Be careful. Little ears overhear. Innocent little hearts form in fear. For the words spoke over them scar them somewhere deep within. So, be careful. Little ears overhear. It’s easy to forget how powerful our words can be. When we’re angry, when we’re hurt, we tend to release careless words, and there’s no way to take them back. There’s no undo button in the brain. We can overwrite negative messages from the past if we’re persistent and intentional about it, but we first have to recognize them for what they are. These old recordings blast through our bodies whenever someone pushes the play button, and we habitually play along because that’s just what we do. It’s our normal. We often don’t even recognize what has happened until after the fact, once it’s too late to process or to make a conscious decision. It’s impossible to be responsible for ourselves because we have no ability to respond. Besides, blaming someone else is so much easier. Projecting our pain and fear doesn’t hurt us directly, so we make excuses, justify our behavior, and do anything not to feel it. Feel the pain. Examine each and every scar still deep within your heart, so the little child parts can finally heal.

My Papa said, “She’s crazy; that’s why I have to go. You’re too young to understand, and I hope you never know the heartache that I’m feeling as I walk away. But don’t you worry. You’ll be fine. You’ll be a man someday.”

My Mama said, “He’s lazy, and he ain’t worth a dime. We’re better off without him. You’ll understand in time. I don’t know how we’ll make it. We’ll get by any way we can. But don’t you worry. You’ll be fine. Someday you’ll be a man.”

Papa left and Mama tried, at least until the day she died. Policeman said, “Damn heroin,” and took me to the next of kin. “You can’t stay here all by yourself. You’ll have to live with someone else. But don’t you worry. You’ll be fine. You’ll grow into a man in time.”

So now I’m here. I’m good and grown. Through all these years, I’ve never known. If Papa’s worthless and Mama’s crazy as she can be, it might sound hopeless. But what does that make me?

Where we’re starting from on this dusty road trying to find our way back home. It’s a lonesome trail, a trail of tears. Where we’re heading to, we don’t really know, but we’re desperate for a way to show we won’t be derailed, derailed by our fears. With weary eyes and broken hearts, we shuffle our way through the dark. When failure rules over our dreams, and disappointment tears us at the seams. Light a candle and say a prayer. There’s someone listening out there somewhere. Bend your knees, kneel in surrender. Confess your need, where you’re weak and tender, and take a moment now. Release your grief and bow. Open your hands, allow the shame to slip away. This is what I pray.

I failed again. I’ve ended up right back where I started eight years ago. Only I’m not in the same place as I was back then. Yes, I’m on my knees. Yes, I’m kneeling in surrender. That’s where I ought to be every day. I keep thinking I can do this; somehow, this time will be different. It’s not different. It’s never different. It’s another day to practice. I need all of the practice I can get. I’ve been in plays; I know the drill. You say the same lines with the same people on the same stage. Each run through brings improvement. Sometimes, an understudy steps in. Sometimes, a certain prop changes, gets broken or adjusted, and the actors often riff or improvise in the moment, but it’s the same story. My life is my story, and each day is another rehearsal. At the end of my life, I’ll see the final performance, how all of the pieces fit together, how the last scene is the resolution, not the climax. I look forward to curtain, and I dread it knowing that it won’t be long before I no longer gather and spend time with the people I enjoy the most. The laughter, the tears, the practical jokes, the arguments, especially the arguments with the director, they’ll all be in the past and the liminal time will begin, the waiting period before the next play is chosen and cast. There is nothing to fear or dread. The heartache and the healing are both a part of the story, and story would be nothing without them.

In our society today there are so many misperceptions floating around about God, Sin, and Jesus. God isn’t a judge or a genie. God is personal. Jesus isn’t just an ancient Jew. Jesus is God with, among, and in us. And sin isn’t something we do when we misbehave. Sin is our Scrawny, Insufficient Nature. We all fall short, not because we’re bad but because we’re human, and all human beings are equal; no one is better or worse. We’re all flawed. We’re all imperfect, and we’re all loved anyway just for being who we are. That’s the good news of the gospel in a nutshell. And, most important, the grace of the Holy Spirit flows through us to impower us to connect directly with God so our flesh can be Jesus to the people in our lives. This explanation is the sum of my faith. I don’t push it off on anyone, and I don’t try to make anyone else believe what I do. I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t want to. We’re free to be happy, to be kind, to love others, and to enjoy our lives. What other message could possibly be better than that?

