Sleep still crusted to his eyes, as they took in the remnants of the previous night, rising like a fog across the floor. He tosses a lazy arm off him, wondering where he is. What day is it? How long has he been gone? Could he go back?
Donny shared his story with me over dinner tonight. We had just met, but we talked with the comfort of old friends. He grew up in church and knew a lot of the stories, but found himself wandering further and further from the truth. He was (is) married, has two little boys, but has not seen them in over a year. The last year is a haze of marijuana smoke and bad decisions.
A week ago, he woke up after a nightmare, where he watched his family slipping from his grasp. Lacing up his shoes, he began to walk, chasing a wisp of hope that there had to be something better out there.
Faith to him is the hope in new beginnings, a resurrection from the relational death of the previous year and in forgiveness. "It won't be easy. I'll see old friends and they won't understand, they'll want to pull me back in. I'm clean, my thoughts are clear and I know God has a purpose for me. Maybe one day, I'll be back with my family."
Sitting, listening to Donny, I notice a light in his eyes. Is faith the hope, or the willingness to act on it?