“I didn’t know about this place,” he says, glancing out at the road before returning his gaze to mine. We are sitting together in a pair of Adirondack chairs that face the unusually calm waters of Medicine Lake. I had taken the seat next to his while I waited for a colleague to meet me in the parking lot, and after I introduced myself and told him I worked here, his face lit up and he greeted me, clasping my hand between both of his in an enthusiastic handshake.
“I didn’t know a person could come here…you know…that they could press a pause button on their life,” he gestures with his thumb as though pushing an imaginary button, “…and get their…” he hesitates, and then grins, “… you-know-what together.” He chuckles as I nod my understanding of what you-know-what means.
“And, at a place like this.” He juts his chin in the direction of the lake-shore. “It’s amazing.”
We are sitting on 38-acres of lakefront property on the north shore of Medicine Lake in Plymouth, Minnesota. It is calm, quiet and peaceful. The air is warm, a bit humid, and the buzzing of the late summer insects is almost too loud. We are surrounded by green grass, lush old-growth trees whose branches gently bend and sway with each gust of wind. The early afternoon sun sparkles against the surface of the lake, creating the illusion that it is speckled by thousands of white diamonds. Every now and then the ripple of a jumping fish decorates the smooth shell of the water.
“It is pretty nice,” I agree, settling back into my chair. I ask him how long he’s been here, which program he’s staying in, how he’s settling in. He seems relaxed, though a little sad, and maybe uncertain about being in a new place. He tells me his name is Bobby, and that he’s a gratefully recovering alcoholic.
He folds his hands in his lap and begins to tell me his story, his bright blue eyes brimming with tears as he describes having to leave his kids with their mother while he came here to work on staying sober. He describes his long struggle with alcoholism, including the periods of sobriety that afforded him the ability to work at a job he liked, to meet and marry his now ex-wife and to have two children with her before a relapse that lasted several years ripped all of that away and he was alone again, homeless, without a job or a way to take care of himself – much less his family.
A look of regret sweeps his remarkably boyish features and I can see that he is struggling to hold back a flood of emotion. I reach over and squeeze his hand in an attempt to reassure him, wishing I could help in a more profound way, but also celebrating with him that he is right where he needs to be. I tell him I admire his courage. “It’s not easy starting over,” I say.
He nods. Then he smiles. “Yeah,” he whispers.
We sit in silence for a bit, listening to the gentle chorus of leaves that rustle from their branches on the surrounding avenue of trees. I open my mouth to say my farewell, thinking it was time for me to leave him alone with his thoughts, when Bobby starts talking again.
“This is a special place,” he blurts. “I can hear myself think here.” He fills his lungs with air, closing his eyes as he tilts his face towards the sun. And, then he emits a long slow exhale, his eyelids flickering open as he leans towards me. His elbow on one arm of the chair, he rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “I can breathe here, you know?”
I nod. I do know. I’ve heard it before, from countless men and women who come here seeking change in their lives. Or, at least I have heard some version of it. How the pastoral setting of our campus provides a unique respite for people seeking safety, or change, or rest. How it improves their health, their attitude, and their ability to focus on the work of recovery from an addiction to drugs or alcohol, or to heal and seek justice after experiencing a domestic assault.
The organization has been at this location since 1927 and as I watch Bobby enjoy the view, I think about the tens of thousands of people who have sat where I am now, staring at this same lake, listening to these trees and the seemingly orchestrated din of summer insects, contemplating how they were going to start over. I think about how this serene landscape played a part in their recovery. And, how it continues to do so for countless men and women. I glance back at Bobby and am glad that he is finding some peace here.
My colleague has arrived and has respectfully kept her distance, recognizing the kind of conversation I am having with Bobby as being one upon which she shouldn’t intrude. I pat Bobby on the back of the hand and tell him I’ve enjoyed our talk and I look forward to chatting with him again sometime. He nods, thanks me, and then leans back, his clasped hands cradling the back of his head. He closes his eyes.
“I think I’m gonna keep it this time,” he whispers. He opens one eye and glances up at me and I know that he’s talking about his sobriety. “I have to,” he explains, “I’ve got too much to lose now.”
I turn back and flash him a smile. “I believe you will.”
Although the dialogue in this blog isn’t exactly word-for-word, and the name of the resident has been changed to protect his privacy, this encounter happened in summer, 2018. Bobby stayed with us for at least six months before moving on. While here, Bobby maintained his sobriety, and I am hopeful that he has reunited with his family and is now celebrating his one-year anniversary of recovery.
If you or someone you know is in need of recovery-based transitional housing, medically monitored detoxification and withdrawal management, or shelter or legal advocacy services following an experience of domestic abuse (hotline 763.559.4945), please contact us via email or phone. You can learn more about our programs and qualifications for admission here. If you are unsure as to what program can best assist you, please call 763.559.1883 and we will direct your call to the appropriate program.
Katy Daniels is the Associate Director for Missions Inc. Programs.