Purpose, not panic

Well, it's a little breezy outside, and the rain has started to fall.  It looks like the next 24 hours in and around Our Nation's Capital will be a little difficult--for some more than others.  For many, the storm itself will be the overture for many days without power, cable, broadband, and, perhaps, water.

I don't expect the storm to offer much more than some discomfort for me.  I don't have to worry about trees crushing my house, although my loved ones here are another story.  Flooding isn't a concern, here.  I should have adequate supplies of food and water.

I'm not looking forward to what's to come.  I enjoy my creature comforts.  I like keeping track of what's happening on line.  I like to cook, because I love to eat.  I may be biased, but I am happy to have cable.

On the other side of the coin, power outages offer silence, a marked reduction in the number of distractions, and the opportunity to have my waking hours revert to a more natural cycle, if only for a few days.  As a friend remarked, "If you can't get to a retreat, the retreat is coming to you."

Mostly, my reaction to the coming storm is one of gratitude.  Over the next several days, I may be looking for ice.  I may run out of water.  I may need to extend a hand to others.  The contents of my fridge may spoil.  I don't know what I may have to deal with, but I do know that I won't be searching for an open liquor store.  That gives me the opportunity to manage the rest with equanimity and maybe even some competence.

So, with gratitude, it's back to work.

Something to hold on to

Once again, my friend, Colin, writes about the Old Testament, and I start thinking about the New.  This time, Colin discusses the covenant between God and the Israelites.  He goes on to describe his journey from the very start of his sobriety as living out a covenant--to follow where God leads.

Some time before I was willing to act to free myself from my problem, I returned to the Church.  During my return to the faith, I became attracted to the Liturgy of the Hours, also known as The Divine Office.  Devised as a means of "praying without ceasing", the Office is a prescribed set of Psalms and canticles from the Old and New Testament to be prayed by the ordained and members of religious orders.  The lay are encouraged to join these prayers in private recitation or as a group.

In three of the hours, morning prayer, evening prayer (or Vespers), and night prayer (Compline), we pray excerpts from Luke's Gospel.  In the morning, we encounter Zechariah's reaction to the birth of his son, John the Baptist.  In the evening, we hear Mary's Magnificat: "Magnificat anima mei Dominum...My soul magnifies the Lord..."  Finally, before we retire, we recall Simeon's reaction to the presentation of the infant Jesus in the Temple.

Each of the canticles from Luke is an expression of joy as  Zechariah, Mary, and Simeon understand that God has fulfilled his covenant with Israel with the birth of Christ.  Each of the passages are beautiful, moving.

During the very dark days, between my return to Catholicism and my halting steps toward sobriety, Zechariah's reaction to the birth of John the Baptist led me to believe that my situation was not hopeless, that there was the prospect of being renewed.  You can find it in Luke, Chapter 1, verses 78-79:

In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace. 

Finally...

After too many words and too much time, I thought I'd get to the point.  I found that, when I finally surrendered, when I decided that I needed to take action despite my fears, my fears were unfounded.  At every tenuous foothold, there was a net of supporters to catch me if I fell.  If I were despondent about my divorce, I heard encouragement.  When I reached out to help others in the same boat, I gained strength.

This didn't happen because I'm special, or bright, or through any virtue of my own.  It happened because I let go; I admitted that I need others to help me through a problem I could not solve.  Much to my surprise, the world did not come to an end.

There was--and there still is--a lot of solitary work to do.  Even so, working toward a solution involves much more than I can do by myself.

Walk on the Water

One of my favorite passages from the Old Testament was the first reading at Mass last Sunday, the Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time.  Elijah doesn't find God in fire or earthquake, but in a small, still voice, a light breeze.  My friend Colin discussed it in his blog last week.  Evidently, Colin's post got the attention of Pope Benedict, who discussed the passage in his General Audience on August 10.

As beautiful as that is, the Gospel from that Mass got my attention.  The story from Matthew is familiar.  After feeding the crowd, Jesus goes off to pray by himself; the disciples get in a boat and head toward the opposite shore.  During the night, while their boat is tossed by the waves, the disciples see Jesus walking on the sea itself.  The disciples are terrified, but Jesus tells them, " Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid."  Peter asks Jesus to command him to come to Jesus on the water.  Jesus does so; Peter gets out of the boat and begins to walk on the surface of the water.  When Peter becomes fearful, he begins to sink, and he cries out for help.  Jesus saves Peter, asking him, "Why did you doubt?"

The message is a clear display of the power of faith--and of fear.  Those of us in recovery can find solace and admonition without any heavy interpretation.

As I listened to the reading at Mass, I was struck by a thought.  In Jungian dream analysis, bodies of water symbolize the unconscious.  Note: I am not a Jungian analyst by any stretch.  A little reading and hanging out with knowledgable people may go a long way in getting me into real trouble here.  Nonetheless, the interpretation works for me.  Christ is totally and completely Himself, not the product of an interior struggle with original sin and its concomitant wounds as we are,  and finds no trouble mastering the unconscious.  Peter can likewise stride the unconscious and all that it holds--monsters and overpowering tumult--until he becomes afraid, loses faith.

The monsters that lurk beneath the surface of my waters are no doubt very different from your monsters. Alcohol allowed me to express my brokenness with frightening efficiency.  The pain from my wounds, if not their sources, became starkly evident.  Matthew's Gospel doesn't tell me that these monsters--my wounds and my pain--go away if approached with faith and fearlessness.  It tells me that I can, if I rely fearlessly on Christ, approach Him as He calls me--that, like Him, I can be truly myself, who I am meant to be, regardless of the monsters that lie under the surface.

Day One - continued

I was scared to death when I sat among all of those strangers and admitted that I needed help.  It was an incomprehensible situation for so many reasons.  Following through on a decision to stop drinking was strange enough.  Admitting weakness and defeat was something I had never seen as a possibility.  The end of the futility was just as hard to imagine.

We began with would become a nightly ritual: rounds.  I listened to my "classmates" describe how they had been feeling over the last 24 hours--cravings? thoughts of using?  Some of them blew into a breathalyzer; all of them took antabuse in front of the group.  Each introduced themselves and their drug of choice.  Most were alcoholics, but there were heroin addicts, potheads, and abusers of painkillers, as well.

I felt uneasy and completely isolated--for about five minutes.  I recognized one of the guys in the group; we would sometimes drink in the same bar.  He was a clinic "veteran": he had been in intensive out-patient rehab for about a month, and he had almost completed that first course of treatment.  During rounds and in the next phase, he showed me the ropes, often with wit and levity.  During the first break, I met many of the others in the group.  Without asking them for help, they offered advice and support.

It didn't take long before friendships were formed.  In group therapy, we supported each other through divorces and relapses, through hard times at work, through bereavement and mourning.  We celebrated anniversaries.  We insisted on honesty and responsibility; we called you out if you weren't doing the work and accepted no excuses for not addressing your issues.

While many of us became friends over the next several weeks, the doctors at the clinic introduced me to an old friend that I had completely forgotten about--sleep.  Months before, when I quit cold turkey, I didn't sleep for weeks.  I never slept well when I was drinking.  At the clinic, the MD gave me some librium, which I took for two nights.  Since then, sleep and I have been like long-separated, reunited best friends.  After years apart, we are still catching up.

I had feared admitting my weakness.  I feared how my life would change if I stopped drinking.  Admitting my weakness and my fears allowed me to see that there were a host of people in the very same place as me, willing to help and, at the same time, hoping for a hand.  I had believed my drinking to be a private problem; I had come to see the solution was, in part, a social one.