A Bowl of Cherries

It's been awhile since I have written on this blog, and my handful of readers is getting impatient with me. Truthfully, I have been feeling a bit glum. A few weeks ago, my beloved sponsor was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer, and I have been sad & fearful. There are life events we cannot influence, and this is one of them.

After three weeks in the hospital, he is at home. Even so, he has had to make daily trips to the hospital for radiation treatments. He is bedridden, requires a lot of care, and has been unable to have visitors because his immune system is compromised. Nevertheless, I have been able to speak to him by phone, and his spirituality shines brighter than ever.

I went through about a week of anger, realizing that it was really the manifesation of fear. I had to struggle for acceptance, finally coming to the conclusion that I didn't have to like something to accept it. My Higher Power doesn't get perturbed when I get angry with his plans, and allows me the time that I need to come to full acceptance. I don't guess any of us enjoys knowing that a loved one is going through a difficult time.

For the next couple of weeks, my sponsor will be able to rest at home without going in for radiation treatments. He would like for me to visit him, and I will do that if he feels well enough. When we talked yesterday, he asked me to tell everyone in our home group that he misses them and keeps each of them in his daily prayers. He is with us in his mind each morning at 6:45, our regular meeting time, and he goes around our circle, picturing each of us in our seats. He asked me to tell everyone how much he loves them.

Earlier today, a man was in my office from a town 80 miles southwest of Richmond. His wife is in the final stages of brain cancer, and in MCV Hospital. It sounds like his wife's brain lights up with a thousand points of malignancy when test results are read. All she wants is to be taken back home. "Sometimes doing the next right thing is the hardest thing in the world to do," this man said to me. With these situations, we pray that our decisions are free of self-seeking motives. This man faces a difficult choice. I remember the regret that my mother felt after my father begged her to take him back home, because he spent months in ICU and died anyway.

I got a message from my pal Tracey a few days ago. She was downloading music, and one of her finds was Lynn Anderson's "(I Never Promised You a) Rose Garden." Well, I can't argue with that. Expecting life, mine or yours, to run according to my plans is sheer folly. Also, things would be pretty boring for all of us if I were Manager of the Universe. Like it or don't, life is not a bowl of cherries. Feeling sad won't kill me.

Speaking of a bowl of cherries, last night Sherry & I bought three pounds of fresh cherries, and made two cherry cobblers to take to our morning meeting. I have named Sheldon the Cobbler King, because he makes a basic & simple fruit cobbler recipe that is superb. Sheldon's workplace just cut back everyone's hours, so I took him a chocolate pie yesterday to cheer him up. While I was there, I got the recipe for his cobbler. Here it is, in case you'd like to try it.


Sheldon's Fruit Cobbler

2 cups of fresh fruit (so far we've tried peaches, blackberries, mulberries, peach & blueberry mixed, and cherries)
1 stick of butter (real butter is strongly suggested)
¾ cup flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¾ cup milk
1½ cups sugar
cinnamon (optional)

Preheat oven to 350°. In a medium bowl, toss your fresh fruit with ½ cup of the sugar. In another medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and remaining sugar. If you want to use cinnamon, whisk it in, too. Pour the milk into the dry ingredients, and whisk until thoroughly combined to make your batter.

Melt the stick of butter in a baking pan in your preheated oven. Sheldon uses a 9x13, but you can use a slightly smaller pan if you want. You can melt the butter while you work on the dry ingredients if you don't dilly-dally, but be careful because you just want the butter to melt, not brown.

Remove the pan from the oven when your butter has melted, pour the batter in the pan, do not stir. We kinda pour the batter evenly across the pan so that it doesn't all land in the center. Top with the fruit of your choice, and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the batter is golden and the center looks done. While in the oven, the batter will rise and your fruit will sink to the bottom. You can ponder that amazing process or reorganize your canned goods while your cobbler bakes. Or you can dash to the store for vanilla ice cream or whipped cream if you drive fast.

The recipe calls for two cups of fresh fruit, but we always use more. This is not an exact recipe where every ingredient has to be precisely measured. You can add more fruit or mix & match. Try different spices or none at all. I'd stick pretty close to the measurement on baking powder, because it gives your cobbler leavening, not flavor, and be sure you always use baking powder that is within the expiration date or you will have a naan-riser.

