Gabby shares his sobriety @ GABBY’S PLACE
Gabby shares his sobriety @ GABBY’S PLACE
Gabby shares his sobriety @ GABBY’S PLACE
Chapter 25 in the book of Matthew shows humanity a blueprint for us to follow into a world dedicated to compassion and peaceful co-existence. The lives we live can be a powerful testimony to the one we call Lord or they can be complicity with a world run amok. It’s our choice, yours and mine.
Gena Turgel died on June 7 in London, England. She was 95. As a survivor of the Holocaust, she witnessed Nazi horrors at the death camps of Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Bergen-Belsen. She said at a tribute recently in London’s Hyde Park:
She once told BBC of her time providing comfort to 15 year-old Anne Frank dying from typhus:
What is my testimony today? Would it be pleasing to the one I call Lord? So much that is happening in today’s world is abhorrent and evil and it is so easy to feed into the hatefulness and violence that we see everyday on the news media. But, it is also happening next door, in my neighborhood, in my community. The horror of homelessness and hunger is not a distant problem in a foreign country. It is a daily struggle for people living in the woods down the street.
Drug abuse is rampant. My county is termed as a “rural area”, yet it has the 2nd highest drug abuse problem in the state. Poverty and absence of job opportunities feed this drug use. Good men turn to illegal activity in an effort to support a family. Addiction does not discriminate. It accepts the poor and wealthy, men and women, illiterate and educated, gay and straight, black and white. Unfortunately, jails fill with men and women who don’t really have a drug problem.
It is a heart problem from which they suffer. Empty, bitter hearts need to be filled with something. For many alcohol and drugs are the solution. The recovery fellowships which bring addicts and alcoholics to a better way of living are filled with stories of forgiveness and redemption. Mine is one of them.
But is my sober testimony adequate recompense for the miracle allowed to me by the grace of a Higher Power? Perhaps Jesus would say, “Depart from me, I knew you not.” Gena Turgel believed she was spared from death at the hands of the Nazis in order to tell the world again and again and again what happens when good people don’t care enough to protect and nurture the “least of these”.
The least of these could be you and I someday. In a tumultuous world society, we don’t know when we could be the next target of racism, bigotry or hatred. I see my life as a day-to-day blessing from God. I am not assured that I will have food tomorrow or a roof over my head. I do not know that my freedoms of today will be here tomorrow for me to enjoy. But I do know that what I do unto the least of these, my brothers and sisters, today will have eternal consequences. How about you?
“Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood God……..” from Step 11 of ” TWELVE STEPS AND TWELVE TRADITIONS, Alcoholics Anonymous
Did we ever meditate when we were drinking or drugging? Probably not too much. My meditative thoughts encompassed the vintage of my bottle of wine and whether I had enough to get a good buzz. Oh sure, sometimes when suffering a debilitating hangover I would meditate on why I was such a weak person unable to control my drinking and enjoy alcohol like my non-alcoholic friends. That process usually ended with me saying, “Oh, what the hell,” as I headed to the liquor store for the next round of fortification meditating on whether it would be Colt 45 beer, Cutty Sark scotch or a few bottles of Chablis or all three.
Seriously, for most of us newly sober drunks, meditation was something only the Buddhist monks did while chanting. It was a new and foreign activity which did not come naturally. But, we tried, we practiced, and we did not give up until some results were realized. I learned to appreciate the fleeting peaceful moments and the clarity of thought following 10 minutes of meditation. I knew that something within was being manifested which I had never known before. Not sure if it was a God thing or mind manipulation, I nevertheless pursued this newly discovered tool of sobriety because it often countered the insanity and chaos filling my head.
Many years later meditation and prayer are mainstays of sobriety happening sometimes in the quiet of a darkened room, sometimes under a bright blue, sunny sky, often in a straight back chair listening to soothing music such as that of classical masters, and occasionally chanting with the Buddhist monks on YouTube. I have also done meditative walking. Now that’s a trip which can transport a person out of this universe within less than a mile of step-ping, step-ping, step-ping. For me the variety of settings prevents the repetition which can lead to boredom and mental distraction.
