May14

Jesus in the Toast

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Jesus in the Toast

As a child, I never cared much for my Grandma Lavada. Her house smelled like turpentine (she painted with oils), she had a large, gelatinous mole on her face, and her cookies were always store-bought and stale.

She was also a little wacky. She once nailed a piece of toast on her living room wall because she saw Jesus’ face in it.

Since I was seven or eight at the time, I saw what she saw. After that, I began trying to figure out what God was trying to tell me in the pattern of Cheerios in my leftover milk. How come these particular O’s were the ones that didn’t get eaten yet? There had to be a reason.

Today I’d like to think I’ve outgrown such silly thinking. But this blog is probably proof that I still look for God in stranger places than cereal. And maybe I’m more like my grandma than I thought (Can you guess my middle name yet?).

If Grandma Lavada were still alive today, she’d be gratified to know she’s in good company. You can find tons of images on the internet where people are convinced they’ve found the face of Jesus, too—in a catsup smear, in the bruises on a banana peel, or at the bottom of a frying pan.

These sightings are problematic, of course, since no one actually knows what Jesus looked like. I mean, why is any image of a nice looking man with long hair and a beard automatically Jesus? Who’s to say it isn’t Osama Bin Laden?

I understand this impulse, though. We want to believe that God is so intimately involved in our lives that he’s always looking for a way in, ready to swirl the creamer in our coffee into a picture of his face.

But there’s another angle on this. Some time ago, I read in the Psalms, “I will be satisfied when I awake in your likeness.”

The idea struck me as so beautiful that the phrase stayed with me for weeks. To be “satisfied” is the goal of every addict, and every human, too. For now, it seems we’re half empty, half real, half-way home. And to think that fullness will come when I become fully who I am in Christ—when he looks at me and sees himself—makes a kind of visceral sense.

So maybe this yearning we have to find the face of God in the world actually stems from a holy impulse to find his image within ourselves. We half expect to wipe the steam from the mirror and see God looking back at us because we know we’re not yet complete—but will be some day.

On that day, we will awake in his likeness and be satisfied.

On that day, we will be like Jesus, for we will see him as he is (1 John 3:2).

On that day, he for sure won’t look like toast.

May11

Bad Moms

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Bad Moms

This year, Mother’s Day snuck up on me like one of the foxes skulking around my neighborhood lately. Come spring, they emerge in broad daylight to hunt squirrels and cats (and maybe Edmund) because they have hungry babies to feed.

Which reminds me that most animals are better moms than some women I know.

It sounds like a terrible thing to say so close to Mother’s Day. But it’s true. I know a lot of “bad” moms—neglectful, absent, and selfish. For them, Sunday probably won’t—and maybe shouldn’t—bring fancy brunches, gushing cards, or I-made-this-for-you-in-school gifts.

Because these women suck as moms. And everyone knows that being a bad mom is right up there with being a bad human being, right?

You might as well rob a bank.

I know a little of what it feels like to be a bad mom, because for a number of years, I was one. I didn’t beat them, abandon them, or lose custody of them. I did, however, drive drunk with them in the car. And often I cared more about alcohol than being present and emotionally available to them.

Today as I write this post, my friend Becca is in the hospital again, after what looks like a possible attempt at suicide. Thanks to a phone call from her mom, another friend and I got to her in time. We poured the vodka down the sink, picked up the empty prescription bottles, called 9-1-1.

But that doesn’t mean we saved her. It just means I’m more worried than ever that she won’t hit “bottom” until she’s six feet under.

Meanwhile, I keep thinking about Becca’s three young, tow-headed children—and how likely it is that they’ll grow up without a mother. And because of this, how there’s a good chance that when they’re older they’ll reach for the same easy relief that took their mother away.

Some days, it seems like an endless, hopeless cycle.

