A bridge to everywhere: The Bridge Ministry shows how work training works in addiction recovery

Most of us have a handful of memories that define childhood. For William Washington, the key memory came on a cool spring evening when his father, in an alcohol-induced rage, took several shots at him with a rifle, one of which landed on him.?

“I survived, but my life ended that day—at least for a little while,” Washington recalls.

Washington came from a family that was rare in 1960s rural Virginia: African-American and solidly middle class. A strong work ethic was ingrained in their family generations back, when their ancestors worked as slaves on George Washington’s plantation at Mount Vernon.?But in addition to hardworking, his father was something else, too—a chronic alcoholic. And that fateful evening, that lifestyle of addiction turned violent.

Not quite 14-years-old, Washington waited a few days before after the incident before running away from home one night. He ended up on the streets of Charlottesville.?As a boy who grew up in the country with a sense of community, he thought that he could seek refuge in the local black community. But things were different in the city, and even the local black community didn’t accept him.

One night on Main Street, Washington encountered a group of other youths who promised him a meal if he would sell drugs for them. Washington didn’t even know what drugs were, but he took the bait. Eventually, the drug trade became a way of life for him.

“Sometimes, if I couldn’t sell drugs for a meal, I would go to the local fast food restaurants and go through their garbage at night to get a meal,” he says. “It was all about survival.”

Soon that life led him to trouble with the law—and, eventually, prison. He spent 17 years in and out of jail, but his time incarcerated was Washington’s means of transformation. He found faith.

“I told God, ‘If you’re really God, here is my life. Fix it. If you can fix it, I’ll serve you for the rest of my life.”

It was a heavenly bargain that soon panned out.?He appeared before then Charlottesville Circuit Court Judge Jay Swett, who suspended his time and sent him to a residential rehabilitation ministry called New Life for Youth. Washington spent months in big farmhouse with 70 other men, receiving spiritual instruction combined with practical work skills and addiction recovery services.

“I wasn’t playing games anymore. I wanted a second chance.” Washington graduated the program, went back home to his family, and started “living life right.”

He had found spiritual salvation, but his physical salvation came through work—an opportunity a local church gave him. “They created a job for me so that I could help myself,” he notes. “It wasn’t a hand out. It was a hand up. That’s a missing part today—when it comes to addiction, we’re trying to fix people. We need to help people fix themselves. And that takes work.”

Beginnings of a ‘work first’ ministry

The Bridge Ministry began in a crazy way—a crazy way full of grace. At the time, Washington lived in a three-bedroom government housing unit with his wife and three kids. A former inmate came and knocked on his door—an inmate who had tried to do bodily harm to Washington while they were serving time together. The man claimed his life had changed, but he had nowhere to go.

“We decided to put all three kids in the same bed and give him a place to stay," Washington said. "Later, I got him a job at McDonalds. That was the first man. Today, we’ve served over 10,000. But it all began with that one.”

Washington began meeting with men transitioning out of prison in his home and helping them find work. Meanwhile, Judge Swett was getting frustrated by all the parole violation cases coming across his desk—each one representing a man’s failure to successfully reacclimate to civilian life. That’s when he heard what Washington was now up to—launching a prison ministry that he partly credited to Judge Swett for giving him a second chance. So, Judge Swett recruited several other donors to help. They came together and helped Washington find, design, and build a 17-acre retreat in Buckingham County south of Charlottesville, what would soon become a rural facility for rehabilitation.

The land was filled with dilapidated, snake-infested trailers that had once housed kids for summer camps. Washington negotiated a deal with the owners where he didn’t have to pay anything for the property for the first year—just work to bring it back to presentable condition. And so, each evening after finishing his day job, Washington and his sons worked the property—for nearly two years. The ministry fully opened the 17-acre Buckingham property in 1996.

The ‘Bridge’ approach

Incarceration and recidivism are at epidemic levels in the United States. The U.S. houses approximately 2.3 million individuals in prison. As a country, we are devoted to locking up perpetrators but not nearly as committed when it comes to helping them ease into civilian life after paying their debt to society. One recent analysis of recidivism rates by the U.S. Department of Justice found that an alarming 83 percent of prisoners released in 2005 across 30 states were rearrested at least once during the nine years following their release, and nearly half (44 percent) were arrested within one year.

The cost to taxpayers is enormous, but the human toll is greater still. Reversing this human toll is the Bridge’s mission. The vast majority of men come to the program as an alternative to incarceration—a second chance granted by the court system to see if they can take advantage of the opportunity. A smaller percentage come to the program without a criminal record but with a life-sapping addiction to drugs or alcohol—some from high-profile places. It’s not unusual for a collegiate or even professional-level athlete to take part.

