Through the Red Door Blog

Following his death and resurrection, Christ allowed His close followers to hide, to be afraid, to be angry that He was betrayed by one of His own, then tortured and hung on a cross to die with 2 thieves… and they did nothing to stop it. They hid in that room for 40 days, probably feeling sorry for themselves, fearful, not knowing what to do. Christ was dead but had risen. Could sadness be any deeper? The Risen Christ let them morn his death and let all the feelings of anger, guilt, fear, and so forth ebb and flow through the gathered. Christ waited. When He had waited long enough, He appeared to the hidden and told them what they were to do: He told them to move on, to leave their fears and pity pots, and go into the world and carry His message to all. He forced different languages on each, giving them access to foreign countries. He wanted these people in that room to carry his message of joy, of recovery of His Grace for all. So, I have no doubt Christ’s message today to those who hurt, those in deep sorrow and confusion, is, “Yes, morn, but at some point, you must pick up and move on, taking back your life.”

We recovering alcoholics know a thing or two about pity pots. For some that pot is the door opener to a return to one’s alcoholism— an excuse to drink. Sometimes the pot was deep— death in a family, divorce, any event having heavy emotional consequences— but for the addict, any size of pot will do. It’s just an excuse— you may know the game. “You’d drink too if you [fill in blank]” But the former active addict knows the Program, the Steps, the meetings, and his or her sponsor are there. He learns he’s not alone and that others have experienced the same feelings and have dealt with them by working the Program. They know from experience that they must get into action, take it easy, and perhaps the most obvious, to let go and let God.

Someone said to me when I was whining about some stupid sad feelings (I forget about what):

“Every day I need a good ol’ contact with other alcoholics to remain sober, a meeting, helping others, whatever. I do that to keep the Steps in my life. You need to do that too… Get off that Pot and get to a meeting. I learn something new every day that carries me to a serenity I thought I’d never recover. It’s an “into action” thing. Pity pots? When I feel one coming on, sneaking up on me, what do I do about the approaching flood of self-pity? Easy peasy. I get to a meeting, any meeting, and bring it up as a topic for discussion. Believe me. That takes care of it. It’s not a onetime deal. It gives me a way to continue the fight against that dark cloud. It tells me to be grateful and abandon that attitude of arrogance. Write a gratitude list— it’s a way off that dark cloud. OK? There you have it, Pity Pot bye, bye.”

Christ and the Steps essentially teach us to get outside ourselves, to work the Steps, to accept that which we cannot change and to seek His will and the power to carry it out.

Jim A St X Noon, Cincinnati

*Forgiveness sought for combining incidents in the first paragraph from different sources. JA

Well $#%@.

That was my immediate thought when I looked up this month’s recovery principle. I felt shame and guilt again because the word integrity has been destructive. In the past, integrity was the highest standard for an evangelical pastor. Pastors with integrity were super-Christians, who seemed to float into rooms, could preach up a storm, and see thousands of conversions. Integrity was directly related to results in ministry.

The inverse was communicated as truth as well. If I lacked integrity, my ministry was “of the flesh” and would not produce church growth and success. If your ministry was not fruitful, it was because of unconfessed sin, a lack of faith, or doing things of our efforts. I recall numerous conversations with fellow pastors who commented in negative ways about preachers who were not dynamic and how they equated that lack of “power” to a lack of intimacy with God.

As an active addict at that time, I ate that up. I knew the hypocrisy with which I was living. I knew that on any given Sunday, I was preaching a sermon prepared during a time of acting out in my sex and love addiction. Even when I was “clean” from those things, I always felt my integrity didn’t meet God’s expectations because I was in denial about being gay.

The church I identified used integrity as a synonym for holy, pure, and virtuous. While the Biblical word certainly can be used for those meanings, I believe such a definition reinforces a culture of shame and guilt that keeps others compliant or locked in abuse. Shame and guilt are often the catalysts for acting out as addicts.

It is time to view integrity differently as people in recovery.

Is it possible that integrity occurs when what others see on our outside mirrors what we know to be confirmed on the inside? In recovery, I embrace the synonym of “honest” as a replacement for integrity. Step five breaks the power of the secret life through disclosure. After taking inventory of my moral defects, having another human being who listens to my darkest deeds without flinching breaks the hold shame has over me. For many of us, this is the first time we are congruent in our private and public selves.