Then I go to a meeting and sit next to Sarah. She grew up with an alcoholic mother who died when Sarah was twelve. Sarah can’t recall ever once seeing her mother walk when she wasn’t wobbling. She swore she’d never be like her mom—even as she reached for the bottle and became exactly like her.

Except that she didn’t. Except that Sarah is ten years sober now—and her kids adore her.

So why did Sarah make it back when so many mothers don’t? When I fear that Becca won’t?

I wish I knew the answer. But part of it might be that Sarah found a way to forgive her mother. Which became possible, Sarah tells me, the day she and her daughter walked by a store-front window…and Sarah saw her reflection wobble.

These days, Sarah spends a great deal of time trying to help other mothers get and stay sober. She does it because she knows something important: If you stripped the world of drugs and alcohol, there’d actually be very few “bad” mothers.

So when an alcoholic mom tells Sarah through tears, “I love my children. I really do!” she believes them. And when a mom is willing to do anything in order to get and stay free of booze or drugs, she helps her.

So what if only a small percentage of these moms will make it? Sarah thinks it’s worth it for the few who might.

On Sunday, Dave and I will have my mom over for brunch or dinner. I’ll give her a card that gushes. My grown children will call to wish me a Happy Mothers Day. Dave will write me a poem or bring me flowers.

But while we celebrate, I’m sure I’ll be thinking of Becca. I don’t know where she’ll be on Sunday, or in what condition. But I do know that she’ll hate herself.

It’s just what bad moms do.

And that’s why on Mother’s Day I’ll be thanking God that I’m sober. And I’ll be offering up a prayer for bad moms everywhere.

Lord, have mercy.

I hope you’ll forgive me for what is probably the most downer Mother’s Day post ever written.   I wonder if you know a woman who had a “bad” mom and overcome the odds to become a good one. I’d love to hear from you. 

May9

The Next Knock at My Door

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The Next Knock at My Door

You’ve probably heard people say your feelings can’t kill you. They’re just feelings, after all.  But I’m here to tell you they can.

Recently, I sat at my dining room table with a dear friend who is a successful, career-oriented woman. She’s also dangerously overweight. “How can such a smart person not be able to figure this out?” she asked me, tears streaming.

My friend admits she uses food to numb unwanted feelings of guilt, sadness, and anger. “Ice cream got me through my divorce,” she says.

Ice cream, cocaine, sex, booze—I completely get it.

The biggest problem with addictions is that they work. For a while, whatever it was you didn’t want to feel, you feel less or not at all. Sooner than you dreamed possible, you’re hooked. What began as a handy escape escalates into a destructive addiction that could someday take your life.

When a person who has been numb for years finally seeks help, the return of emotions can come as quite a shock. In recovery, we sometimes say with a wink to newcomers, “Don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon.” But what we mean is you’ll feel everything better soon—including pain, resentment, anger, boredom, sadness, guilt…

No wonder learning how to feel our feelings is such an important part of recovery (and a good way to help prevent addictions, too).

I don’t know about you, but when painful feelings knock at my door, I tend to respond in one of two ways. One is to fling the door open wide and let my feelings barge in, create chaos, stomp all over me—and eventually, everyone else, too.

The other response is to shove a piano in front of the door, suppressing what I don’t want to feel in hopes it will go away. If it does, I usually find myself depressed. I think that’s because when I refuse to feel sad, I lose the ability to feel happy, too.

Lately, I’ve been trying to practice a middle way, a more intentional approach. It goes something like this: When negative feelings knock, I open the door and stick my head out. “Ah, I see you there,” I say. “I feel you.”

Sometimes, I invite them to stay for a while. I sit down in my favorite chair. I become very still. I might light a candle or pray. I notice what is happening in my body and heart. I give my feelings my full attention. I try not to judge them as “good” or “bad,” “wrong” or “right.”

Instead, I ask, “Why is guilt, anger, or pain visiting me today? What does it want to teach me?” If I feel a need to express strong emotions, I do—even if it means a private mini-tantrum.

