The snow is deep and beautiful here in New Hampshire tonight. The road in front of my house is not a major road, not even a secondary road. Not a tertiary road. So, although it has been plowed a few times since the storms began (we’ve had two back-to-back and expect a third one to arrive tomorrow), the little road is nowhere near scraped clean. BridgetAdams, my seven-year-old golden retriever, loves to get outside and make snow dog-angels in the drifts and then run a few yards and lie down in the middle of the quiet street to roll back and forth, grunting and groaning with delight. She’s like a puppy in her glee.

But—what does this have to do with Recovery. Faith. Twelve Steps. The Church?

Everything.

In my sober life, I have learned to be grateful for what is here, now, in front of me. For the snow and for the snowplows and for the people who plow the snow. For witnessing the joy of a dog and feeling the joy of a sober human. For the little, tiny 12” snowman that I built and put on the stoop and for my nephew thoughtfully clearing off the steps a few hours later, not noticing the little guy and scooping him up and tossing him away.

In recovery, I’ve learned to identify, not compare. I have friends in Buffalo and Minneapolis. The snow in my front yard doesn’t seem so deep and the storms don’t seem so fierce when I hear about what the winter has been like for them. But I’ve learned that differences don’t mean hierarchy…there isn’t a better and a worse. Their huger quantities of snow don’t take away the breath-taking beauty of the snow on my branches or the sunlight glistening on my snowdrifts.

I have a friend who found her family in the fellowship of AA. She had gone to many Al-Anon meetings where she had always felt welcome and where she had learned a lot about serenity. She was a woman of deep faith and commitment to God and the church and had never missed a Sunday service or a chance to serve the community.

But when she came to an AA meeting, she knew she was home with a certainty that she hadn’t felt before. At first she was afraid she didn’t really belong because she didn’t have the “war stories” some speakers talked about, but she came to understand that she belonged because she knew she belonged. She could identify, no comparison needed.

Generosity, acceptance, appreciation, gratitude—those are some of the deeply beautiful gifts of recovery. Praise God.

—Christine H.