I am by no means an expert. However, when I learn a new habit which enhances my sense of wellness, I try to incorporate that habit into a daily routine. As with all experiences in sobriety, I pursue spiritual growth rather than perfection. When I was searching for the “proper” way to meditate, I tried to emulate those whom I saw sitting in lotus position straight-backed and legs crossed.
“Oh no”, my body said, “we cannot sit that way.”
Feet firmly on floor, sitting alert in a straight back chair, with hands opened upward in my lap is my position of choice. The position is not set in stone. Other meditative trekkers have different approaches. For me it is not the body position, the mantras or the music that matters. It is where we go, God and I, during that time of quietness and introspection. It is what God and I accomplish during that half hour of communion. How’s your good heart today?
The PRODIGAL SON in the book of Luke in Christian scripture is undoubtedly my favorite of the parables taught by Jesus. It is my story.
I was raised within the love and protection of a community of hearty, salt-of-the-earth farmers. Their lives were dedicated to raising families and raising crops. Very simple needs, even simpler desires. I often have reminisced that we were the prototype for the “Waltons” of television fame. Indeed, it is true. My extended family of great-grandparents, grandparents, mother and two aunts lived in an early 1900s house with 9 upstairs rooms which could be used as bedrooms when necessary. During the years previous to my arrival in 1947, the household consisted of numerous children and a full live-in housekeeping staff plus an assortment of farm-hands. During the harvest season Mammy (my great-grandmother) assisted by her daughters prepared a lunch table groaning with several meats, 2 or 3 potato dishes, vegetables fresh from the garden and at least 4 pies for dessert. They fed 6 to 12 hungry men. As was customary, the women folk ate after the men had finished.
But it was a hard life. I was earning a wage by the time I was 12 years old, had after-school chores, and during the summer worked long days in the fields as well as helping to tend the cattle, pigs, and chickens. It was a very hard life. I determined early in my youth that I was not going to be a farmer. When my friends from town came to visit they were awed by my lifestyle. I, on the other hand, was envious of their freedom to join social groups and participate in extracurricular school activities. They enjoyed the farm chores which to me were onerous.
Church attendance was mandatory. Through the eyes and ears of this thirteen year-old, the preaching was ominous and the threats of a punishing God were overwhelming. I finally accepted that anything which felt good was probably a sin. When I turned sixteen I was no longer required to attend services or participate in my family’s religious tradition. When I turned seventeen, one of my multiple addictions had already consumed much of my life and another two, smoking and drinking, kicked in with a vengeance. By nineteen I was fully controlled by substance and behavior addictions.
My grandfather, who raised me as his own son, offered me his farm. I ridiculed the offer saying that no way in hell was I going to be a farmer. Fifty-two years later I am still haunted by the look of rejection on his face. We never recovered that father-son relationship. My last remembrances of him are of a sickly man sitting in his favorite chair which offered a view of the highway. Reading his Bible he would look up to see who was driving by. Sometimes it would be the community’s undertaker, a solemn man named Lawrence. Looking at me with his clear blue eyes, Grandpa would quip in his Dutch accent, “Well, maybe next time Lawrence will be coming for me.”
I had an idyllic upbringing and a wonderfully simple life surrounded by people who loved me. But, I thought something was missing. I thought that those city folks living in the midst of glitz and excitement were offering a dream which my community and my family’s traditions could never provide. And at age nineteen I chased after that dream.
Drinking, smoking, drugging, and carousing assured me that finally this farm boy had arrived. Life was going to be grand and lavish. Partying every night, trashing relationships became the norm and for a few years I loved it. Never looked back on what had been sacrificed. Lost my job because of drinking, failed college because of my drinking, destroyed a military opportunity because of my drinking…..”Aw what the hell? That wasn’t the life I wanted anyway.”
Then the blackouts began. The car wrecks, the addiction-imposed poverty, the broken promises to friends and family stirred within me memories of a much simpler life, a life of hard work, joy, and focus. Like the prodigal in the book of Luke, I asked myself if I could go back home. Could I return to age sixteen and redirect?
