Through the Red Door Blog

I wanted a vanity license plate for a long time. I knew it would cost more than a regular license plate and for many years I couldn’t justify the cost AND I couldn’t think of what I would put on the plate.  By the time I thought of what I wanted to put on the plate, I still had 7 years before I would HAVE to get a new plate, so I just didn’t do anything at all.

I have had friends in the program who have custom car plates. One said SOURCE – the word he used for his higher power. Another says OHW for Open, Honest, and Willing. And another said RULE 62 (Don’t take yourself so seriously).

I wanted my plate to help me remember the message whenever I saw it. Then I moved to Arizonia. I wanted to move, was excited to move and yet also second guessing myself about whether it was the right thing to do. I was anxious and worried a lot. I realized what I was missing was trusting my higher power. So here I was in the new state, needing to register my car, get a new license and a new license plate. I knew what to get: TRUSTHP.

Sometimes in a parking lot someone will ask me what it means – they get the TRUST part but not the HP – I just say what it means and if they look confused, I say “God”. Most times they say “Oh” – I wonder what idea they have about me but then I let it go. Some say – “great”. My AA friends get it right away.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a new friend here. She isn’t in recovery but enjoys learning about the spiritual things I am about.  She called me one day and said, “I saw you on the freeway!” “How did you know it was me?” “I saw your license plate and it was just what I needed to see and know right then.”

She had been worrying about many things and saw my plate and smiled. She said she knew then that everything would be alright and that it was a God Shot for her (I had told her about my love of God Shots and how they come so often and when needed if we will be open to them.)  For me that day, having her call and tell me about seeing my license plate was also a God shot for me! I had thought that the message on my car license plate was just for me – now I knew that it could be a message of trust perhaps for everyone who sees it. Libbie S.

Changing my thinking, behaving differently, or becoming an instrument of love and peace—none of that was on my radar when I stumbled through the doors of twelve-step recovery. I came to stop drinking and avoid more consequences. That’s it.

Miserable on the inside and desperate to stay sober, I became willing to take actions contrary to what I believed—including the direction to start praying.

Each morning, I’d shut my eyes and say, “God, please keep me sober today. Thy will, not mine, be done.” I didn’t mean the last part—not really—but I hoped that if I kept saying it, eventually I might feel it.

After a few weeks of this routine, it seemed like I should probably add something more. I’d heard about the St. Francis Prayer and decided to try it. Reading it for the first time, I was confused by its paradoxes: better to comfort than to be comforted, to understand than to be understood, to love than to be loved.

Was it better? I didn’t think so.

I wanted to be comforted. I wanted to be understood. I wanted to be loved.

Still, I kept reciting it. The words sounded a little ridiculous and weak—but they also sounded incredibly peaceful.

Driving to a meeting one afternoon, my phone rang. It was my divorce attorney—with infuriating news. I was seething by the time I reached the clubhouse. I sat down next to an older gentleman named Dave and unloaded everything.

“You should pray for him,” he said gently.

Had he heard what I said? I stared at him in disbelief.

“Pray for him? You’ve got a better shot of being hit by lightning.”

He didn’t flinch. He nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Well, then, do you think you could pray to some day have the willingness to be able to pray for him?”

It took me a minute to wrap my head around what he was asking.

“Probably not. Maybe. Maybe at some point I could pray for the willingness to pray for him. But not now.”

For the next few weeks, I didn’t give it much thought. But the seed had been planted. And one night, as I was saying my prayers, I could hear Dave’s voice. With a sigh and an eye roll, I muttered, “And may I someday have the willingness to pray for him.”

I was aghast. Did those words just come out of my mouth?

Nearly two years later, my phone rang again. This time, it was my son—calling in tears to tell me his father’s engagement had ended.

The next day, as I heard my ex-husband’s truck in the driveway, I felt a pull to go outside.