I wonder how much internal and external congruence would impact our churches. Imagine clergy that set aside the urge to be perfect in the pulpit and were transparent with their struggles with addiction, insecurities, and self-will. Imagine marriages and partnerships in which ego takes a backseat to the integrity of being honest with those we love. Dare we embrace this as a culture? Well, $#%@ that sounds like heaven.

-Shane M

In the current issue of PARABOLA*, Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee writes: “Time speaks in many voices, many different images and sounds…Time itself has become a standard, isolated, no longer able to communicate, to share its ancient knowledge…In today’s world the hectic, stress-inducing demands of time are often answered by the spiritual teaching that only the moment of now exists…But within each moment are all the rhythms of time, the patterns that flow from this still center…Each moment is both outside of time and also contains time, for, as .S.T. Eliot writes, “history is a pattern of timeless moment.””

“It’s time.” “What time is it?” “Time to get up. Time to go to bed. Time to go to work. Time to play. Time to pray. Time to eat. Time to get dressed. A time for everything under heaven. A time to be born, to die.”

One of the things I missed most in my years of active alcohol and drug abuse was Time. I never had time for those people, places, and things I now consider important. I thought I ‘managed’ my time well as I got my work done, kept appointments, made sure I looked good, etc. The problem was I was not there at the time. I was in a Blackout for just about all of my drinking/using years.

When I think about time, I think of my adolescent/young adult years when I would take my bicycle and ride around the countryside. I had all the time in the world. I loved the smell of new mown hay. I loved the aroma of the bog and the turf. I had time to stop with a neighbor—whether or not I knew them—and talk about the day, the weather, etc.

Then came the combine harvester and “real work” began. Gone were the days of turning over rows of hay for it to dry. The owner of this machine came early in the morning, turned over the hay, bailed it and spit it out for us to pick up and take to the shed and then go to the next farm to do the same. There was less and less ‘time’ to play, to visit, to sit around and play poker.

Then came college and a frightening new world of Bud Stupid, James Jemison, Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, and friends. And time vanished. They took up a lot of my time even when I was not actively drinking. They gave me courage, strength, a belief in myself that had not existed before. I drowned myself in their presence and time was not important except for them. I always had time for a drink.

After I came to grips with my powerlessness and the unmanageability of my life due to the influence of mood-altering chemicals, including alcohol, I had to make time to reflect more seriously on my life as an active alcoholic. During those years I buried my emotions, I had a split screen on God—one I believed in, the angry one; and the Loving God about whom I talked to others.

Sobriety was a time-consuming process of relearning to say, “I feel…” and learn words other than “fine” or “Great” and to avoid “You made me…” I skipped through steps four and five and then had to make time to take a fearless and moral inventory of myself. The more time I took to reflect, the more honest I became.

By the time I reached the eight, nineth and tenth steps I was beginning to appreciate the program and its “demand” for rigorous honesty.” It was time to grow up. It was time to take my life seriously.

The next step was to seek “through prayer and meditation to improve my conscious contact with God as I understood him.” I was good at saying prayers, prayers I had learned by heart as a child. But “Prayer is the lifting of the heart and mind to God.” And, to do so, is to become more consciously aware of God in my life. God’s time is Now, the here and now of everyday living. I didn’t have to stop and say prayers. I could look around me and see the presence of God in the sun, moon and stars, in the rain and storm, in the peace and quiet of a beautiful day. The world became for me “God’s art gallery.” As I walked or drove through God’s art gallery I witnessed the changing of the day, the changing of the weather, the changing of the seasons. God was present all around me. I was living and being alive in God’s time.

I don’t know when or where it happened but, in living the program, I found a new meaning of time and having time especially for those in need.

Séamus P Doyle
Séamus is a retired Episcopal priest in the greater New Orleans area.

* (Summer 2023 Vol 48.NO 2. 25-29. “Sacred Time: The Seasons and the Cosmos.”)

Yes, I was. This time it wasn’t “Film at 11.” I was scanning the news stories and happened on one that seemed to have broken within the hour. The video from that school was on the internet, more becoming available.