Sherry & I had fun baking the cobblers. We had a good conversation about the oddities of life as we pitted the cherries. If you have a large-bore, sturdy drinking straw, pitting cherries is a breeze, by the way. Just shove the straw through the stem-end of the cherry, and the pit will pop right out the other end. Easy as pie.

This morning I was truly grateful that I not only had the desire to be with my home group, I also had the ability to be present. It is easy to take good health for granted, and I should remember how fragile I was a couple of years ago. I was given a second chance, and I enjoy life even more when I make the decision to approach each new day with gratitude.

Hangover

I woke up the morning after Christmas with a hangover. Ugh! I hadn't had one of those in a long time. Unlike past hangovers, this one was caused by too much food on Christmas Day. I'll need to work on the Santa-like hangover in the belt region caused by all the holiday fare. Think smaller portions, Bill.

I woke up early on Christmas morning; the alarm was set for 5am but I was awake before four o-clock. I went to the 6:45 meeting, and we had a smaller group than usual, although we did have a couple of visitors from Brooklyn. We had a nice discussion inspired by A Christmas Carol about our Christmases past and present (our adventures before and after). Since we only had about fifteen people, we went around the group so that everyone shared, which encouraged someone fairly new to talk. After the meeting I dropped a buttermilk pound cake with coconut & fresh cranberries off at Sheldon's so he could take that to the Christmas celebration at his brother's in North Carolina.

I went to a Christmas brunch at Robert's, and took a loaf of cranberry-orange bread. Here is where the trouble started. Robert & Jim had prepared Eggs Benedict, potatoes, bacon & sausage, cheese grits, fruit salad, asparagus, apple-currant cake, and a gingerbread trifle. I'd like to say that I took small portions and didn't go back for seconds, because that was my plan, but my taste buds conspired against me. There was a nice group of people assembled for the holiday gathering, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Later, I went to Sherry's for Christmas dinner with her family. This was another food extravanganza, and I took my mother's famous corn casserole. Sherry's husband's family was there in full force, and it was an ecumenical event since they are Jewish. I enjoyed hearing them talk about the Torah as the lights on the Christmas tree twinkled and gifts were exchanged. Everyone was proud of a toddler who had learned how to say & spell "Happy Hanukkah." I was slightly better with portion control at Sherry's, but it was diminished capacity rather than willpower that kept me away from extra portions.

Since Christmas, I've stayed home to recharge my batteries with solitude and baking. Today I'm going to venture out to the movies with John to see Milk. Afterward, we'll exchange gifts and enjoy dinner out. I hope your holidays have been filled with merriment and quiet time as well.

I'm posting a few photos below of Monument Avenue's Christmas Caddy. Each year this car is decorated inside and out with lights, toys, and ornaments at the corner of Monument and Strawberry Street.

Sunrise Squared

I was out of touch with the Land-o-Blog for a few days while I was out of town. I had the duty and the privilege to represent my main-squeeze AA group at a state assembly, and about 400 recovering alcoholics were gathered together in Virginia Beach for three days. We stayed at the Cavalier.


The Cavalier Hotel opened in 1927, and now consists of two hotels. The original hotel, also known as the Cavalier on the Hill, is only open during high season. The newer hotel, opened in 1973, is directly across from the old hotel and situated right on the beachfront. Our assembly was held at the newer complex, which houses the convention center. As a child growing up in Virginia Beach, the old Cavalier was a grand structure looking out to the sea, even though she was showing signs of wear and tear at that time. I'm glad that the old hotel has been refurbished and maintained. It is the city's only grand old hotel.


This gathering was the first state assembly I have attended, and I was gratified the see how each person focused on the volume of work we needed to accomplish in a short amount of time. Visions of the political posturing, grandstanding, and self-promotion I have endured at so many corporate conventions in the past faded away as I participated in the workshops, committee meetings, and business session. Everyone there, although opinions on methods varied, rolled up sleeves to keep the worldwide organization of Alcoholics Anonymous a vital source of recovery for alcoholics who still suffer. We stayed busy from early morning until late at night.