He looked terrible—His once confident posture was deflated, he was pale, gaunt, sickly—like the air had been taken from him. Though I had never seen him look this way, I recognized the pain. It was the same reflection I’d seen in my own mirror when he left me.

We had slowly moved past the bitterness, but standing there in that moment, it struck me how different things had become. We weren’t enemies anymore, just two people who had once loved each other and shared a life.

“How are you doing?” I asked softly.

“Not great,” he replied.

“I’m really sorry you’re going through this.

We stood there for a moment in silence before he lifted his head and said, “If I ever made you feel this way, I’m really sorry. Really.”

“You did,” I replied gently. “But I forgave you a while ago. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary—for both of us. When I found out what happened last night, I prayed for you. I prayed that you would find love and peace and happiness.”

His head had been hanging low. At my comment, he slowly lifted his gaze until our eyes met. In that moment, I saw disbelief married with a sense of peace. I could see the question he was asking himself in his eyes: How could this woman possibly be offering me such kindness?

“Thank you,” he murmured.

I knew what he didn’t. It wasn’t of me.

“And while we’re at it,” I added, “I’m sorry for the mistakes I made in our marriage. I know I wasn’t always the best wife.”

As if struck by lightning, I found myself doing the previously unimaginable. Reaching out, I hugged him.

“It’s gonna be alright,” I said. “I just can’t tell you when.”

Forgiveness had opened the door to the peace that comes from letting go.

Jaime Hrobar

In the gospel of John, we read, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and the one who fears has not been made perfect in love.” Obviously, I did not understand Love. I had failed miserably in love. In the words of that old song: “Looking for love in all the wrong places.” “I’ll drink to that” I said as my insides turned, and I downed another whatever it was I was drinking at the time. No one would ever love me. I didn’t love myself. If I died no one would miss me.

“Perfect love drives out fear.” How is one to experience anything like perfect love when God is in your head telling you statements to the effect: you’re a failure, you couldn’t keep the commandments, you are a hypocrite, when I take you out, you’re not getting into heaven.

On the other hand, I could talk a good talk about God, a loving merciful God, a kind and generous God who is love itself, who sent Jesus to show us how to love and he did it perfectly. Jesus was, after all, the face of God on earth. Much as I wanted to imitate Jesus, I was not the face of god on earth.

“Fear has to do with punishment.” Oh yes. And I needed to be punished. I lived with fear. It ate me up. I couldn’t get on an airplane without saying the act of contrition between seven and ten times. And, while doing so, filling my glass with whiskey and looking around to see if there was a priest on the plane. I was being punished alright. Nothing in my life was going the way I thought it was supposed to go. And I was raised to think either god told me to do it or the devil made me do it. Nothing, therefore, was my responsibility. I was completely irresponsible and, with friends like Jack Daniels, it was easy to be irresponsible.

"The one who fears has not been made perfect in love." The only thing perfect about me, I believed, was a perfect j _ _ _ a_ _. What is love anyway? I read books by a man called “Dr. Love’ and it all seems so simple, simplistic. Love your neighbor as yourself. Fifty percent of marriages were ending in divorce. Young people were living together rather than risk marriage. Second marriages were terminating at a rate of about seventy percent. Where can one find perfect love?

I didn’t know it then, but this God that I was so afraid of was actually the one who was saving my hide. It was God/my Higher Power, who had been pushing me into people in the fellowship of AA. It was God who pushed me into my boss’s office to admit I had a drinking problem; who helped me open up – a little – in order to get out of treatment; and it was God who guided me with people who loved me enough to keep me – if not sober - at least not drinking for almost five years. Then it happened.

I experienced a spiritual awakening and what an awakening that was. I found courage to take an honest inventory of myself, to do an honest fourth and fifth step, to make amends and was open to hear of things I did not know I had done while under the influence of my many alcohol friends like John Jameison.

God. A Higher Power. A Power greater than myself that restored me to sanity. No doubt I was insane. A power greater than myself whose love was and is perfect. God is Love, St John says, and I began to understand.