And guess what happens next? My feelings don’t hurt nearly as much as I feared they would. You may have heard it said, what you resist—persists. That’s definitely true with feelings—and so is its opposite. As I surrender to hurtful or scary emotions, the monster loses some of its teeth.

I can respond instead of just react. 

I don’t have to eat or drink or do anything to escape or get numb.

I get to experience every second of my awful, wonderful life in all its aching glory.

And who knows? The next knock at my door might be joy.

P.S. After Dave read what I was trying to say here, he pointed me to a poem by the Persian poet, Rumi. I think it’s beautiful and true. You can find it here.

May7

Driving with Dave

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Driving with Dave

A few weeks ago I got an official-looking envelope in the mail from my car insurance company. The letter inside explained to me that I could save bundles of money on my auto policy if I just dropped the driver named “David Kopp” from it.

I laughed out loud. But I was also kind of shocked. Why was Allstate trying to break up my marriage? Don’t people get sued for that kind of thing? Isn’t it called alienation of affection?

I accidentally on purpose left this note on the kitchen counter for Dave to find. It’s not like I wanted to rub his nose in his recent fender bender—or the one from a couple of years ago. But maybe I did want him to think, “Wow, my wife is such a better driver than me! She never hits other cars and they don’t hit her! How does she do that?”

Which probably explains why I didn’t tell Dave what happened the other day.

I was going downtown to meet my friend Sky for breakfast and I got a speeding ticket. My first in decades. The cop pulled me over right in front of the bus station, where I could be mortified in front of several benches of strangers.

I managed to sweet-talk the officer down to a one-point infraction. So the ticket hardly matters, right? Except for the fact that Dave is always telling me, “Heather, if you don’t slow down, you’re going to get a speeding ticket!”

He thinks I drive too fast.

I think he drives like a very old man on Sunday.

I’ve heard stories about backseat drivers who frantically press an invisible brake. But I can promise you I’m not one. For one thing, I sit in the front seat. For another, I never press on an invisible brake.

Sometimes, though, when I see a green light a block ahead, I do press hard on an invisible gas pedal. I might even slightly rock forward, thinking, Come on! Hurry up! I do this just enough that Dave might notice and get the message, but not so obviously that he can accuse me of anything. “What do you mean I was rocking forward?!”

Trust me, I know better than to actually say anything like, “Gee, honey, wouldn’t it be nice to make that light?” If I want to keep my marriage, I wouldn’t dare point out a much better parking space than the one he’s heading into. Okay, I’m still working on that one.

Lest you think I’m being too hard on Dave, let me elaborate. It’s not just that Dave drives slowly, it’s that he doesn’t drive strategically. Tell me, when you drive somewhere, don’t you always take the fastest route? Don’t you plan ahead for how to get there with the fewest left turns? And don’t you switch lanes if you’re stuck behind David Kopp–a creeper?

Dave does none of those things. And you wanna know why? Because he’s busy looking at the scenery.

The scenery! Like there’s something to see in our town that he hasn’t seen a million times. What this means is that while he’s creeping along, he’s looking out the window the whole time—and not at the road or the traffic lights several intersections ahead. He looks at houses and things. Fences. Trees. Mountains.

No wonder he gets in accidents. If the other cars just looked more like part of the landscape, he might see them coming.

So, now you can see my problem. If I tell Dave about my ticket, I’ll lose some valuable, invisible advantage. And everyone knows how important those are in a marriage. (I am always looking for ways to even out that I’m such a slob).

But wait. I have an idea. Let’s a take a vote! Is it a sin not to report a speeding ticket to one’s spouse?

By the way, only women are allowed to vote. Unless you’re a man and you think I should keep quiet—well, then your vote counts double.

Really, I sort of win either way. Because everyone knows that in love and marriage, speed doesn’t matter. And I’d rather drive slow with Dave than ride fast with anyone else.