Alone, I pace through castles of stone safe from the elements within my home. Amply fed, I can survive on massive storages as in a hive. Water flows freely from faucet to basin swelling in pools clear and deep enough to play in. Every need met in warmth and safety; my surroundings full but my insides are empty. The one unmet need for which I am longing is to be free with a sense of belonging. For though we’re lacking, together we fly; and yet, with needs met, left alone I die. This poem expresses a great truth about the human need for connection, but it doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the excruciating pain we feel when we believe we’re unwanted and know in the core of our being that we don’t belong. Loneliness is the greatest threat to my survival. It creates a lifestyle that I’m continually desperate to escape. My ultimate goal for myself this year is to build a new life of purpose and meaning where, even when I’m physically alone, I don’t have to feel emotionally abandoned.

In recovery, we have 12 Traditions to ensure that no one tells anyone else what or how they “should” believe. Instead, we share our personal experience, strength, and hope. Therefore, the following anecdote is an example of what I believe. When I was eighteen, I ran away from home and joined the Army. My platoon had three Drill Sergeants, one of whom we’ll call DS Jackson. For those who are unfamiliar with Basic Training, the DS is the biggest badass who takes scrawny teenagers and molds them into hardened soldiers. One component, which must be passed in training, is marksmanship, which I couldn’t pass for the life of me. I have terrible aim. The term “sin” literally means – to miss the mark. I spent all week at the range missing the targets, certain that I would never pass the final test. After firing my last rounds, I approached DS Jackson in tears. Amazingly, he allowed this snotty, sobbing teenager to hug him as he told me that I passed. He was Jesus to me in this moment, love with skin on. God showed up for me that day in a big way. I know God directed the bullets for me because passing that test was beyond my capacity and graduating from Basic Training was a pivotal point in my life. Reflecting upon this one example helps me to trust God to do for me what I cannot do for myself. My responsibility is to hold my weapon steady, take aim, and fire.

The pain isn’t coming; it’s already here. Anticipatory anxiety is the pain we feel before a painful event occurs. In fact, the painful event doesn’t even need to happen in order for the body to experience the pain that would have followed the event if the event had occurred. This phenomenon is often experienced in near events: stopping a vehicle moments before impact, bracing yourself for impact from a moving object seen in your periphery, tensing from the movement of shadows when you think you’re alone. However, anticipatory anxiety can be more damaging to the body when the foreseen event is further into the future: a terminal diagnosis, a child leaving for college, a disintegrating marriage. The less time between the realization of impending danger and the actual event, the more acute the body’s reaction will be. The more time between them, the more sustained the reactive responses will be. When my heart jumps out of my chest at a near collision, I know I will be okay. My heart rate will return to normal soon. When I feel as though my life is gradually falling to pieces around me, I’m not so certain. I know I’ll survive, but will my heart rate ever return to normal again? Will I be able to find my way back to normal? Is normal even the goal? Not for me. If I’m going to suffer through months of anticipatory anxiety, I sure as heck want better than normal once I reach the other side.

I don’t understand why people fear death. Death is easy. It just happens. Sometimes there’s pain involved, but it’s short and fleeting. Plus, our bodies protect us as we die. Adrenaline pumps through us, shock blankets us, confusion and denial carry us along as long as we need them to. Everyone dies, but not everyone lives. Living is the hard part. Living requires us to learn how to peacefully interact with other people. We have to learn healthy coping skills to replace our default survival mechanisms. Life is scary and hard. We need to confront things that need to change and actually do things differently in order to change them instead of merely slipping back into old patterns of behavior. Life is a series of unfortunate events spackled with periodic positive reinforcement. It keeps us guessing, which is what captivates us and makes life such an amazing adventure. And yet, our fear of death often prevents us from enjoying life while we’re here. I don’t want to live each day on autopilot, as a repeat of the day before, just to keep it predictable and safe. I want to live, to really live, even if it makes death a real possibility.

Drink it in. The sky, the pavement, the trees, yes, even the pavement, everything within sight is there to bless you. Things are a blessing. Places are a blessing. People are a blessing. Any time you’re in pain, open your eyes to be reminded of how blessed you are. There’s a natural tendency to close your eyes when you’re in pain, to tense up, to give any attempt at releasing your pain immediate priority. However, whatever you focus on, you magnify. Instead of relieving your pain, you’re reliving your pain. So, focus on something else. Relax. Everything’s going to be okay. Breathe. Pause. Focus on all of the blessings you see and before you know it, before you realize what’s happening, your pain will be fading into the background as you gradually adjust your lens.