I am alone with nowhere to go. I’m only 25, but I feel like a child without anyone to care for me. I am an addict. Although I was clean for 18 months, I got in the wrong crowd, took one hit, and was done, again.

I find myself walking the streets, tired and cold. I approach another parking lot, seeking money. Money for more… wait, no more drugs, I can't. I need help. I’ve been on crack since I was 15 years old. I’ve lost my family, my daughter, everything. I’ve had enough. I’ve been in foster care since age 3, with my mother in jail and no father. I’ve learned the system, broken the rules, spent time in and an out of jail – possession, prostitution. I have a child somewhere myself, that was taken from me, because I can't even take care of myself.

I’ve wandered into a parking lot and approach the woman outside and instead of asking for money, I try honesty. Why not, there’s nothing else I haven’t tried. “I need help,” I say. “I’m an addict, please.” The woman at Interfaith takes me inside, feeds me, warms me up and says she’ll help.

I can hear her making phone calls. She’s asking for a treatment center, for a cocaine addict. That’s me. She hears many “no’s” but keeps calling. Finally, there’s hope. There’s a facility in Inglis, an hour away. They have a free bed. It’s 90 days of help, of hope. We spend a day piecing together what I’ll need at my new home – birth certificate, a new ID card, clothes and hygiene items. I wonder how I’ll get there. I have nothing but worn flip flops. Then she says that she will take me. Really, me? Why are you doing this for me? I’m nobody. “No, my dear,” she says, “You are God’s child, a very special somebody.”

This article was written based on a real event at Interfaith Emergency Services. The services provided at Interfaith sometimes go beyond food or clothing, and by partnering with other community agencies, we can extend a hand to those in need.