I watched as her dirty van entered the school parking lot. Later, I saw Audrey Hale’s picture, and she looked as your high school teen would. She parked and I watched her, dressed in camo pants and a red baseball cap jauntily worn backwards. Walking to the school’s locked doors, a semi-automatic machine gun in hand, she blasted the glass and entered the hall. She strolled about looking for people to kill.

Then I heard other voices from outside: “In in in,” “There, there,” “Go, go,” “Clear!” Each harsh, stern, focused--shotguns and rifles pointed. They moved fast, room by room, closets, bathrooms.

Suddenly we hear gun shots, heavy, solid, angry. Then cries, “Upstairs-up, up, up.”

Then it was quiet as these men slowly walked down the hall leading to the room where the shots came from--no sound. Suddenly 8 shots …bam …bam …bam…bam ….bam …bam …bam …bam. It was over.

This killing of children and teachers wasn’t any different from other shootings. For me it was, as this time I saw and heard all if it, almost as it happened--intimate, in color, with voice. Have I reached a level of familiarity of the killing of school children such that I just earnestly pause, pray for parents and survivors, then put it aside and go on my way?

What would Bill W and Dr. Bob say in these moments of deep tragedy. Well, the first thing they’d say is our Higher Power was there just as He was for all of us, for as sinners, we were always welcomed into the Program. Perhaps we weren’t aware of His presence but at this depth of our lives, we weren’t alone.

So it was that day in Nashville.

“Wait a minute,” I’m thinking, “even with her, can that be true? That’s hard to accept. We can empathize with the shooter, but she pulled the trigger, so she pays the price!”

God’s infinite power is beyond us, unfathomable, incomprehensible. Our minds can’t assimilate that. Can we limit that power? We know our Higher Power was with us through our final drink at the depths of our being. We didn’t earn His Grace and the question isn’t how serious our sins might have been. It is God’s love for us that we’re speaking of. We’re not required to earn that Grace or His love.

The Program gives us much--how to live life, acceptance, letting go, and more. Our ego intercepts this serenity and seeks to steer us away. We are always wrestling with our ego. He appears in many forms, and here our ego's plea was to ignore and disavow Christ’s presence with Audrey at the moments of the depths of her very being.

I must recall Christ’s Grace as the sinners we are and yes, I believe His Grace reaches Audrey Hale, and “yes,” in the words of the hymn, “He was there.”

May the peace of God, the serenity of the Program, be always with us.

Jim A, Traditions, Lebanon, Ohio

My favorite theologian was only 2'2" tall.

Of course, I speak about Yoda, the Jedi Master from the Star Wars movies. In The Empire Strikes Back, Yoda warns his young apprentice, Luke Skywalker, "Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." I missed the spiritual truth of that line as a teenager. Now, after beginning my recovery journey, I not only understand that truth, I feel it at a cellular level.

My addiction and being in the orbit of an alcoholic have taught me the role Fear plays in my life. I never knew if my dad was drinking or the mood he would be in once I returned home from school. I lived in constant fear of being discovered, fear of having my most current acting-out partner show up at work, and uncleared search histories of being found. I lived in hyper-vigilance, constantly assessing the risk level of any given person, place, or thing.

In recovery, we can choose to fear as a catalyst for our work. By that, I mean that Fear, the unpleasant feeling triggered by the perception of danger, real or imagined, can paralyze, or energize us. In active addiction, I remained paralyzed by my fears of being alone, not being loved, a lack of validation, and rejection. In my relationships with alcoholics, I was often paralyzed by the dread of abandonment, not doing enough to keep them sober, and other's perceptions of me.

Courage is required to shake off the paralysis and begin progressing in recovery. Courage is simply the choice and willingness to confront the feelings, real or imagined, of danger, pain, or uncertainty. As Dorothy Bernard says, "Courage is fear that has said its prayers." Courage is grounded in steps one, two, and three. By acknowledging that we were out of control, that our efforts were useless, and that only something larger than ourselves (and our addictions) could restore us to sanity, we have set foot into the realm of courage. These steps bring us to the point where we can do the one thing we fear most.

Look at our own perfectly imperfect lives.