Unconditional Love, Trust, Forgiveness was and is what God offered and continues to offer. "There is no fear in love. Perfect love drives out fear." Fear has to do with punishment, and the one who fears has not been made perfect in love. What is there to be afraid of when I know that no matter what happens to me, God is with me. I’m not perfect but I know I am getter stronger as I increase my conscious awareness of God through prayer and meditation – talk and listen – and I am available to share my experience, strength and hope with those who need it. God’s love is that perfect Love.

Séamus D
Séamus D is an active retired Episcopal priest in New Orleans.

The first week of July I was in Vancouver, British Columbia, for the International Convention of Alcoholics Anonymous. This was my fifth time attending an International AA Convention, and each time--at different stages of my recovery—I came home with gifts and inspirations.

What is most impressive is how hard the group of mostly volunteers work to make these conventions so thoroughly wonderful.  It takes 15 years to plan an international convention so we know that in 2030 it will be in St Louis, Missouri, and in 2035 Indianapolis, Indiana, will be the location. It takes that long to plan because each city must commit all of its hotels, police, fire as well as all college dorms—housing of every kind. The Chambers of Commerce and local government must be committed and fully participating. Imagine the Chamber meeting where they hear, “we have an opportunity to host 50,000 alcoholics.” I can just imagine the organizers explaining over and over: “No, they are sober; No, they do not drink.”

Between 35,000 and 50,000 AA members from all over the world attend these International Conventions. They are truly international, and most inspiring at the opening night big stadium that includes an Olympic-like flag ceremony as each country enters with a representative carrying their nation’s flag.

It’s not easy to summarize the gifts of this convention but I can truly say being surrounded by recovering people practicing recovery principles for several days I come away infused with recovery. Even at 40+ years, I am challenged to grow and learn, and to do more recovery service. At The “Old Timers” meeting on the last night—also in a full stadium—there were 250 people with more than 50 years of recovery. Those were the men and women I wanted to listen to very carefully. It’s not that those folks have a lot of years in recovery—they do—but what we know is that in 50 years a lot happens to a person—a lot of hard things.  What many of us want to know is how to stay sober or abstinent when hard things happen. And these old timers are the folks who know. They have been through multiple illnesses, serious diagnoses—their own and of their loved ones, deaths, grief, job losses, financial troubles and every kind of family crisis. And they stayed sober—and committed.

What I heard from the 12 members with more than 50 years is that they—to a person—did a lot of service in the program. In their home group, in their region, their state and beyond. And, they all --through their recovery—and still—worked directly with folks in need. They helped folks struggling to come into recovery (12 step calls), newcomers, and peers on regular basis and very directly. I came home from Vancouver wanting to do a lot more service.

I also heard from this group of 50+ recovering folks that they had active spiritual lives. They still did the basics of the steps and prayer and meditation, and they studied new spiritual practices and were part of some spiritual group—whether a faith community or a weekly meditation group, or spiritual book club, or something spiritual that involved working with others. What stood out was that their spiritual life was not in the past but here and now and very regular.

Conferences are another tool of recovery and a gift. I am grateful.

Diane C.
Albany, New York

Not an easy nor typical Red Door topic—memories of our days of intoxication are the very days we run away from. While we might think or hope we have buried them, they sometimes return, rising out of nowhere.

In their first mini-lead, newbies might lean on stories of their drunken conduct. In the days of lead meetings, once-in-a-while, instead of a message of “how it worked for me,” attendees were confronted with a “drunkalogue” i.e., noun—a 40-minute description of every drunken event engaged in by the speaker.

Sometimes family members innocently remind us (but maybe not so “innocently”) saying, “Remember the time you…”. The sharpest stinging recall may be when you walk into the trap yourself, that is, when you stumbled on that photograph which pictures you “…at that wedding party...”

There’s another aspect to recalling those awful “days of old” and that’s when we seem to slip and slide and recall only the” good old fun days,” the days of “social drinking,” gatherings at the club’s golf house, family and neighborhood picnics, or days when we could have “two” and quit.

