I had consciously decided to ask any individual for help, he would have been the last man I would have approached! He smiled and said that he would try to help me, and he brought me to the A.A. recovery program.
In thinking all this over, it finally became obvious to me that the God I thought had judged and damned me had done nothing of the sort. He had been listening, and in His own good time His answer came. His answer was threefold: the opportunity for a life of sobriety; Twelve Steps to practice, in order to attain and maintain that life of sobriety; fellowship within the program, ever ready to sustain and help me each twenty-four-hour day.
I hold no illusion that I brought the A.A. program of recovery into my life. I must always consider it as a gift of opportunity. In the use of this opportunity, the onus is on me.
St. John’s, Newfoundland
A PRESENCE
I am a radio officer on a tanker, and the final revelation of my condition and its cure came while I was sitting alone in my stateroom with my favorite bottle. I asked for God’s help out loud, although only my own ears could hear. Suddenly, there was a Presence in the room, bringing a peculiar warmth, a changed, softer shade of light, and an immense feeling of relief. Though I was sober enough, I said to myself, “You’re drunk again,’’ and I went to bed.
In the morning, however—in broad daylight—the Presence was still there. I was not hung-over, either. I realized that I had asked and I had received. From that time on, I have had no alcohol. Whenever I get the urge, I think of that which happened to me, and it keeps me straight.
A.A. Internationalists
FRESH SNOW
Exposed to the Fellowship of A.A. for over six years, I had known in that time three relapses, brutal and dismal episodes. Each increased my self-abasement and hopelessness. Sober once again, settled into a minor job, I learned that there was satisfaction in the accomplishment of even menial tasks and that humility—applied as teachability and the search for truth—could be a higher power in disguise.
Then, unexpectedly, I was offered an executive job, involving many responsibilities. I could answer only, “I’ll have to think about it.”
Was I capable of staying sober? Was I really sober or only dry? Could I handle the responsibilities entailed and cope with renewed success? Or would God permit me to punish myself again?
I called a woman friend whom I was sponsoring. We talked it over, and she believed I could and should take the offer. Her faith reassured me; I knew the stimulation of being able to feel dignity again and gratification just to be alive. This newfound sense remained with me throughout the A.A. meeting we attended that evening. The subject under discussion was Step Eleven: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.”
Home in the privacy of my room, I had another shock—a letter from my sister. I had seen her last in a sheriff’s office, where she had regretfully ended the family’s long effort to help me. “Even our prayers seem hopeless,” she had said, “so I’ll leave you to fend for yourself.” Now came her letter, pleading to know where and how I was. Looking out the window at the soot and dirt of the rooftops and then inside at the meanness of my room, I thought with bitterness, “Yes indeed, if only they could see me now!” The saving grace was that I had nothing more to lose and naught to ask from anyone. Or had I?
All my youthful ideals had been washed away by alcohol. Now all the dreams and aspirations, family, position—everything I had once known—came back to jeer at me. I remembered hiding behind the trees in front of my former home to see my children go by the window; phoning my family just to hear familiar voices say, “Hello, hello—who’s there?” before I hung up.
Sitting down on the bed, I picked up the letter and read it again and again. In my anguish, I could stand no more. Desperately, I cried, “Oh God, did You desert me? Or did I desert You?”
How much time went by, I don’t know. Rising, I seemed to be drawn to the window. I beheld a transformation! The smut of that industrial city had disappeared under a covering of fresh snow. Everything was new and white and clean. Falling to my knees, I renewed that conscious contact with my God I had known as a boy. I didn’t pray; I just talked. I didn’t think; I just unburdened a heavy heart and a lost soul. I didn’t thank; I only begged for help.
That night, finally at peace with myself for the first time in years, I slept the whole night through and awakened without fear and dread of another day. Continuing my prayer of the night before, I said, “I’ll take the job. But, dear God, let’s You and I play it together from now on.”
While some days may offer only a modicum of frantic serenity, twenty-six years later I still know the same inner tranquility that comes with forgiveness of self and the acceptance of God’s will. Each new morning, there is faith in sobriety—sobriety not as mere abstinence from alcohol, but as progressive recovery in every facet of my life.
With my A.A. friend, my wife for twenty-five years now, I have joined my family for a joyous reunion. We know a contented and happy life, in which my sister and all the family share renewed and stronger bonds of affection. Since that day, I trust and am trusted.
Edmonton, Alberta
I WASN’T ALONE ANY MORE
I was in and around the Fellowship for three years, sometimes staying sober, sometimes cheating (myself, of course) a little or a lot. I loved A.A.—shook hands with everyone at every door at all meetings I attended, and they were many. I was a sort of A.A. hostess. Unfortunately, I still had a lot of trouble with me.
One member of my group used to say, “If you would just take the Third Step . . .” He might as well have been talking Dutch! I couldn’t understand. Although I had been an honor student at Sunday school, I had gotten far away from anything spiritual.
At one point, I did manage to stay physically sober for six months. Then I lost my job and, at fifty-four, was sure I would never get another. Very frightened and depressed, I just couldn’t face the future, and my stupid pride wouldn’t allow me to ask anyone for help. So I went to the liquor store for my crutch.
In the next three and a half months, I died a hundred times. I still attended a lot of meetings when I could, but didn’t tell anyone of my troubles. The other members had learned to leave me alone, because they felt helpless, and I understand now how they felt.
One morning, I awoke with a decision to stay in bed all day—that way I couldn’t get a drink. I kept that decision, and when I got up at six, I felt secure, as the liquor stores closed at that hour. That night, I was desperately ill; I should have been in the hospital. About seven o’clock, I started to phone everyone I could think of, in and out of A.A. But no one could, or would, come to my aid. As a last effort, I phoned a blind man. I had worked and cooked for him for several years, and I asked him whether I could take a taxi and come to his apartment. I knew I was going to die, I told him, and I was afraid.
He said, “Die and be damned! I don’t want you here.” (He told me later he could have cut his tongue out, and thought of calling back. Thank God he didn’t!)
I went to bed sure I would never get up again. My thinking had never been clearer. I couldn’t really see any way out. By three o’clock in the morning, I still hadn’t slept. I was propped up with pillows, and my heart