On Saturday and Sunday, I hopped out of bed and walked out to the beach. I wanted to spend time alone preparing for the bustling activities ahead. For me, seeing the sun rise over the ocean waters is a calming, spiritual event. Even as a teenager, when getting up early meant before lunchtime, my friends and I would sometimes pile in the car and go watch the sun come up from the sands of the shore.


Each sunrise is unique. On Saturday, the horizon was clearly delineated by ocean and sky. Strands of wispy clouds hung above the horizon, and although the sun had not yet appeared from my little point on the globe, these clouds were already suffused with colors of lavender and pink. In my experience, if the horizon is clear at the ocean, when the sun first breaks you can actually see it rise. Steady and sedate, it rose, and I said the Saint Francis Prayer as the sun burned crimson. I was prepared for the day ahead.


I visited the sea before I went to bed. At night, the steady pulse of the waves dominates, simultaneously reminding me of the passage of time and the possibility of timelessness. Several blocks away, the nightly throb of humanity hummed in the heart of the resort area, but the Cavalier is the last large building at the north end of the hotel district. The boardwalk does not come up this far, and there are no bright lights. I think this is the best way to experience the beach at night.


Sunday's sunrise was different than the one I watched the previous day. There was a low, opaque, crenelated line of clouds that stretched across the horizon. The sun sent up four beams of cornsilk, telling me to be patient, to wait and watch. The sand was crossed with patterns from strolling gulls and sandpipers, and the breeze from the sea was a better tonic than the coffee from the hospitality suite. This morning, when the sun broke over the clouds, it was white-gold, and too intense for direct inspection. The pale purple clouds were edged with bands of gold along their tops. Another day begun with prayer and meditation.


A special gift for me on Sunday morning was a visit from one of my teachers from high school, Linda. More than just a teacher, she has been a friend and mentor for all these years. She had an enormous impact on my life at a time when I was shy and uncertain, and she built my confidence and my abilities in public speaking. Although our time together was shorter than we would have liked, it was splendid to see her, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast together at the hotel. She had asked me to bring my laptop along, and after we ate she showed me a slide show she had assembled from our time at Bayside High School. My, how young and full of hope I looked back then!


Today, I am no longer young, but I am once again filled with hope. I hope you are, too.

Giving Thanks

When I graduated from high school in 1977, I received the usual acknowledgements from family friends and relatives, mostly in the form of cash, checks, and savings bonds. My mother kept a careful tally of the gifts received and the thank you notes I sent. It would have been unthinkably rude of me not to have sent a handwritten note of gratitude, and my mother made sure my thank you messages were sent promptly.

One card of thanks required no prodding from my mother. One day the mailman delivered a card from a friend of my grandparents. Mrs. Buhrmann of Reinbeck, Iowa, had sent me a graduation card.

I had to puzzle out her words in the card, because her spidery handwriting was shaky and barely legible. Mrs. Buhrmann was older than my grandmother, and was crippled by age. Osteoporosis had made her a hunchback long before I met her. She lived in a tiny, tidy cottage at the edge of her small town, and she was the poorest person I had ever met. I was always eager to visit her when my family traveled to Iowa.

When I opened her card, a five dollar bill fell out. I burst into tears. I knew what a sacrifice it had been for her. I asked my mother if I could send it back to her, and my mother told me no, that it would be very rude of me to do that. That five dollar bill meant more to me than any other gift I received for my graduation, even though it had the smallest monetary value by far. How can you put a worldly value on something that is given with such love?

Now, poised at the one-year mark of my sobriety, I have those same feelings. How can I properly give thanks for this incredible gift of a new life? I've decided that this is a case where quantity will have to replace quality. I give thanks throughout my day, every day. When I start my day with gratitude, it keeps me sober. It's a simple plan that works.

A friend asked me what I planned to post tomorrow, the actual anniversary date. This morning I decided that I will post this today, because I'm going to leave tomorrow wide open for whatever God wants to share with me. I know that I will go to at least two AA meetings, but the rest of the day is unplanned. One thing I do know, unless someone trusses me up like a turkey and pours alcohol in my mouth, there will be no celebratory drinks involved.

A friend I have known for thirty-five years asked me if reaching this point in my sober life has caused any perverse thoughts of drinking. Rather than re-invent the wheel, I'm going to share some excerpts of my reply to her below.