The Bridge has an 81 percent success rate in men avoiding substance abuse and avoiding prison after completing the program. Capable of serving up to 45 men at a time, the ministry manages to do this with a population facing enormous barriers: Nearly every man who comes into the program has nothing, and 75 percent are homeless.

One success story is Josh Bolling, who arrived at the program indigent and uneducated but today is a homeowner and providing for his family. Bolling got hooked on drugs as a 13-year-old after his mom introduced crack cocaine to him and his two brothers. He wound up in jail for stealing to feed his addiction. Later, Bolling noticed a fellow inmate writing a letter by hand—it turned out he was writing to the Bridge. Bolling applied as well and was accepted. The biggest way the Bridge helped him was by encouraging him to take on step at a time, and to envision a future life free of drugs.

“I didn’t quit the drugs because I didn’t like the drugs,” he says. “I quit because I didn’t want to grow old and not have anything. The Bridge helped me create a desire to be something, to want something. I ran with it and never looked back.”

One reason for the Bridge’s impressive success rate is the program’s rigorous pre-evaluation: It doesn’t accept violent or sexually-based offenders. Another reason is the military-like structure: A 6am rise time, appointed time for meals, class times, and work training. Every movement is controlled. It’s mandatory for a life that’s been so dysfunctional. But the most defining characteristic is the ministry’s focus on workforce training.

“That’s the key to the success of the program,” Washington shares. “Our faith is our foundation. But the key to the success of our faith is practical day-to-day living.”

The Bridge is an 18-month program split into two phases: The first 12 months on its rural campus in Buckingham, Virginia, where former inmates receive addiction treatment combined with classroom instruction and job training. They live in a dormitory with a roommate and participate in several hours of manual labor each day. The treatment regimen includes classes five days a week where they learn the type of “soft skills” mandatory for success in the workplace—showing up on time, listening well to instructions, being reliable, keeping one’s temper even when pressed, having a positive attitude, dressing appropriately, using work-appropriate language, accepting constructive criticism, not blaming others for failures, finishing work on time. Technical workplace skills might get these men a job, but it’s these essential soft skills that will help them keep it.

Charlie Towler—a serial entrepreneur who has launched seven businesses during his career—now serves as a life-skills teacher at the Bridge and instructs the men on what leads to a successful life. A big part of that is encouraging the students to shift from a short-term survival mindset to long-term growth. “If you and I decided to drive from Charlottesville to Washington, we’re to pull it up on your phone and use the GPS,” Trowler says, “but these guys don’t think like that. They just get in the car and go. We can tell how long the drive will be, and we’ll pick the shortest route. These guys aren’t equipped to do that. That’s how they approach life—we’re just going to go. They just react by their emotions and feelings.”

“The program helps the men see they can live a different way,” says Washington. “We have them do the same thing, every day, for a year. They go to bed, go to work, go to classes at the same time. We’re teaching them how to do what normal people in society do. We help them see that their addiction isn’t the problem. The way they’ve been living is.”

Work that’s transformational

Aside from the spiritual center, workforce training is a key focal point of the training—not just for the men to gain practical skills, but to teach them the warp and woof of daily life for normal people in society. This makes sense—most of us organize our days around the rhythm of work. It is integral to who we are as humans. At the Bridge, workforce training areas include HVAC, small engine repair, electrical, OSHA 10, diesel, auto mechanic work, body shop work, manufacturing and assembly, landscaping, gardening, onsite construction, and heavy machinery operation. The ministry works with Piedmont Community College to provide professional certifications for careers with starting wages at $22 an hour. The minimum wage the Bridge aims for is $16 an hour. Equally essential, the Bridge is a certified GED testing location that enables men to earn their high-school equivalency while completing workforce credentials.

Visit the Bridge Ministry’s 17-acre property in Buckingham County, and you’ll immediately notice the large, professional-grade workshops—almost resembling the size and commanding presence of fire stations or auto repair shops. Inside, students work on fixing donated cars, auto painting (including a professional-grade booth), and engine repair. It’s up to the discretion of the staff on how participants are assigned for work duties when they come in. Each student is assessed for abilities and aptitudes. Certain tracts will work better than others. “This is a program that’s designed to help a man say ‘no’ to himself,” says Jay James, the program’s assistant director. “While you have interests and desires and things you want to pursue educationally, that’s fantastic. But you’re going to be obedient and be in the certification courses that we place you in to discipline yourself, to learn a new skill, to diversify yourself. And it’s not because you want it—it’s because you are submitted to the process.”

