Recovery taught me that nights are the hardest. That’s when the noise gets loud and the loneliness creeps in. That’s when people decide whether they’re going to make it through until morning.
So, I answer my phone.
I tell people they can call me anytime, especially in the middle of the night. I don’t sleep much anyway. And I remember too clearly what it felt like to be alone with cravings that felt bigger than God.
There were nights I prayed and still wanted to numb everything. Nights when I didn’t trust myself. Nights when one voice could have changed everything.
Now, I try to be that voice.
Sometimes all I say is, “I’m here. Breathe.” Sometimes we talk for an hour. Sometimes they cry. And sometimes I do too.
People ask why I do this. I tell them the truth: Jesus met me in the middle of my worst nights, not after I cleaned myself up. He didn’t wait for daylight. He didn’t demand strength.
So, I don’t either.
I’ve answered calls from parked cars, hospital rooms, and bathroom floors. I don’t fix people. I don’t promise things will be easy. I just remind them they’re not alone and that this moment doesn’t get to decide the rest of their life.
Obedience isn’t always convenient. Love rarely is.
But every time someone makes it through the night, I thank God for the privilege of being present. I know what’s at stake. I know how thin the line can be.
And if my phone ringing at 2 a.m. keeps someone alive, I’ll answer it every time.
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