You mentioned something in a recent message about my sobriety anniversary creating thoughts of drinking, and I was glad you brought that up. I hate it when people pussyfoot around that topic.

I'm looking forward to Monday. I'll pick up a one-year medallion at my home group in the morning, and an anniversary chip at my noon meeting. I'll continue to pick up chips throughout the week. The day is somewhat of a paradox. On the one hand, it marks an entire year. I've hung in there with AA long enough to know that so many people never see that day in their personal quest for sanity and sobriety. I also know that it's not a graduation day, an end date, or really any different than today. Each day sober is equally important.

I'm under no illusions about the fragility of sobriety. I have seen too many people relapse, some with many successful years in AA. Others who have relapsed again and again until they gave up. Two people committed suicide within the last month. These people either became complacent or couldn't/wouldn't do the hard work that must be done in the program. The bottle (or the cocaine, or the meth, or the heroin, or the food, or the...) is just a symptom of the addict's problems.

I read something recently that has stayed with me. We've all heard about the light at the end of the tunnel. The question is whether the light is real or an illusion. The answer is that the light is real; the tunnel is an illusion. Our minds create the tunnel, and we start believing that the light is an illusion.

So, the answer is "no." I am not tempted to have a drink. Whenever that thought has popped in my head, I play the entire movie in my head, not just the first fun moments. When I think of the nice burn of that first sip of an icy martini, I remember the searing heat of a throat that was scorched by vomiting every morning. When I think of the languorous feeling after one or two drinks, I remember being too weak to dry off after taking a shower. When I recall how convivial a couple of drinks made me feel in my twenties, I think of how alcohol isolated me and made me afraid to leave my home just one year ago. Today it's pretty easy to decide to stay sober.

In thinking about this one-year blog post, I naturally thought about giving individual thanks. I have decided not to do this. From a practical standpoint, there simply isn't room. The Blogspot police would likely shut me down. I would also feel terrible if I left anyone out - remember, my mind isn't as sharp as it was once. But you know who you are, and if you are reading this my list includes you. Every comment and e-mail message, each conversation in or outside a meeting, all the blogs I read, help keep me on the path to being happy, joyous, and free. There are people I cannot name who have supported me simply by showing up for a meeting. There are those, too, who have not remained clean and sober, and I thank them, too, with sadness, because they have shown me that - for me - there is no easier, softer way to do this.

Thanks for dropping by! Now have a joy-filled day!

Proposed Oath of Office

Lord, make me a channel of thy peace;

that where there is hatred, I may bring love;

that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;

that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;

that where there is error, I may bring truth;

that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;

that where there is despair, I may bring hope;

that where there are shadows, I may bring light;

that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;

to understand, than to be understood;

to love, than to be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.

It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.

It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.

Amen.

I'd like to suggest this as a new oath of office for world leaders. Every Presidential candidate talks about change. This simple prayer would be a novel approach to governing a nation. Many of you will recognize this as one version of the Saint Francis Prayer. It just seems to me that everything would run a little smoother in this world if folks added this to their job descriptions.

Saint Francis, born to wealth and privilege, turned to a life of poverty, privation, and devotion, much to his father's disgust. Popularly considered the patron saint of animals, his patronage also includes the environment, stowaways, and merchants. He was the founder of the Order of the Friars Minor, more widely known as the Franciscans. There's no relationship between Saint Francis and Frangelico liqueur. But the monk-shaped bottle with the little rope sash is cute.

I am no saint by even the most lax standards. I start my day with this prayer each morning. It's a good daily plan, no matter your spiritual leanings. I must admit, by the end of the day I fall short in one or more areas. I am making an effort, however. When I sum things up before I lower my lamp, I think about my shortcomings, forgive myself, and (most times) get a good night's rest. So far, I've been given a new chance each morning to try again.

God in a Box

Yep, that's me...all dressed up and ready for church. No, this isn't a recent picture, even though I am dressed like an old man with my fedora and Hush Puppies. I am slightly taller now.


