an open space

november 7

Intervention

"I believe in the sun even when it does not shine. I believe in love, even when I do not feel it. I believe in God even when He does not speak."

Wednesday night, I met in an empty classroom of Kretchmar, with a group of old friends, for the sake of an old friend.

Its in these moments that my faith in humanity is recognized and restored. Its this startling, life-changing epiphany, where maybe you don't believe that mankind is good all on its own, but that God dwells and is alive in every heart, and the spirit in our hearts can make us capable of doing amazing and selfless things. Miraculous, even.

Sometimes high school feels like a very long time ago, and you think, fondly, of all of the people who have drifted in and out of your life, leaving a piece or a color of a memory behind. And I remember spending the majority of senior year, talking on my room phone in the middle of the night to a certain dear friend, about life, love, and why. Buying him a pair of hulk hands for christmas, that made crashing noises when you hit them together, and as I drug this bag through the airport and lifted it above my head to slip into the overhead bin on the plane, the sound recorded crash punches would go off, buried underneath all of my clothes, causing all nearby passengers to look at me befuddled. He brought me coffee every morning at work. He woke me up at 6am once, he borrowed his dad's truck and we sat in the back, buried in blankets, and watched the sunrise. He was generous and funny and one of the best friends I've ever had.

We haven't been close in years.

Since then he's spiraled into deep depression for horrific reasons, things my heart could never understand. Drowning it all in drugs and alcohol. Spending all his money on that, so he couldn't pay the rent. He forged checks in his parents name, lied to get loans, and disconnected himself altogether from his family, who adopted him when he was 12 years old.

We had prayer for him and discussed plans for an intervention, Brian planned the entire thing, where he got all his friends together and his family came up to see him and begged him to come home and enter a counseling program. He was cold. He didn't look us in the face. A group of us gathered, sitting in a row on the beds, arms and hands linked, me squeezing Brian's hands for support.

We cried and begged him, saying he'd never lose us no matter what he did, but we might rather him hate us for trying than for things to stay the way they are. I haven't ever been in a room filled with so much love and concern for another's well-being. And I still can't understand how he could've look us in the face, with no emotion, and believe everything he's doing is okay, and isn't affecting anyone and everyone. His family asked him if they could just spend this weekend with him, and he said he had too much studying to do. He said he appreciated us but he couldn't do it.

After hours, I scrambled to a late ASWWU meeting, filled with misgivings. Tommy told me some quote that I've already forgotten, about how God only calls us to do what we can, and its the doing that matters. I'm frustrated at myself, because I can't articulate this, but I find it this heartbreaking challenge, all of the things that are out of our reach. All of the hurt that we have. All of the love in our hearts. All of the things that we can't control.