‘Life and it’s lessons’

Last year, I met a man named Andrew.

He came to our doors at Doc’s House like many others have, looking for recovery and a new life. As we got to know him over the months he was with us, it was an ebb and flow process of trust.

He had been through tough situations in life and came from a long history on the streets. Even though we told him it was different here and he could feel safe and comfortable, we knew we had to prove it.

So we did.

Some days, he was softer and easier to reach, and on other days, his guard would be up. But either way, it didn’t matter. We kept on loving Andrew like we said we would, and made sure he knew he was safe and had a home here for as long as he chose it.

A month or so after he arrived, he stopped by my office and mentioned he heard I was a writer.

I told him I was, asking if he was too. He smiled and said he wasn’t a writer yet, but that he wanted to be. He wanted to write a book but didn’t know how or where to start — he had gone through some hard things in his life and thought his story could help someone.

“I think writing a book would be the best way to do that,” he says.

I smiled — because this is my favorite type of conversation. Hearing about the dreams, and knowing we’ve created a place safe enough for a person to let their guard down and start to show who they really are.

That day in the doorway, through seeing the smile and hearing the dream, I got to see.

Later that day, I went to the store and found my favorite pens and a Moleskin notebook and dropped them off with Andrew, giving him simple encouragement to start writing.

“How many pages will I need before I can publish my book?” He asked me.

I responded simply that there wasn’t a number to shoot for, just to start writing and follow where the process took him.

“So like 100 pages?” He asked in response.

I smiled and agreed, “100 pages sounds great.”

A few weeks later, Andrew showed up to our Friday night gratitude meeting with his notebook. He held it in his hands as the meeting went on around him, others in the group sharing their gratitude.

A few people from his turn, Andrew got up and went outside. He lit a cigarette, paced, came in and sat back down.

It came to his turn to share.

He slowly pulled out his notebook, took a deep breath, read one line and stopped.

He looked up.

“I’m not ready yet,” he said quietly.

We reassured him it was okay not to share, and the meeting went on.

The next week we were back out by the fire — this time outside in the early June weather just after sunset. With the chirps of the woods, the sound of fire crackling and the serenity of the summer, the meeting started and words of gratitude slowly made their way around the circle.

This time, when the circle made its way to Andrew, he grabbed his notebook, took a deep breath, and started reading — word by word and line by line.

No one made a sound.

Tears started prickling at my eyes and I held my breath, hoping and praying he felt comfortable enough to finish the poem.

His words were poetic and authentic, and there was a palpable awe as we all listened to him share in that moment.

So in the safety and stillness of the night, he kept reading, making it to his last line, when he looked up.

After a small, reverent pause, everyone around the fire started clapping, followed by cheering and shouts of affirmation in a display of brotherly love big enough to make Heaven proud.

When the moment died down, we asked him to read his poem again, and this time he was eager, speaking loudly, more confidently, with more intonation.

After the second reading, the affirmations continued and Andrew’s face was now in a full smile. Even when the meeting went on and the moment was over, Andrew’s smile was still there, full of pride.

Leaving the fire that night, Andrew stood up a little taller. He was more confident, more talkative, and more engaged.

Around the fire that night, we got to witness Andrew receive the gift that we all hope to receive in this life: to be seen, heard, and loved.

To belong.

A couple of months after this special night, Andrew moved away and into his own place, and a few months after that, we learned he had passed away.

With the grief that is so often present in this work, the loss of his beautiful life has felt like an aftershock — it has come in waves, met with the sounds of his words and the experience of hearing him read them that night.

Andrew’s dream, the spark in his eye, and what it looked like to see a person taste and see the goodness of grace, belonging and brotherly love — these will be things I hold close to my heart for the rest of my life.

And while he didn’t write the 100 pages he wanted to write, his words made it to a page that mattered — and that page became a gift to all who heard him share those sacred words.

Inspired by his poem after the meeting, thankfully, someone snapped a picture of his notebook, giving us all a gift forever.

This is Andrew’s poem and the words he shared with us that night.

Life and it’s lessons

By: Andrew Alexander

Here’s a poem about life and it’s lessons.
Just give me a few seconds, and here’s my suggestions.

You crawl before you walk, you take steps before you run.
To get where you’re going you have to know where you come from.

Some never struggle and don’t know what it’s like,
to live in a home with no water or lights.

Out of sight out of mind, you don’t work you don’t eat.
It does get greater later, we all can succeed.

So believe in yourself and have empathy for those,
who are in way worse situations that nobody knows.

There’s pros and cons in everything that you do,
the choice of right and wrong which one will you choose.

You have nothing to lose and so much to gain,
by making the right choice and doing the right thing.

So have faith in yourself and aim for the stars,
it’s not the hand you’ve been dealt but how you’re playing your cards.

With that being said, my poem will end.
Good luck and God bless with any situation you’re in.

Today, Andrew’s poem is hung in our office at Doc’s House. It is published on our walls, placed for people to read and experience the magic of his words and the journey of recovery, life and learning they represent.

To our brother, Andrew, you were a writer.

Today, you are published on our walls, and your words are doing exactly as you intended all along — helping someone else on the journey.

In loving memory of Andrew Alexander, a writer, and our friend.