It begins in February 2008 with her then-19-year-old son, J.P. Vericker, being handcuffed by police outside their suburban New York home, high on drugs and ensnared in an addiction that made him desperate and sometimes violent. His hand was broken from punching a wall in a rage the day before.

It was not the first time the police had responded to the Verickers’ home because of trouble with their son. As officers restrained J.P. by holding him against the side of the house, an officer gently posed a question. The police department would keep responding as needed, of course, but “at some point, you have got to do something.”

“We have enough on him to arrest him,” the officer said. “What do you want to do?”

And, just like that, the Verickers were face-to-face with a decision they had seen coming but deeply hoped to avoid.

Nancy recounts this story in Unchained: Our Family’s Addiction Mess is Our Message (Clear Faith Publishing, 2018), which she co-authored with J.P., now eight years sober. It relates not only the course of J.P.’s addiction but also its impact on his family, and the spirituality that was a lifeline for both Nancy and her son. “I really did, honestly, feel this sense of calling” in co-authoring the book, says Nancy, a spiritual director and youth minister and a 2009 alumna of Fordham’s Graduate School of Religion and Religious Education.

In it, she charts her journey to accepting a seeming paradox, one that ran against her every instinct as a parent. To help J.P., she had to stop trying to rescue him. As she puts it in the book, “You must surrender to win. You must let go to get your loved one back.”

“My Manzo”

The second-oldest of the Verickers’ four children, J.P. wanted for nothing when he was growing up in their tight-knit family. He was a charming, kind, energetic child known to his mother as her little man, “my Manzo.” When the Verickers brought their adopted daughter, 2-year-old Grace, from China to their Westchester County home, J.P. was the first to quell her tears and make her laugh.

Things changed in eighth grade. He struggled in school and felt listless and depressed, and fell in with a partying crowd during his first year of high school. By sophomore year, he was drinking and smoking pot daily. He grew belligerent, cutting class and staying out past his curfew and getting into trouble with the police.

His parents saw a series of counselors and psychiatrists, looking for answers. They unsuccessfully tried to help J.P. by sending him to a wilderness program and a boarding school. Then, in senior year, he dropped out of their local public high school and started using cocaine and Xanax, sometimes together, a toxic combination that put him in a “manic state,” as he puts it. Mixing a stimulant and sedative, he writes, “can easily kill you.”

Family life moved forward in other ways—the Verickers’ eldest daughter, Annie, was in college and enjoying it; their next-youngest daughter, Molly, was a high-school freshman, making friends and playing field hockey; and Grace was doing well in her new elementary school.

But Nancy’s life was mostly consumed with J.P.’s addiction. Grappling with insomnia and worry, she realized he was stealing from her to pay for drugs. Bitter confrontations ensued, and in February 2008, in a rage, J.P. accosted his parents at home because of money he thought he was owed.

At the end of their rope, Nancy and Joe Vericker moved forward with the option they had been dreading, the one they had warned their son about: They decided to press charges of harassment. As Nancy stood by, distraught, Joe quietly gave permission to one of the officers who had responded to their home: “You can arrest our son.”

Tough Love

In order for J.P. to overcome his addiction, he had to suffer its consequences, she and her husband were told by the treatment professionals they consulted. He had to hit bottom, and they had to let him, counter to their every parental instinct. In addition to letting him be arrested, they had to refrain from rescue efforts like providing shelter and meeting his expenses as he continued to use.

After J.P. was arrested, his parents got a court order of protection and told him to stay away from the family’s home unless he agreed to seek treatment. Viewing it as a vacation, J.P. agreed to go to a treatment center in south Florida, chosen by his parents because of the wealth of post-treatment options in that area.

His story entered a new phase: detoxifications, relapses, halfway houses, flophouses, and homelessness. He struggled toward the realization that he needed help. Today, he has a clear view of his warped thinking from that time.

“Being addicted is like having rabies,” he writes in Unchained, which includes first-person accounts by both him and his mother. “To me, in my addicted mind, my life was normal,” and others were to blame for the strife and altercations in his life.

In lucid moments, he felt a deep yearning to stop using. During a brief trip home from Florida, he broke down in tears for two hours, “flooded with both anger and sadness,” he writes. “I was starting to realize I could not stop on my own.”

Nancy, meanwhile, alternated between hope when he seemed to be recovering and anguish, tears, and sleepless nights when he relapsed. She often didn’t know where he was or what he was doing.