The answer to all this difficulty is right in front of us: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”

There it is. When we hear those stories of our days of rage and intoxication, days we harmed others with our conduct, know that you can’t change those days. They will always exist. Accept that and again seek the assistance of your Higher Power and the Program and accept that you cannot change it, no matter what. And recall that you’ve worked through those days with your work with your inventory and the Steps.

The same holds true for those “fun day” recollections with a different suggestion: Recognize that your drunken devil is simply using those recollections to take another shot to pull you back to the past into that familiar canyon of alcoholism.

“Shoot back” at the devil and remind it and yourself that those fun days weren’t so much “fun” at the end of your spiral—now come on, honestly, were they really fun? If you “can’t remember,”, ask your spouse or children how much “fun” they experienced watching your intoxicated activities.

Now about those specific recalls such as, “Remember the time you…,” or when you do stumble onto that photo of your gala face at that wedding reception.

Those again are past but ask yourself if that recollection is perhaps a “wakeup call” calling attention to something you may need to deal with. Again, the Program tells us what to do, for we are called to find “…the courage to change the things I can.”

Maybe you need to work the Steps to answer that question—work the Steps and free yourself of these old recollections.  Do a “double check,” review your Step 4 inventory, and again run through Steps 5 through 9.  

So, remember, while we like to think we can erase those days of drunkenness, we really can’t.  But, through many aspects of the Program, we can knock out their impact on our sobriety and serenity.

When the past “grabs for you,” go to your Higher Power and Bill and Dr Bob: they’re always with you and their arms of fellowship and strength are always reaching for us no matter what we do.

But here’s a simple answer to all this: just grab your worn “Big Book” or “Twelve & Twelve” —both filled with scribbled notes and cards from folks, and newspaper clippings you jammed into each…

…and get to a meeting.

Jim A St X Noon, Cincinnati

The only thing I remember about birds from my childhood is freaking out watching Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds. It was on our black and white TV, and I was home alone, and crows were attacking the front door, breaking it down to get to the people inside. I jumped off the couch and turned it off, shaking with fear. The movie came back to haunt me when years later I was walking in Seattle. It was spring and the crows had babies. They yelled at me as I walked and then suddenly one swooped down and hit me on my head!  I ran as fast as I could to home.  (I found out later that they do that when their babies are learning to fly and sometimes fall out of the nest).

Over time, the birds have meant more positive things to me. During the pandemic, I walked a lot. I lived next to a large park, and I could hear birds as I walked. It was also a hard time for me. Many relationships in my life were not as I wanted them to be. I would walk and walk and walk, trying to be present to the sounds I hear in the hopes that I would find peace. One day I watched as a huge bald eagle flew over my head and land in a very tall Douglas fir. I was very close to the tree so I could look straight up and see the bird. I felt in awe and somehow, I knew that I was being taken care of, that I was being watched over. I saw the bird many times during the pandemic and each time I was struck by the knowledge that I was not alone. The eagle has become an image of my Higher Power. I still worried about my family, about those who were sick, the world and how it could possibly be alright.

A few years later I found myself moving to Arizonia. I live across the street from an old golf course. The cart paths are still there as it is now a county park. Most days, I walk there, often in the early morning when the day will not be so hot as later. I now have an app call the Merlin app. It was developed by Cornell University, and it lets me identify the birds I hear by sound since I often don’t see them.

These are worrisome days again for me. My family is facing many health issues, and the country as well as the world seems crazy.  It’s been hard to find peace and trust my higher power.

Some mornings my app picks up 20 plus birds singing, especially when I walk as the sun rises. Later in the day as the sun goes down, I often hear at least as many birds. I hear cardinals, finches, sparrows, and quails – so many birds. Birds sing at daybreak and dusk to communicate with each other – to sort of say good morning and good evening.

It made me think of a Bible verse and a Hymn:

“Therefore, I tell you, do not worry about your life. Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet God feeds them (adapted).”