Step four requires examining our sketchy morality, dubious motives, and self-destructive patterns. While good sponsors also ask us to write down our character assets, it is the character liabilities we desperately try to avoid with one more drink, one more score, one more bet, one more online video, one more anonymous hook-up, one more marriage, or one more chance to play the victim. A fearless look at our lives will require us to establish a stronghold in reality, and surrender to the fact that we make pretty lousy higher powers.

I believe that recovering people are the most courageous humans on the planet. They may not run headfirst into the burning building, charge enemy fortresses, or skydive from a perfectly functioning airplane. They admit their fears and then choose not to be defined by them. Courage happens when they look in and risk sharing what they discover with another human being. Fear's power over our lives disappears as we admit that our lives contain patterns of ego, deceit, and self-will run riot. As Yoda also said,

"Named must be your fear before banish it you can."

Shane M
April 13, 2023

I heard the crowd from far away. There were waves of cheers and laughs, and I’m sure some sobs if I got close enough to hear. But I stayed at a distance. There was something about the place, something about the game and the crowd that intimidated me. I was glad they were assembled, but I didn’t feel the need, nor did I have the desire, to join them.

Then, I had nowhere else to go. I knew the time had come, and I walked toward the stadium. The sounds were familiar, and I recognized a few faces making their way to the game, but when I saw the place and approached the gate, I wanted to turn back. Somewhere deep down, I knew if I entered the arena, I would not be able to return to life as I knew it. With a deep breath, I pushed the gate and entered.

The sounds were louder from inside. I could hear what people were saying. Although I was surprised by the size of the crowd, there were still plenty of seats in the bleachers. I took my place in the back, toward the aisle in case I needed to leave. But I didn’t. I thought about it a few times, but instead of leaving, I moved down and sat closer the others. Still, I was happy in the bleachers. From there, I could look on. Like the others, I could comment on the performance of those on the field, question a call, and lift my arms in disgust when someone made a mistake.

“At least they’re on the field,” someone muttered loud enough for me to hear. I looked around but couldn’t identify who’d said it. The words haunted me. No longer was it satisfying to talk about the game or judge those playing. Eventually, I knew I had to stand and walk onto the field. 

“Don’t,” the person next to me said as he grabbed my arm. “It’s much warmer up here.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” added another. “You might get hurt. You might make a fool of yourself.”

It was all true, but I continued down the stairs and onto the field. The players who were grass-stained and sweaty smiled and came over to greet me. A few hugged me and got my clothes dirty. Seeing the look on my face, they laughed. “Just wait,” they exclaimed with a smile as the pushed me onto the field. 

After seventeen years in the bleachers, it felt good to get on the field. Yes, I’m bruised and muddy, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I wish I’d done it long ago.

Chip B.

The Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore, wrote: “I slept and dreamt that life was joy/ I woke and saw that life was service/ I acted and behold! service was joy.” After a few weeks of attending the same meeting of the Fellowship it was suggested to me that instead of coming in late and leaving early, that I might come somewhat earlier and help set up the hall and stay afterward. My first thoughts were that these guys had really listened to me and knew that I had something to offer and therefore wanted me to be part of the group. I was somewhat egotistical in those early days.

Not only that, but I was also asked to go on 12step calls to meet with individuals who had called the AA hotline and asked for help. I was taken to the State psychiatric hospital to tell my story. There was no doubt in my fogged-up brain—still fogged after five weeks in a four week program—that I was being groomed for leadership in AA. It took a while to get through my head that leadership in AA was about service that came from a desire to serve the group locally and the Fellowship at large.

Most of my life of service was that of doing good so that others might see how good a person I am. Looking back, I am amazed that while I was taught the importance of service by my parents—by word and deed—I somehow turned it into “all about me.” I didn’t know there was a hole in my heart that needed to be mended and healed.

In the process of recovery, I realized that service is part and parcel of all religious backgrounds and various clubs that help those in the community who have medical or nutritional needs. “I acted and behold! service was joy.”

There is something different about gathering with others in order to be of service to the group locally and at large. While the work may be serious, money raised, plans made, schedules kept, transport arranged, food arranged, there is within that time frame a time for what Fr. Mulcahy of M.A.S.H. fame referred to as “jocularity, jocularity.”

