The young man casts his eyes downward.

He is seated in a folding chair, one of about twenty that form a large circle in the small church basement.  His eyes seem to stare at the slogans pasted on tiny placards resting on the floor.

Do others see him, too?

He has been here before.  He has been another young man, or a young woman, or one of many young people at any Al-Anon meeting who come because they are frightfully alone, ego destroyed, self-confidence something others have.

It takes weeks, months, before he speaks.

When he does, we hear the story we hear often from these young people, barely in their twenties, words that come softly, then later with a rush.

He is in recovery.  His parents are not.

Therein, lies the hurt.

We who listen can only guess the scenes at home.  This lad parenting his parents, alcoholism reversing the roles, robbing childhood.

Silently I pray that the power within this meeting – within every meeting – will help to restore this “boy” to sanity.

I am led to think about my own “boy.”

Jacob did not grow up in an alcoholic household.  But like the young man before me, what my son needed, and when he needed it, “home” was not the solution.

Impossible to see it at the time, what Jacob needed was a community far beyond what his parents could give him.

And once he found that, recovery – and the joy of freedom it brought – was his to grasp.

So I watch this young man – until his eyes look up and he sees mine.

You will be all right, Son, I want to say.

You will be all right.

Keep coming back.