And yet, life went on. Family responsibilities beckoned. She gained solace and strength from family, friends, and community, but also from her degree program at Fordham.

Ignatian Lessons

A former journalist, Nancy Vericker first enrolled at Fordham at the suggestion of her spiritual director during a time when she was tending to the children at home, doing occasional volunteer work, and spiritually searching. She spent more than a decade earning a master’s degree, and the studies would help pull her through difficult times—in part, because of the Ignatian teachings in the curriculum.

“There was this thing that was oppressively suffocating the life out of me and my family, and Ignatian spirituality helped me push back,” she says.

In keeping with the Ignatian view of the soul as a battleground, she fought against feelings of desolation—depression, fear, anxiety—by finding consolation in the joys of family life and moments of grace, holding on to those as a way of building generosity of heart and fueling hope.

“Ignatian spirituality saved me in many ways,” she says.

What also helped her were the relationships built up during the program. When J.P. was homeless, she considered quitting, but she persisted with encouragement from a classmate, Mark Mossa, S.J., who went on to become campus ministry director at Spring Hill College in Alabama.

And she became close to Janet Ruffing, R.S.M., then head of the spiritual direction program. When graduation day came for Nancy, she decided to instead go to her daughter Grace’s First Communion, which fell on the same day.

“I knew how torn she was, having made that choice,” says Sister Ruffing, now a professor at Yale Divinity School. “She was consistently making those kinds of choices for her family.”

So Sister Ruffing drove to the Verickers’ home and brought her the degree, entering the house in the midst of a post-Communion party. “They all screamed,” she says with a laugh. “I just felt she deserved to get her degree on graduation day.”

It was a powerful gesture, Nancy says, because she was in despair at the time. She had her doubts that J.P. would survive.

Refusing him help was painful. During one Christmas season, J.P. was calling home over and over from Florida, saying he was homeless and hungry, asking for money. “You cannot under any circumstances send him money,” J.P.’s treatment program director said. He told the story of a woman who, faced with a similar plea, wired money to her addict son, who then spent it on drugs and died of an overdose.

The Verickers kept saying “no,” even on Christmas Day, a few days after J.P.’s 21st birthday. “We will help you when you are ready to get help for your addiction,” Joe Vericker told J.P. on the phone. “We love you, remember that.”

Recovery

J.P.’s recovery began in a low moment, just after he had been jailed in Florida. “I was fearful for my life if I went on using,” he writes. He surrendered his false pride, his sense that “I knew all the answers,” and reentered treatment and joined a 12-step program.

For many addicts, he says, recovery is like dragging rocks in the beginning because they’re physically wrecked, their lives are in ruins, and drugs offer instant relief from the physical agonies of withdrawal. “Their mind is under the impression that they need [drugs]to survive,” he says.

He overcame these obstacles through meditation, help from a support network, and prayer—a crucial defense in the moments when his addiction was banging at the door.

“It was like alarms were going off,” he says. “I was scared that I was going to be, like, possessed and just pick up drugs and use them, because it felt like what had happened sometimes.” He would instantly stop and pray, over and over, “God, please remove the obsession.”

The stark choice he faced in those days has stayed with him. Any passing temptations to accept a drink are quickly quashed by one simple thought: “I don’t want to die.”

The spirituality of his Catholic upbringing helped him stay centered and clean as he earned a GED diploma and a bachelor’s degree in addiction studies, and enrolled in an M.B.A. program. In his mother, he had someone who could relate to his struggle; nearly three decades ago, she had to overcome her own addiction to alcohol.

“The twelve steps are a bond I love having with my son,” she writes. She and J.P. don’t act as each other’s sponsor, the person who “takes you through the steps and offers guidance based on their own experience, strength, and hope in the program.” But they do “share a love of the fellowship,” she says, “and we can give each other advice—as a mother and son would to each other.”

Today, as a board-certified substance abuse counselor and co-founder of the outpatient Northeast Addictions Treatment Center in Quincy, Massachusetts, J.P. spends his days overseeing the center’s operation and counseling people addicted to opioids that are far more deadly than the drugs he was using. And, since the publication of Unchained, he has joined his mother in spreading the book’s message of hope and recovery and trying to reduce the stigma addicts face.

