Watching one of the people I love the most struggle with opioid addiction is the greatest heartbreak of my life. I don’t wish this agony on anyone.

I’ve openly shared about my childhood, being raised by an alcoholic and drug-addicted father. Eleven months after his death, I am still in heavy grief over his loss. Things weren’t straightforward or rosy, but they weren’t all bad, either. No matter what he did, he was still my dad.

My Dad’s Addiction

Until I got the call that my dad had passed, I had so much hope that he would turn things around and eventually get clean.

When I listened to Christian songs about God doing extraordinary things in the lives of people who had wandered so far, I listened in anticipation of what I thought would come. I let myself dream of what it could be like to have a sober conversation with him. I imagined years of visiting him and letting his grandkids know a different man than I grew up with.

But he died. Unchanged.

It’s been eleven months and I still can’t listen to a lot of those songs that gave me so much hope. It’s over. He didn’t have the redemption story I’d written in my head.

My Loved One’s Addiction

I know I should be able to keep my dad’s addiction and my loved one’s addiction separate in my mind. I wish I could know without a doubt that she won’t face the same end that he did. My heart wants to believe that this time it will be different.

But when you read about addiction, especially to opioids, you learn that depressingly few overcome their addictions and find lasting sobriety. Some do. Some find strength from God and fight with all they have to reclaim their lives.

When my dad died, he didn’t just die. With him went my ability to believe that addiction could have anything except a sad ending.

The Nightmare I Can’t Shake

A few weeks ago, I had an extremely vivid nightmare. My loved one was in a house, but not as the adult woman she is today. She was five or six, trapped in what seemed like a haunted house. Ghouls and demons were roaming the halls and grabbing at her.

I rushed into the house and grabbed her. I fought and dragged her out. I struggled. And even though there were many times when the darkness nearly overtook us, I was finally able to get her out.

As I began to leave the vivid world of my dreams, I awoke to God’s voice speaking to me: “This is what prayer can do. You cannot literally fight her battles, but you can bring those battles to me.”

The dream has disturbed me in the days since. I still struggle against my own cynicism and my own broken heart. I worry that I’ll get my hopes up, only to watch them get dashed again.

And yet I also know that I serve a God who is more powerful than anything… even the darkness of addiction. Even the pain of trauma that brings people to addiction’s door. Even my own doubt.