[P.S. Addendum: Obviously, I needed some comic relief today. The voting part of this piece turned into a conceit when at the last minute, I let Dave read this. So the cats out of the bag. I wanted to make sure he wouldn't be offended by the post. I love him so. But he agrees--obviously, I'm the one with the problem--and I need to slow down. But I'd still love to hear from you if you can relate. Am I the only wife who struggles to mind her own business in the passenger seat? ]

May3

10 Ways NOT to Help

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10 Ways NOT to Help

I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly caring or giving person. I used to worry that at my funeral no one would have nice things to say about me—you know, things like, “Heather would give you the shirt off her back.” In the old days, if I gave you the shirt off my back, I was probably drunk, and later might accuse you of stealing it.

In sobriety, I’ve been learning a better way. Helping others is part of what keeps me healthy and happy.  But a lot of my friends are addicts and alcoholics—people like me who are famously hard to help. And lately, it’s been a heart-breaking venture.

One thing I am learning is that helping anyone is a lot like dancing. It takes two—one to give help and one to receive it. So when helping someone starts to feel super hard to me, I’m probably part of the problem.

Here are some of my most recent mistakes:

  1. I offer to do things I later resent. I say yes to a favor because I want to be generous and I want you to think I’m nice. But later, when it costs me time and energy, I grumble and complain to myself or even to Dave. That’s just not fair or right.
  2. I want to save the day. And what better way to do that than to succeed in helping someone where others have failed? Two things: If the person does well, I’ll take credit. If they don’t, I’ll take blame. Both miss the point. The idea isn’t to be a hero or make a person think you are the answer. What a set up!
  3. I act out of short-sighted fear.  Sometimes I “help” because I am afraid to let people experience the consequences of their actions. I don’t trust God, in other words. So rather than allow God to work in his time and way, I do what makes me—and maybe the person—feel better right now.
  4. I over-invest. When you truly love a person and want to help them, it’s easy to put more into solving their problems than they are. Next thing you know, they’re less motivated than before because you feel all the urgency. Plus, you could be helping other people who don’t just need help but want it.
  5. I attach expectations. I never mean to do this, but I attach strings that I don’t see until they start to strangle me. I expect gratitude; I expect the person to take all my advice; I expect them to make me look good… Pretty soon I’m swearing under my breath.  
  6. I get caught up in drama. When you’re helping someone with bigger problems than yours, drama can act like a drug—it’s distracting, energizing and gives you purpose. Pretty soon, you’ve got your nose way too deep in someone else’s business.
  7. I forget that God loves people. It’s easy to think that  God is not paying attention to the person who seems to be flailing. We imagine that God can show up for them only through us. But God is at work and pursuing this person just as hard as he lovingly pursues me.
  8. I deny what’s at stake. When I get deeply invested with a person’s welfare, I forget to count the cost, to remember that the outcome might be awful. Knowing the risks doesn’t remove them, but it makes me feel more calm when I remember that I can’t control outcomes.
  9. I overstep my role. I get into trouble when I forget to step back from a highly charged situation and ask, What is my role here? Having a legitimate role like “mom”or “sponsor” can make it even easier to lose sight of what’s really your responsibility. It’s important to ask, “Is there someone more suitable or qualified to address this person’s need?”
  10. I ignore my safety. People in trouble often end up in bad places and dangerous situations. It’s easy for me to forget discretion and put myself at risk—which just isn’t smart.

Do you recognize yourself in any of these? Can you think of some other common mistakes we make in our efforts to help?

Here’s the rub, though. It’s also possible to get so worried about boundaries that we miss the big picture. If someone’s life is in imminent danger, or if a child or innocent will be hurt—you act. You barge in. You help. You don’t say, “Well, gee. As your teacher (or peer or neighbor), that’s not my job.”

Sure, but is it your job as a human being?

I think of the parable Jesus told about the man left beaten by the side of the road. Fortunately, the good Samaritan who saved him hadn’t read too many books on boundaries.

