointment. I have no idea who I need to meet but I figure there’ll be someone who can point me to the right person.

I started to call before I drove down here. I figured it would be too easy for the person on the other end of the phone to put me off, which would have made an easy way out for me. I could have gotten over my nerves and said, “Oh well, I tried.”

By just showing up, not only do I have to push through my own hesitancy, but they have to deal with the old guy in the sweaty blue t-shirt, with sawdust in his hair. Not that I plan to force myself on them. I’m just old-school and believe that eye contact matters.

There are only two vehicles in the parking lot. My truck makes three. This seems odd to me, but I figure guys in a program like this probably don’t have cars. So, I blow that off.

As I shove the gearshift in park, I notice that the front porch is littered with what looks like construction materials. Piles of discarded fluorescent light fixtures. Lumber. Boxes stacked on either side of the main double door. A tile cutter stands in the grass just out from under the porch.

It looks like a renovation is underway and I start to think that I really have come at a bad time.

But I’m already here. So, I got out of my truck. At the same time a fella gets out of the white car just to my left. We meet in the lawn out front of the building.

“How’re ya doing?” I offer a friendly handshake. “Could you tell me where the office is?”

He’s sizing me up. A nice clean-cut guy. Early 40s. Jeans. Button down shirt with a collar.

“The main office is at the Mott Center on Second Avenue, downtown.” He takes a pause. Tilts his head. “Kinda depends on what you need and why you’re here.”

“I’m looking to volunteer here at Crossroads.”

Backup a few days with me. There’s another piece to this story.

I was driving home from Columbus a couple days ago when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway. It was a guy who used to work for us at the farm.

When he came to us, he had been a long-haul truck driver who was tired of the road and wanted to do something else so he could be home with his kids. He was ex-army. Former construction worker. Seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.

He turned out to be a really good hire for the next 5 or 6 years. He became our lead climber and was very talented with his ropes and gear 60ft up in a tree.

He had one problem. He drank too much. And by too much, I mean every single evening after work until unconscious.

His life was a mess. His Ex had left him and taken the kids. He lost his way. He eventually quit his job with us to go home and try to get his life back together.

We talked on the phone about much of nothing for a few minutes, then out of the blue he got to the point.

“I want you to know I went to an AA meeting last night.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah. A buddy of mine had to go. The judge gave him the option of going to AA or going to jail. He asked me to go with him cause he didn’t want to be by himself. So, I went.”

“How’d it go?”

“It was actually really good. I was the only one there who didn’t HAVE to be there. I also found out that I’m not the only one with a drinking problem. I’m gonna start going. I’ve got me a sponsor now and everything.”

“That’s a big step.”

“I know. But I’ve got to quit drinking. I’m doing better. I’m not as drunk as I used to be, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t still drinking. I’m a drunk, and I know it. I’m a functioning drunk, but what I’m doing ain’t right and it certainly ain’t doing me any good.”

“Since I left down there, I’ve realized how good y’all was to me. You should’a fired my backside (he used a more colorful description) a long time ago, but you stuck with me. We were like family.”

“That means a lot. I’m glad you called.”

“You know something,” he said. “You ought’a think about helping people like me. I bet you’d be good at it. I know you don’t drink and all, but you’ve got a way with words and people listen to you. I know a lot of guys like me would appreciate it.”

Those words echoed in my head for days. It turns out that this stranger whom I’d just met was the director of the Crossroads program.

“Come on inside,” he said. “We’re renovating the place right now. We’re trying to make the building and the program better. Get a fresh start.”

“I’m not sure where I could fit in.”

“Oh, I do,” he said. “I was praying this morning for the Lord to send us some new folks to work with the men.”

“You’re the fourth one to come by today.”

Hooh Boy!