Of course my answer was no. The farm had been sold, my family was cautious of their wayward son, no eligible prospects for a relationship wanted to take a chance with me, and my faith walk had virtually dead-ended. I was spiritually, morally, and physically bankrupt. I was a broken man at age 34 with no hope for redemption.
With nothing to lose except my wretched life, I arrived in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. Something about those AAers sparked hope within me. Their message of sobriety through a Higher Power and a fellowship with kindred sober-living drunks offered a glimpse of a new life through recovery. I latched on to the enthusiasm and promise which I discovered in those rooms and held on to it for dear life. Unspeakable joy interspersed with debilitating depression controlled many of the early days getting sober.
My Father welcomed me with open arms as if we had never separated. He told me that those arms were wrapped around me all of the 17 years spent in the far country. I finally understood that God walked that trek every step of the way protecting and loving me while patiently waiting for me to return. The parable of the Prodigal tells me that Father was overjoyed to have me home. He prepared a feast and a celebration for my return. The celebration continues. We are no longer strangers, I have come home.
Hardly a day passes by that I don’t look at this page and wonder, “Do I really want to write another post?”
“C’mon Larry, you can do it. Just get out of the boat and walk over here to me.”
The story in Matthew tells me that Peter did indeed get out onto the water and walk toward Jesus. But, then, fear set in. “What if the waves overcome me, what if the winds blow the boat farther away from me and I won’t be able to return safely? What if Jesus disappears from sight into the depths of the sea? What if Jesus is not who he says he is and I am left to fend for myself? What if all those people on the shore see me and laugh at me? Oh Lord, I can’t swim.”
What’s that you say? You always trust Jesus. Really?
Would you trust Jesus enough to drop your nets and your livelihood, leave your family and become essentially a homeless beggar? Would you trust him enough to risk imprisonment and death by preaching his heretical beliefs? Would you trust Jesus enough to move to the poorest of slums in India and minister to the poorest of the poor as Mother Teresa did?
Truly? Well then, undoubtedly you would also have answered “Yes, I know this man, he is my Lord and Savior,” when questioned three times if you are not a follower of the man inside being sentenced to crucifixion. The cock would never have crowed three times for you.
Aren’t we amazingly hypocritical? I know I can be. I can talk the talk but many times walking the walk is too difficult or dangerous. I’d rather hang in the background with the crowds making small talk, small acceptable talk. I’d rather focus on problems of the world instead of proclaiming the beauty of the universe dwelling within. It’s who I am.
People will jabber incessantly with me about the price of potatoes at the grocery, the climate challenges we are facing, the lack of civility amongst Americans, but, when someone mentions Jesus and God, “Oh, I’ve really got to run, my favorite soap is starting in 15 minutes,” or, “I’ve got my own beliefs and we like our church. See ya.”
No, no, no! I don’t want to talk about your beliefs or your church. I want to talk about your faith and your heart, your good heart. What makes you tick? What gives you reason to get out of bed in the morning? More importantly, what keeps you from walking on water? (And if you can walk on water, please tell me how you do it.)
“Come,” he said. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. Matthew 14:29
The writers of Matthew also tell me that faith as small as a mustard seed will move a mountain. In the physical world that is virtually impossible. But, within my inner sanctum a flicker of faith the size of a pinhead can overcome enormously mountainous obstacles of anger, aggression, depression, anxiety……addiction. I don’t know anything about moving Mt. Everest, but let me tell you what just a smidgen of faith in Jesus has done for anger issues, depression, alcoholism. That faith makes walking on water nothing more than a Sunday picnic cake walk.
Bingo! Its’ an inside thing, isn’t it? When I look over the side of my boat surrounded by despair and hopelessness I have two choices; 1) I can stay chained to my oars of self-doubt or 2) I can jump out onto the water and trust in something of much greater substance than me. Call that hand extended over the water beckoning to you whatever you like; I will call it Jesus.