Early in my sobriety, I came home from rehab with a mind still wrapped in fog. Thirty days had changed the direction of my life, but I was only beginning to understand how to live it. I entered a ninety-day outpatient program, trying to build a bridge between the protection of treatment and the uncertainty of life on my own.
One day, something occurred to me: I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed.
That bothered me more than I knew how to explain. I remembered what laughter sounded like, but I couldn’t seem to find it within myself. Nothing felt amusing. Joy felt far away. My family was still on guard, trying to understand this new version of me, and I couldn’t blame them. I was trying to understand him, too.
It was March of 2020. As I struggled to find my footing, the world shut down. COVID had turned everything upside down. Doors were closed, routines disappeared, and there were few places to go.
So I walked. And walked some more. I walked so much that even my dog, Teddy, began protesting another trip outside.
And I prayed. Sometimes with words, sometimes with nothing more than a longing I hoped God understood. I wanted some small sign of good. Something I could feel. Something that might tell me life wouldn’t always feel this way.
Then, on an ordinary walk, I felt a breeze.
It was one of those Southern California breezes that hints our version of winter is passing and warmer days are coming. I looked up and noticed the trees swaying. Their branches moved gently, bending and returning, while the bushes stirred beneath them.
I stopped.
For several minutes, I stood there, completely absorbed in something I had passed a thousand times without really seeing.
I couldn’t see the wind, but I could see what it moved.
Something about that held me. Where had it come from? Where was it going? Here was this quiet movement all around me, happening without my permission, without my help, without any need for me to understand it.
For so long, I had tried to manage everything—how I felt, what others thought, what might happen next. Yet there I stood, watching a world that had never depended on my ability to hold it together.
I thought about Jesus’ words:
“Look at the birds of the air” —Matthew 6:26, NIV
And then:
“See how the flowers of the field grow.” —Matthew 6:28, NIV
The birds didn’t have tomorrow figured out. The flowers weren’t earning their place in the sun. God cared for them, and I was beginning to believe His care might reach me, too.
As I watched those branches sway, I felt as though God was speaking to a place in me that words had not been able to reach:
I’ve got this, John. I always have. And I’ve got you.
Something rose within me. Emotion. A little warmth in a place that had felt numb. What I recognize now as hope.
My family still needed time. I still had work to do, amends to make, and a life to learn how to live. But standing beneath those trees, I could feel the possibility of it.
I had gone looking for some shred of good, and God met me in something as simple as a breeze.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed. But for the first time in a long time, I believed I would again.
I walked home without knowing where this new life would lead. I had no promise that the road would be easy, but I felt a little more willing to follow it. God could be trusted with the journey. My part was to take the next step.
Perhaps the only ticket we need is faith that something good is still possible—that God can bring life from places we thought were beyond saving, including ourselves.
That day, beneath the sway of a tree, I began to believe there was more ahead of me than what I had left behind.
And with Teddy beside me, I took another step.