I also was reminded of the hymn refrain –

Refrain:
I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I feed birds now and give them water here in the hot desert and as I take care of them, I remember that with the help of my Higher Power, I am taken care of.

Libbie S

Unwilling to believe in a Higher Power, my first attempt at recovery was a disaster, culminating in a confirmation drunk lasting over a year. Desperate, I returned—finally ready to confront what I’d spent my life rejecting. Ready to listen and take actions contrary to my beliefs, including prayer.

On a seemingly ordinary day in early recovery, a plea for patience marked a turning point.

The routine was familiar—sitting on a bench on my patio, kids still asleep, a dark sky, coffee, and my daily meditation book. As I prayed, the words carried substance, having evolved past rote recitations. I had begun talking to God like a friend.

“Good morning, God. I’m grateful to be sober today. Please help me to be patient, kind, loving, and tolerant. Please put someone in my path that I can help today, and  protect me from me. While we’re on the subject of patience—God, I’ve really been struggling. I’m trying, but I really lost it with my kids yesterday. I don’t want to behave that way. So, if you could help me out a little extra in this area—if you could just give me some more patience, I’d really appreciate it.”

Concluding the prayer, I asked for guidance and direction.

Back inside, I was immersed in breakfast preparation when my youngest son, Christian, entered the kitchen with art supplies and began drawing. Flipping the last pancake, I let him know that we needed to clear the table. Satisfied with his work, he scooped up the pile of markers and exited the kitchen, leaving his masterpiece behind.

Wanting to hurry things along, I approached the table, ready to move what appeared to be a poster of some sort. I glanced down and discovered the word PATIENCE stretched across the paper in giant block letters.

Was this divine intervention or mere coincidence?

I had observed him still sleeping soundly after coming inside from the patio. There was no way he’d heard me. As I stood there, pondering the meaning behind this, my oldest son, Jim—who has severe autism—had woken up and needed my assistance, completely distracting me from the poster. The day started to unfold, so I made a mental note to ask Christian about it later, assuming that it must be directly related to something I’d done.

A couple of hours later, my friend Darlene called. Knowing I was in the middle of a divorce and essentially a newly single mother, she was curious if I needed anything from the store.

“Actually, I do need a few things,” I said.

“I can come over and watch the boys while you run out,” she offered.

At the grocery store—a woman on a mission, list in hand—I zipped and zoomed through the aisles, trying to hurry home and relieve Darlene. Having grabbed the last item, I headed for the check-out lane. Swiftly loading the groceries onto the belt, I beelined for the card reader, debit card drawn before the last three items were even scanned, doing whatever I could to make the transaction move faster.

As soon as I heard the last beep, I immediately jammed my card into the machine. As the word APPROVED flashed across the screen, I looked up, pulling the card from the reader—and the name tag of the cashier caught my eye: Patience.

Stunned, I inquired if that was actually her name. Upon confirmation, I asked if I could take a picture, explaining to her that I was going to share this moment with someone I assumed wouldn’t believe me.

Curiosity led me to question Christian about his drawing when I got home. His innocent explanation was beyond the scope of anything I’d have considered.

“Well, Mommy, Grandma gave me seeds to plant a butterfly garden. They’re in the garage, and I was thinking, I would plant the seeds in a pot and then hang this sign over it, because as things are growing, you need to have patience.”

This, from an eight-year-old boy.

This wasn't just about my impatience. It was about nurturing growth and trusting the process—rather than the instant gratification, relief, and control I’d always been seeking. I knew in that moment that God was not only listening—but that I had started to develop a personal relationship with Him.

Later that night, I sent a text to my sponsor, revealing the lengthy details of the day. I read her summation—poignant and succinct. It was just two sentences:

“In literature, the author often uses repetition to drive a point home. God must think you’re a slow learner.”

I laughed. That day, I learned that God responds when I sincerely seek Him—He is always listening, and He is always patient.

