One of our local groups meets in a church building that is usually empty on Thursday nights. It was surprising, then, to find the parking lot half full of cars, and people of all descriptions milling around out front.

Then I saw it: the big, black hearse. Oh, it must be a funeral. As I entered the church, I was greeted by one of the ministers. “What’s happening?” I inquired. “We’re having the viewing for a serviceman; he was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq,” he replied.

My heart sank. I don’t attend the church, and didn’t know the Marine or his family. Yet I felt an overwhelming urge to enter the sanctuary and pay my respects to this young hero. I realized how lucky I’ve been that the war has not resulted in any casualties among my family or close friends. This stranger was the closest I have come to suffering any personal loss. Out of gratitude, if nothing else, I had to spend a few moments before his coffin.

“Thank you,” was all I could mumble as I studied his young face. I wanted to say more, but didn’t know how to express what was in my heart. I was grateful that he was willing to serve his country in this way, and I thought of all the freedoms we enjoy because of men and women like him.

On the way upstairs, my addict tried to make me feel unworthy of recovery. “That fine young man had to die so YOU could have the freedom to be a sex addict,” he snickered in my mind. “Doesn’t that make you feel awful? Shame, shame, shame!” For a moment, I slowed my ascent, questioning my right to even attend the group. Perhaps he was correct.

Thankfully, another thought came to me, and I raced upstairs to the meeting. Because of this man’s sacrifice, I have a different kind of freedom. I am free to be in recovery from something as deadly as a roadside bomb. I am free to be healing from the mutilation I inflicted on myself all those years. I am free to help repair the harm I have done to so many others. And I am free to serve as God’s ‘medic’ to those whose lives are as devastated as mine has been.