My mom and I went to church when I was a boy, but as I grew older the trips became infrequent. Perhaps we picked the wrong church, or maybe my mom was worn out from a week of waxing the household appliances. Perhaps doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and the mayor of Virginia Beach crowded us out of the pews. Our church had grown from a small congregation in an unassuming building to a bigger, better, more affluent house of worship. Nevertheless, I did have a foundation of Sunday school, church services, and vacation bible school when I was growing up.


One thing I recall was my amazement at how slowly time passed when I was trapped in a pew listening to the preacher drone on and on, when I really just wanted to be home riding my bicycle and playing with my dog. I wonder now if God didn't feel the same way some days depending on the sermon. The church I attended believed in predestination, and when that belief was explained to me I guess I missed the bigger picture. I thought "What's the point of anything if every thing's carved in stone and there's no way to change it? What's the point in being good or trying to do my best? God's not paying attention to it anyway."


As I grew older, I became aware of other denominations and religions. I learned that people believed in widely varying things. It was a bit confusing, but very interesting. Some churches had statues of Jesus's mom and his friends tucked away in nooks and crannies. One of my friends' family drove a car with a little plastic saint glued to the dashboard to keep them safe in traffic. Some people didn't even believe in Jesus! People across the ocean worshipped a guy with his big, fat belly hanging out. I had cousins who traveled halfway around the world to teach ignorant people the right thing to believe, and they were very proud of themselves for doing that.


When I was a teenager, my mother told me about an old lady who was deaf as a post. She couldn't drive any longer, but she would crank up the volume on her television to watch the religious programs on Sunday. Her son and his wife, new to their belief in Christ, would visit her after church. One day this man told his mother that she was going to Hell because she did not go to his church. The old woman was quite hurt, but when she tried to explain to him that if she went to his church she wouldn't be able to hear any of the sermon, her son said that didn't matter - she just needed to go and sit there. I didn't understand how anyone could tell their mother that she was going to Hell.


As a young man, I had my doubts about God and religion. Some of the adults I had admired growing up who I thought were good, honest people and went to church all the time seemed like hypocrites when I found out they had human faults like adultery, greed, dishonesty, and just plain meanness. I thought going to church meant religion, and, by extension, I thought religion equalled spirituality. I wanted to live a spiritual life, but most religions wanted to exclude me; those that didn't wanted to exclude everyone else.


It seemed like most organized religions existed in little boxes. Beliefs and customs were put in the box, along with people who fit in with those items. Somehow they managed to stuff God in the box, too. Everyone else was refused admittance because there was no room left inside the box. Some of the rejected found other boxes to climb into; others, like me, wandered around on our own.


Eventually, I learned that religion and spirituality are different, and that my doubts about faith were based on humans, not God. I've come to believe that God prefers being outside the box. He created an unimaginably big world, and I think he likes all of it. I believe He loves people whether they are inside a little box, or roaming around in the fields. I think his love is limitless, even though mine is not. I do try, though, because I think that is what God wants. I am stunned each time I see someone waving a sign saying that God hates someone. The God I have come to know loves inclusion, and I believe He'd be quite tickled if we unfolded all these separate religions just like cake boxes. I think God would clap his hands and laugh with us if we'd look around, wave to each other and hug.


I believe God loves to laugh. Otherwise, why would He have created the Platypus, the Giraffe, and the Human?

Treat the other man's faith gently; it is all he has to believe with. His mind was created for his own thoughts, not yours or mine. - Henry S. Haskins

Rain

It's a rainy day here, and much cooler than what we've experienced recently. I've learned to appreciate the beauty of a rainy day. A drought will do that to you.



My best friend used to live in Spain in a beautiful villa on the Mediterranean Coast. I was fortunate to spend several vacations there, ranging between ten days to three weeks. All told, I spent about two months enjoying myself in this semi-tropical paradise. The weather would be described by most as "perfect," with constant sun and balmy breezes coming off the sea. I could count the number of overcast days on one hand, and still lose a few fingers in my kitchen blender. I noticed, though, especially during the three-week stay, that the endless sunny days became mundane. "Perfect" became commonplace, and I was actually invigorated by a rainy day when I returned home.