Jaime Hrobar

It has been said that behind every successful man is a woman. It turns out that behind the world’s most successful elephant there is also a woman to be thanked.  With all that is going on now, there is one Frenchman who remains untouched by criticism and who may even be the kind of leader we need. He is, of course, the French ruler, politician, and diplomat: the elephant Babar.

Cécile de Brunhoff created Babar as a bedtime story for her children. Her husband Jean wrote down the stories and illustrated the first book, which was published in 1931. Jean tried to give credit to Cécile but she had her name removed before the book was printed. Jean de Brunhoff died in 1937 and Babar’s adventures continue to be illustrated by Laurent de Brunhoff, Cécile and Jean’s oldest son.

Most people meet Babar when they are young, but I didn’t meet him till I was much older. The introduction was a gift from a friend when I was at the very beginning of my recovery. It was a bad time. I was scared a lot, and anxious, and not sure at all how to be a leader at work.

Today I keep a picture of him on my desk, and especially now, I stop to say, “Thanks, Babar” for his message.

Babar is a survivor of trauma. In the first few pages of his story, we witness the murder of his mother. It is cruel and sad. He is alone and struggling—just as I was in those early recovery days. But Babar moved from the country to the city where he met the Old Lady who became his mentor/sponsor.

With her guidance he learns to dress well—he’s French after all—and he acquires the skill of conversation and getting along with others. But most importantly Babar moved beyond simply surviving to use his traumatic past to become an individual with deep values and strong character.

Eventually, with the call of the needy, Babar turned to social responsibility and went home to help the citizens of his country.

Babar becomes a leader. He marries Celeste and has a family. His country prospers and there is balance and respect in Celesteville, a community rich with diversity. The bad time comes when Celesteville is burned, and Babar had the bad dream. Those early fears that many of us have. In his dream demons came—hairy winged things named hate, fear, greed. If you have done a 4^th step you know these. But Babar summoned the spirits of patience and hope and chased the demons out of the country. Oh, recovery and The Promises.

Babar is completely comfortable with himself; that’s what recommends him the most. Though he is certain of his authority, and wears a crown to prove it, he is not heavy handed nor a workaholic. Babar seems to have the faith to really live one day at a time. (I have wondered: Did he go to therapy? Elephants Anonymous? de Brunhoff doesn’t say.)

Babar inspires. He is profoundly honest, he negotiates change, he’s committed to his family, and he sends this overriding message: “Don’t panic”. 

Babar gives us hope that a wise and caring leader is possible. And that our own growth and change is possible too. We can claim him as a colleague in our folding chairs.

Diane Cameron
Albany, New York

Stay in the Light is the title of A.M. Shine’s second novel. It was a warning found on the wall of a house in which some folks were trapped by “The Watchers” —the title of his first novel. It was ‘the light” which protected those trapped by some evil power. I’m not one for horror books and definitely not Stephen King, but these two books, given to me by my son, set in Ireland, intrigued me. The protagonist, Mina, realizes that the power of “the Watchers” is growing and it is up to her to convince people that they are real.

What has a horror novel got to do with my addiction? I did not think about it till I looked at jacket of this second book with its upturned bird cage and the words, “You may have escaped…but you’ll never be free.”

Looking back on my life I realize I was in that bird cage from the day I was conceived and born, the youngest of a family of five, into a functioning dysfunctional family system where power lay in the hands of one person addicted to religion and work.

I escaped. I was the scapegoat and the class clown. I got away with most things and was blamed for more—both at school and home. It was not that I was caught, but rather I was highly suspected for more than I actually did. I wore it as a badge of honor. “I escaped...but not free.” I escaped by lying with a straight face; by protecting those who would then become my enablers.

Long before I took my first sip of alcohol, I was already on the path to addiction. I lived life on the edge and loved it. I pushed the envelope, took risks, challenged authority, and all with the external innocence of an altar boy.

