I am sitting here watching the closing ceremonies of the Winter Olympics. I watch the joy of the athletes as they conclude their four years (or more) expedition to achieve greatness in their sport of choice. As I do so, I compare these 20 something-year-old athletes on tonight's world stage with the 20 something-year-old man or woman who I've hugged as they've cried over their loss of family or their reliance on 'dating' so as to support their cellular and medical need for heroin.
Why is the man/woman who is right now on the world stage different than the man/woman who has cried in my arms? Could it be the prescription to Percocet that they were given for that sport's injury, an injury that if never happened could have put them on the current Olympic stage? Could it be that uncle who 'played' with them? Could it be simply randomness of the universe?
Whatever it may be, I sit here and watch the glory of the Olympics. I cry for my young friends in 'Emerald City' and it's neighboring bridge communities ( and the thousands of other young men and women who they represent) who, for reasons they cannot change, will not know life's glory until we, those who choose to do so, will come alongside them to tell them they are glorious in spite of their addiction and can find their way out of their current life situation to a life of spectacular glory.