Above all, don’t be too hard on yourself when you screw up. Better to fail trying to help someone than to walk on by.

I’d love to hear from you today. Is there someone in your life that is hard to help? What would you add to this list? 

Apr30

Is Addiction Stronger Than Love?

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Is Addiction Stronger Than Love?

My friend Becca looks like a model, lives in a beautiful home, and has an adoring husband and three young children.

But she’s also an alcoholic who struggles to stay sober. For the past ten months she’s worked hard to recover from a series of devastating relapses that almost cost her everything—including her marriage and kids.

A few weeks ago, I attended a surprise party she threw for one of her children. It also felt like a celebration of Becca’s return to health and happiness. She looked radiant. Her kids clung to her. Her husband beamed with obvious pride.

Only days later, she relapsed again. Friday, she called me crying and asked for help.  I went to see her where she’s staying—a skanky, drive-up motel, the kind where drugs are rampant and no one is actually on vacation.

I hardly recognized her. She looked scary thin. Her eyes were flat and dead, her face blotchy. She couldn’t sit up, kept falling sideways. Clothing and garbage were strewn everywhere. She denied being drunk or on drugs, but she could barely form the words, “I’m not lying.”

And there, on a nightstand by the bed—a mattress with no sheets—was a beautiful framed photo of her three kids. The incongruity and irony made me want to scream, “How could you! Don’t you love your kids? How could you do this to your husband again!”

I drove home in tears, haunted by a question I’ve asked myself for years: Is addiction stronger than love?

Sure seems like it. I couldn’t quit drinking to save my son from his own alcoholism.  I couldn’t quit drinking for my husband, either. If he’d given me an ultimatum—“I love you, babe, but it’s me or alcohol”—I might have chosen alcohol.

But this weekend, after seeing Becca, I found myself thinking differently.  I decided that addiction isn’t really stronger than love because love has nothing to do with it.

Today I am more convinced than ever that addiction is a mental illness. What else but insanity can turn caring mothers into uncaring monsters, loyal spouses into liars and cheaters, promising sons and daughters into criminals and whores?

I’m reminded of one of the best zombie movies ever made, “28 Days Later.” It’s often confused with the Sandra Bullock movie about an addict going through rehab, “28 Days.” But in a way, both films depict the same horrific scenario—what happens when good people morph into something less than human.

Which is part of what makes zombies so scary. Unlike monsters or aliens, these people still look like your loved ones or neighbors, except they’re not anymore.

The same can be said of an addict. The Becca I saw in the motel on Friday was not the Becca I know and love. She was like the living dead, incapable of choosing love.

And where does that leave her husband? Tonight he’s probably still wondering, “Why doesn’t she love me enough to quit?” He’s putting their small children to bed alone. They’re asking, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?” And he has no answer. The mommy they love has disappeared.

In all of this, hope is so hard to find, but it’s there if you look. Addiction might seem stronger than love, but God is stronger than addiction. Because this is true, some addicts do come back from the dead. I did. I’m writing this post as a zombie in full remission.

Becca just might come back, too.

You might be suffering today because you love an addict whose behavior seems to prove they don’t love you. How do you handle that? 

P.S. I changed my friend’s name and a couple details to protect her anonymity. But if you pray for Becca–God can probably figure it out.:)

Apr26

“I’m So Glad I Had You!”

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“I’m So Glad I Had You!”

When my youngest son Nathan was about four years old, he picked up a phrase from me: “I’m so glad I had you!” he’d say proudly, beaming up at me from under a tousle of white blond hair.

“No, Nathan,” I’d tell him, laughing. “Remember, I had you!”

That happened—I had Nathan—27 years ago. Yesterday was his birthday.

Back in October, Nathan and his fiancé, Kelsey, came for a three-week visit. It seemed like a good time to ask Nathan to read the latest draft of my memoir. I printed it out, left it on his bed, and told him that if he got a chance, I’d love to hear his thoughts.