I see now that when I was trying to find bigger-faster-longer-more-more-more in a bottle, I was unable to appreciate the quiet beauty in ordinary things. The pursuit of heightened sensation actually dulled my senses, and I became a "dull boy." Wretched excess led to addiction, and this caused the hedonic threshold in my brain to be set at an unnaturally high level. The good news is that this pleasure-sensor can be reset to a normal level, although it has taken months for this to happen. I must always remind myself that just one drink will reset this brain mechanism, and I will be back to square one. I don't want that. I like being able to appreciate a rainy day.



A medical doctor who specializes in addiction cites study results proving the part of the brain affected by addictive substances is the mid-brain, where our basic survival instincts are housed. This explains why the will-power of "good and moral" people is thwarted by addiction. The mid-brain tags the drug (and alcohol is a drug, too) as the primary survival mechanism, so it trumps everything else. I know this is true because this is how I ended up in the hospital. Although my body was screaming and crying out for nourishment, my primary survival mechanism had become alcohol. Hungry? "Have a drink," my mid-brain urged. Stressed? "Shake a martini, quick!" my primary survival mechanism demanded.



This is why AA's 12-step program works if someone simply follows the program diligently. Faith will trump alcohol and other drugs by becoming the primary survival mechanism. Yes, Alcoholics Anonymous is a faith-based organization. No, I had no faith in a Higher Power when I went to my first AA meeting. I was so battered, beaten, and near death that I was ready to give up the fight. I didn't have any faith, and I didn't worry about it. I just adopted a "whatever happens, happens" attitude, and I was willing to concede that maybe, just maybe, there was a power greater than myself. I sure hoped there was, since I was powerless over alcohol. It stood to reason that if no other Higher Power existed, and I was powerless over alcohol, then my Higher Power was alcohol. How screwy does that sound?



So, I relaxed and went with the flow. I did my best to pray and meditate (even though I didn't think I knew what I was doing) during my morning AA meetings, and without my conscious realization I found a Higher Power that exists not only around me, but within me.



Anyone can do this.



A sunny day gives us no rainbows. Rain must be added to the sunlight for us to see the lovely spectrum of colors. Trite? Maybe. True? You bet.

The Little Father

Have you met someone in your life travels who, even years later, gives a lift to your heart when you remember them? Perhaps they were (or are) a part of your daily life, or maybe someone you encountered only once or twice. Something about them made a lasting impression, an impact on our lives, and from time to time we think of them with gratitude.

I first met Father Fred when I was in my early twenties. One of my favorite co-workers, Flossie, had a son who had just started high school at a Catholic school for boys. Tuna (his real name was Vincent, as I recall, although no one called him that) was a bright young man with a zest for life, but he had never enjoyed good health. Tuna had a passion for sports, and he begged Flossie to allow him to play football when he entered high school. With many misgivings, Flossie finally relented, and let him try out for the team, hoping he wouldn't make the cut.

Tuna did make the team, and he was on Cloud Nine. His dream had come true, and he eagerly exchanged his school uniform for his football jersey each afternoon for football practice. One afternoon, during a scrimmage, Tuna was tackled hard. He stood up, wandered a few feet, and collapsed on the field. He was rushed to the hospital, and later died.

My boss Cathy and I went to the hospital immediately after the accident to be with Flossie. Tuna was still alive, but the outlook was grim. Father Fred, Flossie's priest, joined us in the waiting room. He brought a sense of calmness and assurance to the chaotic little room. He was serene but not detached. Father Fred met privately with Flossie, and spent time with Tuna doing whatever priests do at times like these. He surprised me, though, by coming back to the waiting room to spend a little time with Cathy and me to be sure we were okay. Something about him assured me that, although Flossie would have to say goodbye to her son, God was there with all of us and everything was happening the way God intended. A few days later, Father Fred also made a point of coming up to Cathy and me following the funeral to comfort us and tell us that our presence was helpful to Flossie and her family.

Father Fred was a small, spare little man with a balding head and spectacles. He had a lively step, a bright smile, and warm sparkling eyes. As my Aunt Therza would have said, Father Fred was "cuter than a speckled pup under a mushroom on a rainy day." Not being Catholic, I doubted our paths would ever cross again, but I was wrong.