Service is simple. It does not require a lot of time or strength, or wealth or even health. Service can be as simple as showing up for a meeting. All too often we do not realize the importance our presence may be to another member. Service can be as simple as opening the door and stepping back to let someone go ahead of me. Service can be asking the man or woman next to you, “Can I get you a refill on your coffee.” Service can be giving a ride to or from a meeting. Service can be volunteering to serve on another board, region, or national level.

I acted and behold! service was joy. If you don’t like it, don’t do it just because no one else wants to do so. If no one wants to make the coffee, then perhaps that group doesn’t want to drink it, so why make it. It is not healthy to be on a committee if the length of service is a lifetime [requirement]. Committee members need to step down for a period of time to prevent themselves from burnout. Service to the group or region can be in finding the right person to serve. There are those whose gifts and talents can be beneficial to the group or region, but they may be shy about volunteering. They may not think they can serve as the same three people rotate in and out of service. I was in the Fellowship for a number of years before I volunteered to serve on a committee as it seemed to me that certain individuals were tapped for those positions. And there are those who prefer to serve behind the curtain. They are not comfortable in the limelight, but they will gladly be a “gofer” and they will go for anything needed.

One of the joys of the AA fellowship is that there seems to be no end to the ways we can be of service to one another, the group, region, nationally and internationally. As Martin Luther King once wrote: “Everybody can be great...because anybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve. You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”

Séamus P Doyle.
Séamus is a retired Episcopal priest in the greater New Orleans area.

I’ve been thinking about Miracles.

My sobriety began with a miracle. I was miserable, desperate, and unsure of what to do. I was alone and suffering. I couldn’t explain it. I was outside and everyone else was inside the circle. I didn’t understand. At one time alcohol had eased my pain, helped me forget my isolation and made things bearable—but then alcohol turned on me. I couldn’t drink enough and anything I drank was too much. I cried out, yes, actually cried out, “God help me, I can’t do this alone.” And within days, I was led to 12-Step Recovery. Yes, within days…

And the miracles continue. Being sober means my whole self is available to participate in life. And that means being able to see the miracles that are all around, every day, everywhere. Even in the midst of loss and anxiety, even during illness and insecurity, I can see the miracles. Being sober means having my eyes open to life, to possibility, to the miracle of the unfolding story.

In January of 2020 I got a highly anticipated phone call from Oklahoma. My goddaughter Maggie had just given birth to a daughter! Miriam, Maggie’s mom and one of my dearest friends, phoned to tell me of the baby’s safe arrival. Then Miriam said that Maggie had decided that the little one would be named after herself…and me. I hadn’t expected that miracle of generosity, and I cried tears of—relief for the safe arrival, astonishment for the surprise, and gratitude for the honor.

We all planned to get together on Holy Saturday, April 11, for the baptism of Miriam Aini Eleanor (Miri). You know what happened. The world shut down in March 2020—just for a few weeks, we thought--until this COVID thing got under control. Miri’s baptism was rescheduled for Pentecost, May 31. And then rescheduled…and finally happened in April 2021. But wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles (thanks, Fiddler on the Roof)—in the midst of the tragedy of the pandemic, the physical isolation, and the uncertainty—we got to see Miri grow from infancy to babyhood to toddlerhood. Daily texts and pictures from Maggie, phone conversations and Zoom suppers and bath-times brought us together to share the miracle of daily living.

On my first sober anniversary my sponsor had given me a plaque of the Serenity Prayer and on the back she inscribed “Alone no more…” And that is the miracle of miracles. Whether isolation stems from the tragic blindness to connection that active substance use causes, or it comes from the distancing required to end the spread of a deadly virus—we are never ever alone. Sobriety opens our eyes to connection and fills us with gratitude.

And we see miracles everywhere.

“You promised to do something about your drinking, but that you had to think about taking that step.” That’s no promise; that’s fantasy.”

“Hedging your bets doesn’t aid attaining your sobriety. It’s just the old effort to get the spouse or boss off your back. You’ve broken that promise before. C'mon, it’s not forever anyway. In the Program we quit only for today. You can do that.”

“You must quit for yourself—not for your father, mother, husband, or minister. This disease is an addiction—physically and mentally.”

“Even I, as one in recovery, remains an addict and powerless over a deeply held thirst for alcohol.”

“The grinding tragedy of it all is that help is available and all one has to do is accept that fact and work the Program.”