After a week, he still hadn’t cracked a page. I reminded myself that Nathan had already seen an early partial draft. Obviously, he wasn’t in a hurry to finish the story. But since he’s one of my biggest supporters, I wondered why. Toward the end of the visit, I casually asked.

“I do want to read it—and I will,” he said. “But actually, Mom, I have a lot of good memories from my childhood. I loved our family and I loved growing up in Sisters. So it makes me sad that you want go back and paint everything black because of your drinking.”

His words startled me. On the one hand, it was wonderful to hear him say he’d had a happy childhood—my drinking issues hadn’t ruined that for him. But he was also saying something else, and I needed to hear it. His experience wasn’t mine. And my experience wasn’t his.

Given that I hid a great deal of my excess drinking from my family, it makes sense that Nathan feels some disconnect from my story. I recall things like missing one of his touchdown receptions because I was guzzling beers in a bathroom stall. But Nathan recalls that his mom was cheering him on from the sidelines.

No wonder he wants to protect his good memories from my bad ones.

In thinking about what he said, I’m reminded of how easy it is for me to imagine the past in black and white when it’s really a kaleidoscope of colors. How tempting it is to let one dark truth paint the whole canvas of my story.

Nathan helped me to reclaim the good times our family experienced over the years. How we camped, took hikes, and had long wonderful evenings in the homes of friends. I was reminded of how the house was always packed with teenage boys, the smell of sweaty socks, guitars lying everywhere, and music filling the air.

Why would I want to forget any of that?

It’s the most important part of my story, really—that gleaming thread of redemption that runs through it. The parts where God watched over my kids and brought them good when I couldn’t. The parts where God loved me even as I guzzled beer in a bathroom stall.

Thank you, Nathan, for having me for a mom.

I’m so glad I had you!

 

Do you have stories like mine? Good mixed with bad, beautiful and ugly lying close together? I’d love to hear from you today. 

Apr24

It’s Not the Coffee

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It’s Not the Coffee

Do you ever wonder why people in recovery are always dashing off to meetings?

Is the coffee really that good? (Umm…only if you bring your own).

Are other alcoholics really that entertaining? (Sometimes, yes).

At some point, haven’t you learned all you need to know? (Absolutely not!).

Sunday, Dave and I flew home from a conference we’d been attending in Michigan. Yesterday, I wasted the whole day wrestling with a blog post about ego—and lost.

Last night, when I told Dave I’d had a really rough day, he suggested we go sit outside at a favorite restaurant—so he could have a martini.

No, he wasn’t being mean. He knew I would laugh. These days, Dave knows he can have a drink in front of me and I will hardly notice or care. Alcohol is no longer my main problem. My main problem is me.

This morning I realized that maybe the problem with me today—and yesterday—is that I haven’t been to a single meeting for a week. And I usually go to four. Could this be why I’ve felt so out of sorts lately? Duh! 

Later today, I will walk around the corner to a nearby church. We’ll light candles, place them on the floor in the middle of our circle of chairs. Then we’ll sit in quiet meditation for ten minutes before we begin to share.

My soul will settle back into its sockets.

I feel a wave of relief just writing those words. So it seems like a good morning to tell you five reasons I still go to so many meetings and hope I always will.