Like the folks in the novel, I was moving into the forest totally unaware that the wilderness to which I was becoming attracted was controlling me not the other way around. Like alcohol and other substances, this darkness was “cunning, baffling, powerful.”

Early in the story, Mina is asked by her friend Ciara, “Do you even know where you are?” to which she replies, “No idea.” I was more like Poo Bear who said “I’m not lost. I’m right here.

Mina was arrested and in jail. She asked the guard, “Can I not leave this cell for a while? I actually will go mad if I’m locked up here for much longer.” I remember being at one of those after-meetings and I complained about the speaker—who came from a nearby jail to tell his story. I had heard it before. “All he talks about is his feelings” I said to the chairperson over a cup of coffee in an after-meeting meeting.  “Séamus,” he said, “that man is more free in jail than you are walking the streets. You wouldn’t know a feeling if it sat on your lap.”

He didn’t say “Stay in the Light,” but he might as well have. He shone a light into a world I had avoided, rather well, I thought, but now it was opening, and I was made aware of the danger of the darkness in which I lived. Like Mina, I wanted out “for a while” without realizing the danger.

“Stay in the Light.” “Hang with the winners.” “Do the next right thing.”  Simple and simplistic cliches, and yet these are the backbone of recovery. They were what I needed to memorize and then put into practice.         

“Stay in the Light.” One of the results of staying in the Light is that it makes clear my Character defects which I have to face, acknowledge, and then ask my Higher Power to help me remove.

“Stay in the Light.” “If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are halfway through. We are going to know a new freedom and happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it…Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change…We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.”

My son shared these two books with me “The Watchers” and “Stay in the Light.” Neither of us expected that I would find in them a parallel to my life. As I reflected on the phrase “Stay in the Light” I realized just how much of a horror story was my own life.

The book says: “You may have escaped…but you’ll never be free.” I know I will never be free of the disease, but, today, I am happy, joy filled and free. One day at a time.

Séamus D.
Séamus D is a semi-retired Episcopal priest in the new Orleans area.

Back in November of 2024, I wrote a blog post about my needlepoint rug. I shared about how it took every stitch to make it —one stitch at a time and over ten years of meetings to complete it.

I shared that life was messy and difficult at the time I wrote it but if I just took life one minute, one hour, one day at a time, I would find my way with the help of my higher power.

Well, life is still very messy and sad and difficult. I got to thinking about my rug again. When I look at it, I see the completion of all those stitches. I had a friend put a backing on the rug when it was completed so I don’t see the back of it, raw with all the threads and mistakes. I only see the pretty outcome. The problems and difficulties of those years in early sobriety don’t show when I look at it. I do not think about them often.

The other day I looked at another piece of needlework I did. It was hanging on a wall in my bedroom. I see it every day. When I was looking at it this time, it fell off the wall. It was upside down. It looked so messy with threads going this way and that and threads hanging loose —not pretty at all. It seemed a metaphor for my life these days.

Nothing is pretty. My garden isn’t growing like I hoped it would in my new climate. The world is a mess and there seems little hope for resolution and help for those is so much need. Some family members are angry with me, and some are dealing with many problems.

I try to honestly share in meetings my struggles and work to sort out my part and make amends where needed. I talk with my sponsor and have lunch with AA friends.  I pray and read daily from spiritual writers. So why do I feel so lost and messy?

The back of that needlepoint showed me —I want life and sobriety to never be messy and sad and lonely. I’ve been sober a long time—shouldn’t my life be smoother and more pleasing?  As soon as I ask the question, the answer comes. The gift of sobriety and a relationship with God has no guarantees.

We are instead given promises—12 of them. When the Promises are read at one of my meetings and it gets to the question—

Are these extravagant promises? We think not—but I find myself saying to myself (in a whisper) —you bet they are extravagant!  AND YET—They are being fulfilled among us—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.

There will always be messiness and sadness and all those things I’d like to avoid, but if I work through them and turn it over to God, the promises are there, too. Libbie S.