Help Me! Or Not.

He came running across the parking lot to me, shouting and asking if I was an elder or deacon of the church I was walking into.

“No,” I was glad to be able to say. I wasn’t sure yet, but this looked like a situation I probably didn’t want to be involved in. Big, sweaty, frantic guys yelling and dashing my direction have a way of setting off mental alarms for me.

He just wanted to talk to someone. “C’mon inside,” I smiled graciously, “I’m sure we can help you.”

Once inside, however, I got a familiar story that smelled fishier than my grandpa’s tackle box. Still, I knew one of the pastoral staff guys would hear him out and provide at least some help for the guy if we could.

I asked Big Sweaty Guy to sit in a chair, but he started pacing. Asked him to wait, but he became agitated. His eyes weren’t glassy, so it wasn’t marijuana. Breath didn’t smell, so it wasn’t alcohol. Probably cocaine, we decided later.

His patience wore thin so quickly that he finally just yelled and stormed out the door. His crave for a quick fix driving him away from the help he really needed.

How is it that the people most in need of help, and with such easy access to it, can toss it aside so easily?

I’ve never been an addict, but I’ve done it. Like I’d rather live with the ongoing discomfort of a splinter than to go through a few moments of pain to have it dug out.

How do you help someone who doesn’t want help?