A Hand in the Darkness

A man struggling with drug addiction and alcoholism fell into a pitch-black pit. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. All he could do was feel along the walls, searching for something to hold on to. But the sides were wet and slick. Every attempt to climb ended with him slipping back down.

He could hear voices above him, but the darkness left him with no idea where they were coming from.

He recognized his brother’s voice.

“Brother! I need help! I’m down here!”

“Can’t help you, bro. You did this to yourself.”

Then he heard his ex-girlfriend.

“Please, help me!”

“No. You’ve burned me one too many times.”

Finally, he heard his mother.

“Mom, please help me!”

“I don’t know how to reach you, son. I can only pray you get help.”

The man fell to his knees. Exhausted and afraid, he surrendered.

“I don’t know which way is up. I don’t know where to go. God, please help me.”

Then a voice called down.

“Hello down there. Can you hear me?”

“Yes! I can hear you!”

“Good. I’ll be right down.”

“Wait! There’s no way out of here! Get a rope or something!”

Before he knew it, someone was beside him in the darkness. He couldn’t see the stranger’s face, but he felt a hand take hold of his.

“I’ve got you.”

“What do you mean you’ve got me? Now we’re both stuck down here!”

“Don’t worry, brother. I’ve been here before. I know the way out.”

When I was in rehab, my world felt a lot like that pit.

Everything was so far removed from what I knew as normal. My family and friends had emotionally stepped away. I was in an old house with one shower for nine people, thinking, Man, how did I get here? And how do I get out?

The people around me weren’t people I would have expected to become my lifeline.

I became friends with a transgender man whose life and experiences were unfamiliar to me. I befriended a woman worn down by life on the streets. Her hands were large, gnarled, and weathered. You could see some of what she had survived without her saying a word.

The rehab techs were tattooed, some with a year of sobriety or less. To me, they looked more like the patients than the people in charge. I wondered how they were supposed to help me when they seemed so close to where I was.

But each of them offered reassurance. The visitors, the people who came in to share on panels, the ones finding their own footing in recovery—all kept pointing me toward the same path.

“This way, brother.”

They knew the darkness. They understood the shame, the fear, and the feeling that you had fallen too far to ever come back. And they were willing to reach for me.

I told my sister about my new friends and how strange it felt to find myself among them.

She said, “In the darkness, John, you take whatever hand is there to help you. It doesn’t matter what that hand looks like or who it belongs to.”

That hit me.

I had been looking at the people offering help through the eyes of the life I had left behind. Meanwhile, God was answering my prayer through the people standing right in front of me.

His servants, His warriors, come in all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life. Some have tattoos. Some have weathered hands. Some are barely out of the darkness themselves, but they turn around and reach for the next person.

I think about Jesus spending time with people others had cast aside, and I’m reminded of those early days in sobriety. Among people I might once have overlooked, I found patience, compassion, and a place to belong.

I didn’t need to understand everyone’s story to accept their help. I learned to trust the love they offered. And when I couldn’t see the way out, I held on to a hand that could lead me.

In 2 Corinthians 1:4, we read:

“Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.” — KJV

God comforts us in our troubles so we can offer that same comfort to others. That brings a responsibility into my own recovery. I remember the hands that reached for me, and now I need to look for the person still in the pit.

Sometimes that means staying after a meeting, listening when I’d rather go home, or offering to sponsor someone when my selfishness tells me I don’t have the time. It means remembering how lost I felt and how much it mattered when someone was willing to sit beside me.

Someone came into my darkness and took my hand. Today, I ask God to help me recognize the person who needs mine—and give me the willingness to reach for them.

When I hear a voice calling from down there, I want to be willing to say, “I’ve been there, brother. Take my hand. We’ll find the way out together.”