“Yes, this is a disease never cured—once an addict, always an addict.”

“And to make it worse, this disease always worsens. Even after a goodly amount of time of sobriety, a drink will put you right back on that downward slope you jumped off of all those years ago.”

“Sure, I too remember those early days of drinking, but it wasn’t fun at the end.”

“You’re right. Don’t go to the meetings just to protect or grow your own sobriety. The Program tells us we also have an obligation to carry the message to those still suffering. In some ways we ‘get it’ by ‘giving it away to others.’”

“Worried about finding all those bottles you hid? Don’t worry. You don’t remember where you hid them way back when and you’ll probably find them the next time you’re upgrading the insulation in the walls of your den.”

“Yes, you are absolutely correct: your complete attention back then was devoted to seeing how long you can fool your family that you weren’t still drinking. You looked at this as a game—pure and simple.”

“Of course, those gala holiday parties are tempting. Everyone else is over-doing it, but you don’t have that option so don’t go to those gala events as you call them. The guests won’t miss you for they’re too busy making certain they get enough free booze.”

“You’re correct, yes indeed. Working the Program will change your life. It’s a fresh start free of those old drunken hangovers.”

“Yes. You’ll have to adjust all aspects of your now alcohol-free life. You won’t have that phony crutch to deal hide behind. The Program offers a Higher Power that will be with you no matter what happens. It gives us a chance to get outside ourselves and carry an attitude of accepting a spiritual strength, a life of serenity. Maintaining and deepening your own alcohol-free life is enough to worry about and making sure you go to those daily meetings available no matter where you are or what you are doing. Today you can ZOOM anywhere, any day, at any time. Don’t tell us you can’t find a meeting.”

“Just keep coming back. The Program works if you work it.”

Jim A/Traditions Assisted Living, Lebanon, Ohio

Sometimes my faith is weak.

This poses a problem for me, a person in recovery. The Third Step states: "We decided to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him." After all, recovery is a spiritual program and requires a leap of faith. Much like the one performed by Harrison Ford in the movie Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade, at Step Three, I must close my eyes, extend my foot over a bottomless chasm, and step into the void with no assurance that something or someone will stop my fall. In my experience, such a decision works well on the silver screen, but in real life, not so much.

The word faith carries with it a lot of spiritual baggage. I am accustomed to the term being used to browbeat me into compliance from my experience in the evangelical church. My lack of faith was a sign of unconfessed sin or lousy theology. When I began my recovery journey and got to step three, I struggled to make the step of faith because of my experience with how my evangelical church defined faith. My experience told me that this would not work. "Why should it be any different now?" I asked.

But it was.

Steps one and two had to proceed this leap, be they on paper or in my heart and mind. As I surrendered my ego, I discovered that I was powerless over my addiction and my ability to muster up enough faith to change my ways. That power had to come from outside of me.

In the rooms of my programs, I found people who lived to tell stories of sobriety and recovery. In the sharing of their experience, strength, and hope, they were able to redistribute faith. Working with my sponsor allowed him to transfer some of his faith into my account. Finally, my Higher Power taught me about grace and how it makes a difference when my faith weakens. That's the dynamic of the program. Fallible human beings are being restored to sanity by grace in the context of community— God doing for us (often through others) what we cannot do for ourselves.

Admitting we lack faith may not be such a bad thing. Perhaps there is a larger world where faith is shared between those with much and those with little. The purpose of faith may be to empower us to experience life on life's terms, apart from attempts to control life outcomes. Is it possible that what we call faith in our religious experiences is just a cover for a set of beliefs and tenants used to control us?

Father Richard Rohr says, "Faith is not for overcoming obstacles; it is for experiencing them—all the way through!" I am learning that faith is a journey through circumstances and not a destination to which I arrive. It is the first of many steps on the road leading closer to serenity.

On this journey, my faith has grown, and I have been able to help others amid their faith struggle. Doing so has increased my faith, not dogma or heartless religious definitions. I can take the ladle of love, dip it into the well of faith, and pour some into the cup of a newcomer or trusted fellow in need. I now understand that faith is about emptying me of myself so that the God of my understanding may fill me with God's presence and power.

All I need to do is close my eyes, swing out my foot, and take the leap.

By Shane M