Came to Believe - Anonymous

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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 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 was pounding almost out of my chest. My limbs started turning numb—first my legs above my knees, then my arms above my elbows.

      I thought, “This is it!” I turned to the one source I had been too smart (as I saw it) or too stupid to appeal to earlier. I cried out, “Please, God, don’t let me die like this!” My tormented heart and soul were in those few words. Almost instantly, the numbness started going away. I felt a Presence in the room. I wasn’t alone any more.

      God be praised, I have never felt alone since. I have never had another drink and, better still, have never needed one. It was a long way back to health, and it was quite a while before people had confidence in me. But that didn’t really matter. I knew I was sober, and somehow I knew that, as long as I lived the way I believed God wanted me to live, I never need feel fear again.

      Recently, I was told that I had a malignant tumor. Instead of being afraid or depressed, I thanked God for the past sixteen years of borrowed time He had given me. The tumor was removed; I feel fine and am enjoying every minute of every day. There will be many more days, I believe. As long as God has work for me to do, I will remain here.

      Lac Carré, Quebec

      I tried to help this man. It was a humiliating experience. No one enjoys being a complete failure; it plays havoc with the ego. Nothing seemed to work. I brought him to meetings, and he sat there in a fog, and I knew that only the body was present. I went to his home, and either he was out drinking or he sailed out the back door as I entered the front one. His family was beginning to enter a period of real hardship; I could feel their hopelessness.

      Then came the hospital episode, the last in his extraordinary record of hospitalizations. He went into D.T.’s and convulsions, so violent that he had to be shackled to the bed. He was in a coma and being fed intravenously. Each day that I visited him, he looked worse, impossible as that seemed. For six days, he lay unconscious, unmoving except for the periodic shakes.

      On the seventh day, I again visited him. Passing by his room, I noticed that the restraints had been removed and the intravenous feeding tubes had been taken away. I felt elated. He was going to make it! The doctor and the floor nurse dashed my hopes. He was slipping fast.

      After I had arranged to have his wife brought there, it occurred to me that he was a Catholic and certain rites should be observed. It was a Catholic hospital, so I wandered down the hall and located a nun (the mother superior, it later turned out). She notified a priest and, with another nun, accompanied me back to the room.

      While the priest entered the room alone, the three of us decided to sit on the bench in the corridor. Without any prearrangement, all three of us bowed our heads and began to pray—the mother superior, the nun, and I, a Presbyterian ordained deacon.

      I have no way of telling how much time we spent there. I know the priest had left and gone about his other duties. What brought us back to the immediate present was a movement we heard from the room. When we looked in, the patient was sitting on the side of the bed!

      “All right, God,” he said. “I don’t want to be the quarterback any more. Tell me what You want me to do, and I will do it.”

      The doctors later said that they had considered it physically impossible for him to move, much less sit up. And before this, he had not uttered a word since entering the hospital. The next statement he made was “I am hungry.”

      But the real miracle was what happened to him in the next ten years. He

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