I transferred into a different job with the company I worked for, but by this time my former boss Cathy was a very close friend. Although I was still in the closet at work, when I met my partner Michael I knew it was time to tell Cathy that I was gay, so that she could meet this wonderful new person in my life. Cathy and Michael hit it off right away. A few months later, Cathy met the man who would become her husband, and Cathy and Dan started going to a different Catholic church close to their new home after they married. Re-enter Father Fred, who was the priest at their new church.

I would now see Father Fred socially when all of us gathered at Cathy and Dan's for dinners. Father Fred was a scream, and he could put the saltiest sailor to shame with the length and breadth of his profanity. He would hold us spellbound with his stories, until we dissolved into laughter. Fred had a gift for telling a story, and we enjoyed his quick wit. He was interested in the goings-on of each person in the room, however, and when Michael fell ill Father Fred always managed to find a quiet place for a few minutes of private conversation. His energy was amazing, and he seemed able to be everywhere at once.

I'll never forget a story he told at Cathy's table one evening. Father Fred had bought a small cottage in the country outside our city for a personal retreat, although he continued to live at the church parsonage. A winter storm caused him to worry about his cottage, so he drove out to the country to check on it. He promptly got his car stuck at the end of the driveway. Father Fred was pleased to discover that good old redneck boys live for days like this. They grab their girlfriends and hop in their 4X4 pick-up trucks. With the girlfriend planted right next to them on the seat, they roam the countryside looking for folks who need to be towed out of ditches and gullies. One of these helpful couples found Father Fred, and had him fixed up in no time. Fred was quite impressed. He was also amazed by the girlfriend who, despite her 1980's big hair and make-up, jumped out and pitched right in. Father Fred said "her jeans were so tight if she'd farted it would have blown her boots off."

Time passed and Michael's illness worsened. After he had been hospitalized for about a week he buttonholed one of his nurses for information. The nurse told him that he was reaching the end of his life. Michael was no dummy; he knew he had been moved to the hospice floor, but I think he just needed to hear it. Nonetheless, it did throw him into a tailspin. His mom and I would alternate spending nights with him; the hospital provided a fold-up cot. One night when it was my turn to stay with Michael, I walked his mother out to the parking deck because it was late and dark. When I returned to the door of Michael's room, I heard what seemed to be a conversation, but when I entered the room Michael was alone.

I asked Michael who he was talking to. Michael said he was talking to God. I asked Michael if he'd like me to leave the room and come back in a little while. Michael said "No, that's okay. I don't think God wants to talk to me."

Uh-oh.

When pressed, Michael said that God wouldn't want to talk to him because "God doesn't like gay people." Okay, now I knew I was in over my head and needed to call in reinforcements. I'm not a wise person, but I knew that this was no time for platitudes. The next morning, as soon as the hour was decent, I phoned Cathy and Dan. It was time to call in the Big Guns.

It was time for Father Fred.

Father Fred called me. I recounted the previous evening's conversation with Michael, and Father Fred said he would take care of it. That morning, Father Fred blew in. I left the room, and Fred and Michael spent time together. Father Fred found me in the waiting room, and told me he had to run because he had two weddings and a funeral that day. He said all should be well with Michael now.

He also told me what he told Michael, and I know now that he did this so that I could benefit from this message as well. He said:

"Michael, you know how you've suddenly had something get in your eye, and it drives you crazy? It seems huge, your eye tears up, you can't see. You can't think of anything else until you get it out. It feels like it must be as big as a boulder, and then when you get it out of your eye you can't believe it...it's such a tiny speck that you can barely see it. Michael, that's what you're doing. You are worried about something that isn't even as big as a speck in God's eye. Do not be afraid. God loves you and He is with you."

After that, Michael's smile returned. He was in pain, but his joy for life and his belief in God's perfect and infinite love was restored. And when God came for him a few days later, Michael met Him with a tranquil heart. God had prepared all of us for this by sending his powerful instrument, little Father Fred.

AA: My Journey Begins

One of the best vacations I ever took was a mixture of planning and serendipity. My partner was on the cusp of entering the final and restrictive stages of a terminal illness, and we decided to take a road trip through New England and Nova Scotia. We began our journey at home in Virginia, and elected to take the interstate highways as far as they would take us on Day One, and travel smaller highways and byways for the next two weeks. This strategy would take us well beyond places we could reach on day trips, and allow us to do some creative meandering from that point onward. Our trip exceeded our wildest expectations, and we found it exciting to prowl the countryside, never knowing where we would lay our sleepy heads each night.


