I hadn’t seen or heard from Charles in quite some time. Hollywood is a small town, so it was unusual for so much time to go by without me seeing him at an audition or some social event. While our relationship could best be described as business friends, we were nevertheless friends, and he was on my mind.

I called our mutual friend, Lori, to get his phone number. What she told me knocked me to my knees. Lori confided that she had no idea where Charles was. Charles had been battling an addiction for a number of years and had finally succumbed to the siren call of cocaine. The talented and beautiful man I knew and respected was a full blown junkie! He was living on the streets or in jail. Perhaps he was dead. Lori didn’t know.

The descent into addict hell was quick. In a matter of a few short years, Charles had lost everything: Apartment, furnishings, clothes, car, friends, family, along with his dignity and self respect. To support his habit, he was doing what junkies do:  Stealing, selling his body -- whatever he had to do to get that next fix.

Lori had tasted the bile of his addiction. She pulled him out of a crack den, cleaned him up, and enabled him for a year with food and money. She had organized an intervention. She had given all she had. Now the cup is empty. All she has left is faith that somehow his addiction was serving some greater good. 

In stunned disbelief, I hung up the phone. I looked at my family -- my sons, the personification of innocence. As they discover some of the harsh realities of the world, their minds beg for understanding.  They ask why. They have not yet understood that life is filled with disappointments. I looked at my wife -- the woman that has fought with me, cried with me and loved me through thick and thin.  

In an odd way, I was suddenly aware of what it means to be human.

We humans are incredibly resilient. We are also so very frail. In an instant, our spirits can be strengthened or broken.  And so often, there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason. Why does one branch bend with the wind and another break? Why does one man become more determined in the face of heartbreak while others wither? 

Truly, we endure and survive by the grace of God.  Though I am religious, I do not necessarily mean that in a religious way. I am talking about grace in the sense that our own will is sometimes not enough, yet we are hurtled forward by some supernatural force because our lives fill some greater purpose that perhaps only some omnipotent power understands. This does not excuse Charles of his responsibility. No one forced drugs to his lips. My plans for my children do not include drug addiction any more than Charles ever envisioned himself sitting in his own excrement sucking on a crack pipe. But my love and prayers may not be enough to protect them from the world. I surrender them up to grace knowing that all I have is faith. 

Like Lori, I must believe that this -- even this -- must work towards some good that admittedly I cannot see. Perhaps it is as simple as putting those of us that love Charles in touch with how much we treasure our families and friendships, how fleeting is fame and how important it is to love and cherish with all our might. Or it might be something far more complex than this mind too strewn with petty cares can comprehend.
 
This much I do know: If this journey is guided only by reason then the path Charles has taken may be foolish, but it cannot be tragic, and I can think of few things more tragic than the waste of such a beautiful life.

Lori tells me that Charles is asleep dreaming that he is awake. Figuratively speaking, I believe Charles is dead. And as death so often does, it has made me appreciate how precious life is.

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Joseph C. Phillips is the author of "He Talk Like a White Boy."