"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
— Matthew 11:28
That verse came alive for me in March of 2020.
The world seemed to be coming to a standstill. COVID had shut everything down. It was a strange and uncertain time to leave rehab and begin a journey of recovery. AA halls were closed. Church basements were locked. Gatherings were prohibited. For someone trying to stay sober one day at a time, it felt as though the very places meant to save us had disappeared.
Then something unexpected happened.
My first meeting with the man who would become my sponsor was supposed to be at a local park. Rain changed those plans. His roommate wasn't comfortable having people inside the house because of the pandemic, so we settled for the garage.
As we sat there talking, my grand-sponsor poked his head out to say hello. Before long, the conversation turned into an idea.
"What if we held a small AA meeting right here in the garage?"
The following Monday, five of us gathered.
Five people.
We were told to keep it small. Don't advertise it. Don't invite too many people. We didn't want it to become a problem.
But alcoholics and addicts aren't exactly known for keeping secrets.
Five became seven.
Seven became ten.
Ten became twenty.
Soon there were thirty people.
Eventually, more than 120 men and women filled that driveway, spilling onto the sidewalk and lining the street. Lawn chairs stretched as far as the eye could see.
We had rules.
Park down the street so the neighbors could still use their driveways. Bring your own chair. Take your chair home. Watch your language. Respect the neighborhood. Put every cigarette butt in the cans not in the flower beds. Leave the place better than you found it.
It became the worst-kept secret in Orange County.
Night after night, people searching for hope found their way to a house on Cornejo Lane in Fullerton, California. Some arrived broken. Some came desperate. Some had nowhere else to go.
Yet everyone heard the same unspoken message:
You belong here.
It reminded me of Christ's table—not because we were perfect, but because no one had to earn a seat. The successful sat beside the homeless. Young and old. First-timers and old-timers. Business owners, executives, laborers, parents, sons, daughters. Addiction had stripped away our titles, and grace gave us back our humanity.
What happened on that driveway wasn't organized by committees or marketing plans.
It was a miracle.
God met weary people in an ordinary suburban driveway and turned it into holy ground.
That driveway gave me far more than sobriety.
It gave me brothers and sisters.
It gave me a family.
It taught me what unconditional love looks like.
And above all else, it led me to the God I had been searching for my entire life.
Sometimes the doors of churches close.
Sometimes the meeting halls go dark.
But God has never been limited by a building.
Sometimes, He builds a sanctuary on a driveway.