The second phase of the Bridge is a halfway house in Charlottesville where the men transition back to civilian life. The next six months are spent adjusting to a normal routine—securing a job, renewing relationships with family, paying back restitution and child support, opening and funding a savings account (with $2,500 to $5,000 ultimately tucked away), going to church, and continuing to avoid addictive substances. “Different people, different places, different things,” Washington notes. The Bridge has a partnership network with over 90 employers in the region, and Washington himself keeps open dialogue with local business leaders. “The men now have enough time under their belt—living in an orderly, structured system—they can walk away from their addiction and never turn back.” The Bridge’s second phase requires something else, too: A prohibition on the men relying on government assistance. No food stamps or public housing. The goal is for each man’s job to provide for himself.

‘William saved our sons’ lives’

As for paying the bills, the Bridge technically charges $600 per participant, but very few actually pay it. The ministry receives no government support and instead funds its $600,000 annual budget based on individual contributions, church support, and grants from foundations—such as the Charlottesville Area Community Foundation, the Hunter Smith Family Foundation, and the Titmus Foundation. About 10 percent of its funding also comes from a revenue-generating component of selling wood, procedure from the campus garden, and other services. It’s a percentage that in years past has amassed to as much as 60 percent of the ministry’s budget, but today is pared down. (Washington’s goal is to revive the revenue-generating component in the near term.) More expansion plans are in the mix as well, including a new dorm, learning center, offices for staff, and a counseling center for students and their families.

George Morris, chaplain for the men’s basketball and football teams at the University of Virginia, has been a donor to the Bridge for years, both financially and as a volunteer fundraiser. He says that his support for the Bridge has been more meaningful even than national championships during his time at UVA. Part of the reason is because Washington and his ministry was the means of saving his two sons’ lives.

Asked about it by telephone, Morris pauses for a moment, choking back tears. One of his sons, David, has Asperger syndrome and constantly tussled with the law while in high school. A few days before his high school graduation, David was yet again in front of a judge. But this time Washington stepped up and offered to take him to the Bridge. The judge agreed. The result? “He got his life back,” Morris shares. “Today, he lives on his own in Washington, D.C. He has dreams and hopes. He’s in a local church.”

A similar story unfolded for another Morris son, Zach, who was addicted to alcohol. After going through the Bridge, today he’s a stable small business owner in Richmond. “The Bridge returns broken fathers and sons back to their families as restored men. Men who can lead and thrive and change the world for good,” Morris says.

‘Serving from sacrifice’

Washington has conducted many funerals in his time. He’s see men die right on the campus, their bodies already too ravaged by addiction. One collapsed on the basketball and died. Another was working an exterior painting project, got off the ladder, lay down, and took his last breath. (Washington suspects that the young man got access to drugs during a weekend visit home, and that what he put in his body killed him.)

But though the stories of tragedy are very real, the stories of success predominate. Like the inmate who came to the Bridge in his 40s having not worked a single day in his life, ending up as one of the hardest working men on the property, and, today, a thriving member of the community. Or another man who was so dysfunctional on arriving that he had to turn his chair to the wall in order to even talk with Washington, today also successfully launched, working, and drug free. Going back to Josh Bolling again, he summarizes it nicely:?“I owe Pastor Washington my life. I’d probably be dead without him. But now I’ve got peace, and everything I have I’ve worked for.”

The ingredient that makes the ministry successful? Washington puts his finger on it: Using the pain of your past to minister honestly. “Too many Christians serve from our understanding—a lot of us are so naive,” he says. “We don’t know how to serve from our sacrifice.”

To Judge Swett, William Washington is the one factor that truly makes the Bridge unique. “When I was a judge, I always saw the look in each man’s eyes because they knew that I didn’t know what they’d been through,” Swett says, “but they can’t do that with William Washington. He knows exactly what they’ve been through. His message is so powerful because he’s walked the walk they’re on right now. He reaches inside them and gets to their heart and spirit, as opposed to changing habits.”

Sitting and talking with Washington in person, he speaks quietly and humbly. But no one can mistake his presence. Or his activity level. If one word could describe him, it’s hardworking. Shortly after finishing my interview with him, I stepped outside the staff offices, got in my car, and drove toward the campus exit. I couldn’t help but notice that Washington had already walked to a nearby work site where three students were grading for a new build on the property. He jumped into a backhoe and dove right in to helping.

“This is not a mountain top where you get a whole lot of recognition and glory,” Washington says. “The guys who walk through the door are ungrateful. They’re going to attack you. They’re going to put you down. Because that’s all they know. They’re looking for excuses. But if you can hang in there, and get through it, in two to three months you’ll see things you couldn’t believe.”