Feeding men hope while they recover from addiction

Mick Croy, now sober, serves as mentor and cook at a Salvation Army center.
SEATTLE TIMES
SEATTLE -- Their hymn books are as weathered as the lives they've led. But their Sunday-morning suits and freshly slicked hair speak volumes about where these men hope their lives will go next.
Testimony time. In a back pew of the Salvation Army Rehabilitation Center chapel, Mitchell "Mick" Croy listens as some thank God for turning their lives around or apologize for things they've done. In a gravelly voice, he stands and thanks the Lord for waking up sober, instead of coming out of a drunken haze. "It's a life I never thought I'd have."
This summer, Croy turned 50, but more importantly for him, he marked one year of sobriety. A lifetime of addiction had been a recipe for failure.
That's how he ended up here at the center, a Christian-based residence program whose spiritual leader, Maj. Samuel Southard, now sermonizes: "In our addiction, we cannot, on our own power, restore our sanity. God can."
In the kitchen
Such words have given Croy new life, but every day is a struggle to keep it that way. He checks the clock: Five minutes to 10. Time to get to work. "I gotta feed all these guys," he said. "Believe me, it's a blessing. Keeps me clean."
In the kitchen, he's master of operations, menu planner, chief buyer and dispenser of culinary proverbs. "Dull knife is the one that cuts ya." "Cut toward your buddy, not your body." Some items are donated, but he eyes bargains -- this week it was Roma tomatoes -- and his budget averages $1 a plate.
As usual, today's five-man crew consists of center residents. One is a former fast-food manager toppled into homelessness; another, a former culinary student trying to reassemble his life.
Croy is a graduate of the program, which has strict curfews and a workbook addressing topics such as denial and relapse. The center houses up to 101 men, entirely funded by its adjoining thrift store, where many work in exchange for room and board.
The men can stay for six months up to a year. "This is a place where people come to change their lives, not to be institutionalized," administrator Maj. Southard said. "These men deserve better than this."
Some never finish, but program director Warren Terry said the facility graduates more of the 700 men who pass through yearly than any Salvation Army rehab center nationwide.
Recalling the past
Croy, one of the successes, works from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m., four days a week, plus four hours on Sunday. In his white chef's outfit, he's a towering presence.
As a little kid, Croy remembers his stepdad entertaining big groups, Sunday brunch flamb & eacute;s and sparks flying into the crowd. The man, he said, could land a job just by walking into a diner and making a pot of soup.
But the man was also a drinker, and so, later, was Croy.
Life became a blur. "I can't drink like normal people," he said. "I take one drink, and the craving kicks in, and then I don't know where I'm going. I could end up on the 6 o'clock news."
Then came marijuana, cocaine, heroin. He ended up in jail on drug charges.
Eventually, he landed a job in a Spokane, Wash., hotel kitchen. A new head chef fired nearly everyone but took Croy under his wing, teaching him how to flamb & eacute;, saut & eacute;, how to do sides and foie gras.
Desperate measures
For seven years Croy stayed employed, knocking out big banquet presentations until his partying finally caught up with him. He returned to Seattle in summer 2001.
Tired of running, he intentionally drove into a speed trap with a gin and tonic in his hand.
I'm a drunk, he told the officer. Help me.
No problem, the officer said.
The judge looked at Croy's criminal record; it showed a guy wreaking perpetual havoc. Six months in jail, she said.
Last December, Croy returned to court for a follow-up and recounted how far he'd come. In jail, he'd been given kitchen duty, turning the place around.
But his first stint at the rehab center didn't take, and he flamed out again, falling to such depths that he knew he had to make a choice.
"When he came back, he was beaten down worse than before," rehab director Terry said. "He came to the realization that, 'If I don't stop, I'm gonna die.'"
Early this year, Croy had a job pricing Salvation Army thrift-store collectibles when Maj. Southard called: The kitchen manager had just been let go; would he want the job?
Cleaning up
He went to town, tearing apart the walk-in freezer like he was tossing a salad, rearranging items to avoid spoilage.
Boxes of gelatin and coffee, once left on the floor, were put on shelves where they belonged.
"Now," he said victoriously, "I'm in my environment. And I'm clean and sober."
He likes being a mentor for the guys. It's a key ingredient in the slow but steady rebuilding of his life. Croy goes to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings five nights a week and, between meals, counsels residents through chapters of the center's recovery-minded workbook.
"One of the best ways to maintain your recovery is to give it to somebody," he said.
"I've been walking in the woods for 30 years. It's going to take me a while to get out."