The Rehab Center

When I was asked if Paper Houses would consider supporting a drug-rehabilitation program, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I visited the center with two police investigators whose job was to be skeptical. I wanted their honest advice.

We arrived on a Sunday—family visiting day. The center sits far outside the city, isolated and quiet. An employee unlocked the gate. They were expecting us.

Inside, we sat in a large room with about eighteen men and one boy—just fourteen years old. Everyone was there voluntarily, but once in the program, they could not leave. There were no methadone treatments or substitute drugs. Instead, the program relied on daily chores, prayer, counseling with psychologists, and guidance from a priest. In researching the center beforehand, I found their recovery rate was far higher than any U.S. program I could find.

The Boy

Several men shared their stories, much like an AA meeting. Then the fourteen-year-old began speaking.

He said he was from a small, distant village. His father sold drugs, and the boy admitted that sometimes he stole drugs and sold them, too. Eventually, he became addicted.

One day, men came to their home. His father owed them money. When he couldn’t pay, the men grabbed his father, mother, and older brothers.

“I was small—only ten,” he said softly. “They didn’t bother to hold me. They knew I couldn’t do anything.”

In front of the whole family, the men began beating his mother. “They thought beating her would make my father talk,” he said. “He kept telling them he didn’t have the money or the drugs.”

The boy paused and wiped tears from his eyes.

“They kept beating her. I don’t think they meant to kill her. But they did. They beat her to death, right in front of us.”

Everyone in the room sat frozen.

Then he said words that will stay with me forever: “They beat her until she was dead… and I did nothing. I killed my own mother.”

The adults immediately protested. “You were ten years old! You are not responsible. What could you have done?”

But the boy shook his head.

“That’s the thing. I was just a little kid. They weren’t going to hurt me. I could have run to her. I could have hugged her. I could have begged them to stop. They had lost control. If I had done anything—anything—they might have realized what they were doing. But I am a coward. I did nothing. I killed her.”

He explained that after his mother’s death, he used more and more drugs. He left his village, drifted to other towns, and eventually arrived in Acuña.

“I didn’t come here to be cured,” he said. “I just wanted to use less. I thought this place could help me cut down. I never wanted to give up everything.”

Then, suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the arm of one of the Houston Police Officers.

“I know something now! Do you know there is a man named Jesus who will forgive you, no matter what you’ve done? He will even forgive you if you killed your own mother!”

He said he was drug-free—and would never return to drugs.

The police officers looked at me and said, quietly, “Support this center.”

Afterward

I never learned what happened to the boy. One of the downsides of helping so many people in so many different places is that I don’t get to follow every story.

But I did see many of the former addicts again. About a year after our visit, Paper Houses was selling fajitas on the street to raise money. When I arrived at 5 a.m., several of the former addicts were already there—tending the fire. They had heard on the radio what we were doing and came to help.