They shared that message on NBC’s Today show and on the SiriuxXM radio/television show Conversation with Cardinal Dolan, among other programs. Their story has spread through word-of-mouth, and some mothers have contacted her to say “I felt like I was reading my own story,” Nancy says.

“I get up every morning and try to think of ways to get this story out there. It’s just to let people know that help is available. I will answer every email, we’ll talk on the phone, I’ll call people back,” she says, “because I feel like this is part of what I’m supposed to be doing with my life right now.”

“Everybody thought it was so wonderful, but I knew I didn’t want my life to be about rice pudding,” said the Fordham graduate student. “I felt a calling, but I wasn’t sure where the call was leading me. So I figured I should study theology.”

So Corona sold off the kitchen equipment and started taking courses toward a bachelor’s in theology. It set her on an introspective journey that was, on reflection, a path toward becoming holy.

And then her youngest daughter became addicted to heroin.

“I couldn’t think to study anymore,” she said. “But I didn’t want to drop out.”

Her daughter’s addiction changed the way Corona viewed spirituality and her role in the church. She transferred to get a bachelor’s in studio art as a part of a spiritual journey that helped her cope with her daughter’s illness. “It helped me stay in school, and graduate,” she said.

After obtaining a master’s in spirituality online from Loyola University Chicago and an education certification in alcohol and drug counseling, she enrolled in Fordham’s Graduate School of Religion and Religious Education to pursue a doctorate in ministry. She said that her daughter’s addiction shook her out of an “inwardly focused” spirituality and brought her into the congregation to help others facing down the opioid crisis.

Today, Corona is a certified recovery specialist helping communities to take action, often through reaching out to church laity. She said she doesn’t necessarily blame the institutional church for not addressing the crisis. Indeed, she noted that the Vatican held a conference on the problem of addiction in November 2016. She also hailed the recovery work of many priests and nuns on the issue.

But her focus has been on her fellow parishioners.

Tapping Lay Expertise

“When we’re in the midst of a deadly epidemic and people with addictions are suffering tremendously, and they can’t even turn to the person next to them in the pew because they’re ashamed, then there’s something really wrong with our Christian identity,” she said.

In part, Corona feels that the reluctance of many parishioners to feel available to those in need is due to an inherent deference to the clergy—even when they may have a lay expert in their midst. But first and foremost, she’s set out to battle the stigma of addiction.

She also said that the stigma of addiction often prevents parishes from incorporating programs that relate recovery to church spirituality. In response, she began to offer a four week series that examines addiction through a “bio-psycho-social-spiritual model.” At several Philadelphia-area parishes and retreat centers, once a week, she focuses on a specific aspect of addiction—from biology to psychology to sociology to spirituality. She said that she also developed a community action follow-up workshop this past summer at Fordham in an ecclesiology class.

“I want people to understand that we need to become afire with the spirit,” she said. “Because of my experience with my daughter, I know what people using drugs need. And it’s things that ordinary people can do: Just be there, drive someone, cook a meal, or make some phone calls.”

She hopes that the community action workshop will empower small communities of volunteers in each parish to think about what they can to do address what is a national crisis. And in the process, they can begin to reposition the role of the layperson.

While the opioid crisis has brought Corona to focus on the role of congregants, she said her ideas have theological underpinnings that go back to Vatican II. She cited the Apostalicam Actuositatem (Decree on the Apostolate of the Laity) as paving the way for lay people like herself to “act directly and in a definitive way in the temporal sphere.”

“There are some wonderful priests and sisters who have called me in to talk about the crisis and what we can do as a community, [and]I always say if I had a priest on the ticket I’d be a lot more popular,” she said.

Ministry Over Theology

Despite several priests and professors saying she had a knack for theology, Corona veered toward studying ministry largely because of her activist leanings.

“Theology is just a little too much talk and I’m more about action, so of course I’m drawn to ministry and the Jesuits,” she said.

At first, she was also dubious about online education. But after getting her online Loyola master’s, she said she was hooked.

“I’m very serious about education and I always thought you have to be there and interact, but if you have a school that’s putting out good material with good professors giving you good readings, then that’s what it’s all about.”

She refers to addiction as a “family disease” that affects everyone close to the addicted person—“even those not ingesting substances.” It was in such moments that she said she recognized the role of spirituality and the potential of her fellow parishioners.

“Sometimes I stand in church and I want to say ‘I need you people,’” she said. “I need you to be there, and we need this to be the community we’re supposed to be.”