On the journey through life, some of us blunder. Some of us stumble. And some of us try to control every aspect of the trip. For me, control needs to be used sparingly, like strong spices when cooking. When I try to control everything like the director of a play, I end up frustrated because things rarely work out as I envisioned anyway. Other people forget their lines and blocking when they are on my stage, and I wind up pulling my hair out instead of enjoying the show. This is a lesson I have learned only recently, and I still have my mulish moments and grow resentful when the world doesn't bend to my wishes.


In April I was bitch-slapped out of my self-directed gin-soaked world into the harsh reality of a hospital bed. I had known for years that I was an alcoholic, but didn't fret about it because - hey! - the bills were paid, the credit rating was excellent, and I thought I was actually able to control how much alcohol I consumed. I just chose to drink a lot and drink often. I drank at home, so I wasn't endangering anyone on the road, right? I still owned my home, held the title to my car, and hadn't been thrown in jail. Alcohol is legal, so I wasn't breaking any laws. The only problem I had with drinking was that the gin bottle became empty.


Oh, and I forgot to eat. When was there time? Life became a cycle of shaking martinis and passing out from exhaustion. It was exasperating that my body grew weary when deprived of regular healthy meals, yet I remained inexplicably overweight. If this is starting to look like an ugly picture, you're seeing more than I did at the time. But let's get back to the control issue. Here's how this alcoholic exhibited control...


When it seemed like I was having too many drinks, I switched to larger glasses. There, see, I only had three or four drinks! Not a big problem.


When the clerk at the liquor store started having my two jumbo bottles of gin on the counter waiting for me when I walked in, I started rotating visits among three different stores.


When I grew too tired and disinterested to clean house, I stopped inviting people over or answering the doorbell. Problem solved.


When I grew too weak to stand up long enough to shower thoroughly, I sat down on the built-in bench in the shower stall, and decided it was okay to shampoo my hair once a week. We Americans are overly concerned with personal cleanliness anyway, wasting water and electricity, right?


When I started having gnawing concerns about my health, I made sure I had my last will and testament in place. In fact, my last words to my hostess when I was being wheeled out of her home by paramedics were to tell her where my will and related legal documents could be found.


See how in control I was?


At the hospital I was diagnosed with severe dehydration, life-threatening anemia, and a liver the size of Texas. I answered all questions honestly regarding my health, lifestyle, and alcoholism. Four days, several invasive tests, and many blood transfusions later I was released from the hospital. I came home and shook a martini.


After my second night of drinking, I woke up the next day and admitted defeat. I could not control my consumption of alcohol. I had no intention of drinking when I came home from the hospital, but I was the moth and gin was the flame. I logged onto the internet and located AA meetings in my area. Finally, with the smallest grain of hope in my mind, I did not drink before I went to my first AA meeting several days later, and I have not had one sip of alcohol since then through the grace of God.


I realize now that I didn't do this alone. God was my silent partner, but I certainly wasn't ready to admit it at the time, so he (or she) stayed in the background but still directed my path once I made the humiliating admission to myself that I was powerless over alcohol. I'd like to write more about this later, but let's get back to the control issue for the moment.


In AA, through listening to others in meetings and reading literature, I learned that most (if not all) alcoholics crave control. Since we lack control over alcohol, we seek it in inappropriate ways. I've learned that control is elusive at best, and is most likely imaginary. I am slowly and sometimes painfully learning to accept that God's will works much better in keeping the world on its axis than mine ever will. Boy, it's much calmer and more relaxing now that I'm not in charge of the world! It was a big responsibility, one I accepted with alacrity, but now I've moved over to the passenger seat. Funny how I have more time to get to know people, help others, and (I'll admit it) talk to God. I don't pray for specific things like money, security, or a pony. I just ask him do his will and direct me on the right path. I've put away the map, just like my partner and I did so many years ago on our memorable trip up north.


I don't recall our first or last day of that trip when my partner and I were on a mission to see how fast we could get to our destination. I do remember each day in between when we slowed down, folded up the map, and rolled down the windows.