  1. This is my community. Dave and I attend a wonderful church in town that never fails to feed me spiritually. And yet, it’s in the intimate atmosphere of my meetings that I feel most known, recognized, and “part of.”
  2. This is my medicine. We’re never cured of alcoholism, but we do have a solution—one drunk talking to another. Just as doctors can’t explain how certain drugs treat certain conditions, the fact that regular meetings keep an alcoholic well is a proven fact—part mystery and part miracle.
  3. This is my reminder. Since most of us are great forgetters, meetings help us recall the basic spiritual principles and tools we have at our disposal. It’s a lot like church—we don’t always hear something new, but we often hear what we need to hear today.
  4. This is my ministry. I’ve never aspired to ministry and don’t love the word. But when you get right down to it, this is what happens in the rooms of recovery. People who never felt of much use to anyone find new purpose in serving and helping others. If ever there was a field ripe for harvest, this is it.
  5. This is my chance to ask for help.  I am still working on this. I tend to show up looking for ways to give—partly because I want to help, partly because it helps me feel good. But just as you can only keep what you give away—you can only give away what you’re also willing to receive. One of the most life-changing things I’ve ever uttered in a meeting was the simple admission, “I think I need your help.”
If you’re not an alcoholic in recovery, right about now I bet you wish you were.  It’s so sad that everyone doesn’t get to be a drunk! But I’ll tell ya what. If you’re ever in Colorado Springs, I’ll take you to an open meeting with me. It will be fun. Really. And I promise—we’ll go out for coffee.

 

Apr20

Out of My Elephant

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Out of My Elephant

I’m sitting on my bed in a hotel in Michigan where Dave and I are attending The Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College.

Last night we attended a plenary session which featured the amazingly talented Jonathan Safran Foer. The fact that he had strep throat didn’t keep him from being brilliant. I listened closely, hoping for a profound and pithy gem that I could post about here.

But it wasn’t that kind of talk. His message was a beautifully woven tapestry of personal story that didn’t really lend itself to one-liners.

Or maybe it did. Halfway through he said, “I was completely out of my element.” Only it came out, “I was completely out of my elephant.”

It was a funny moment. But as I write this, I realize that it perfectly describes how I’m feeling right now—out of synch, out of place, and clearly out of my elephant.

I’ve never been much good at traveling. Used to be, I dealt with the stress by drinking. Which created even more stress. I lived in constant fear of my stash being discovered. What if airport staff checked my bags? What if mini-bottles of Sutter Home wine came rolling out of my underwear?  

Now that I’m in recovery, I still find travel stressful, mostly because it takes me out of my routines. I’m like a five year old that way. When I’m not eating my usual foods, sleeping in my usual bed, and going to my usual meetings, I feel cranky.

This morning, I read in a book by Brennan Manning: “Happiness and sadness play havoc with our emotions, but once we learn that God dwells in darkness beneath the shifting surfaces of our souls, we know this is where we must go to find him. There we will pray in peace and silence, attentive to the God who never changes.”

His words remind me that no matter how unsteady or discombobulated I feel, God is not moved. In his unchanging presence I am safe. I am found.

No one likes being out of their elephant.

But it is well with my soul.

What makes you feel out of your elephant?

Apr18

Out of the Mouths of Drunks

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Out of the Mouths of Drunks

Art by Christopher Brennan

When I first took a chair in the rooms of recovery, I couldn’t wait to impress all the down and out, spiritually lost people I met there with my vast store-house of Christian wisdom.

Only a few weeks into my journey, I actually thought to myself, “I think I can help some of these poor folks.”

In reality, I had a great deal to learn from them—more than I ever dreamed.

The following list is by no means exhaustive, but it reflects some of the most important truths I’ve gleaned from my fellow drunks–or as I like to think of them, beautifully broken people. Some are popular sayings you’d hear in any meeting. In other cases, I’ve added my own twist.
 

Ten Things I’ve Learned In the Rooms of Recovery

1. Expectations of others are premeditated resentments.

2. You can’t keep what you have unless you give it away.

3. God can do for me what I can’t do for myself—but first I have to give up trying.

4. In God’s hands our broken past can become our greatest asset.

5. We don’t need something to fill our emptiness, just the courage to leave it empty.

6. We can’t feel comfortable in every situation, but we can get more comfortable with being uncomfortable.

7. A problem is something we can change but won’t—or something we can’t change, but won’t accept.

8. Drama and crisis are usually optional.

9. Every problem has a spiritual solution.

10. What you think about me is none of my business.

 
Do any of these ideas resonate with you? Is there one you’d like me to post about? I’d love to hear from you.