Through the Red Door Blog

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the Love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.  Romans 8:38-39

On June 18 at 10:45 pm the love of my life, my partner, my mate, my best friend and confidant John A., a priest of the church and a recovering alcoholic, died of a chronic condition while I was asleep in the recliner next to his hospital bed. John always listened to my TtRD blogs as they were in process, offering occasional suggestions and unfailing encouragement. John supported me in whatever I chose to do – write blogs or sermonettes, play the piano, sing, work extra hours at my paying job, drive hours to visit grandchildren for an afternoon or try once again to establish an exercise routine. How can I manage without his support?

Because it’s crazy COVID-19 time, for the first half of his three-month hospice sojourn it was just him and me and the visiting hospice angels here inside the condo – I was afraid to let anyone else into the house for fear that the coronavirus would make John’s last days even worse and would take me down also.

We had planned a trip to Florence and Rome that we canceled in February after one of his hospitalizations, knowing he wouldn’t be strong enough to travel. So we took some of our travel money and poured it into our front garden. We worked with a designer and  bought many mature perennials that John could enjoy as soon as they were in the ground.

Finally, after many weeks of tears and prayers, confessions of concerns and conversations with allies, I was able to let go of my fears and so family started to visit inside. Sometimes I would get away to walk the dog with friends wearing masks. Once or twice I went into the guest room and just slept for a few hours. I wanted to let John and his kids be alone together without my hovering presence. The day came, though, when it became apparent that home hospice and I, along with some amazing 24-hour friends and family members, couldn’t provide enough care for John and so he had to move to the hospital. That was hard.

The afternoon before John died, he crashed and it was touch-and-go, but his medical team finally got him stabilized. I was away visiting the kids, but Jamie, the rector of our church, was there with him. She had brought communion and made an altar out of the bedside table, moving aside IV kits and nasal cannulas and basins. Jamie started the service but John stopped her and whispered, “Invite them all in…” and so in came the doctors, in came the nurses, in came the LNAs and they encircled John’s bed and they communed.

And so it was evening and it was morning, another day. John was awake and agitated part of the time, but then became comfortable enough to sleep. Our golden retriever was allowed to come in to say good-bye and John moved his fingers when Bridget licked his hand, trying to scritch her on the head the way he always did.

So John died when I was asleep on the recliner next to his hospital bed. I think I woke up just as he entered the gates of larger life...

And now I’m writing my Red Door blog and trying to figure out how I can do this without my greatest encourager and advocate proofing my manuscript and praising a phrase or asking for an example.

But my point is – nothing can separate us – nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Loss and loneliness aren’t the only things I’m feeling today. It’s not even two weeks since John died so there’s also a lot of numbness, a lot of not feeling at all. But I am becoming aware of a deep well of gratitude. I’ve had many, many years of training in Alcoholics Anonymous in how to live one day, one moment, at a time without drink or drug. I’ve had the support and the example of thousands sober people who have shown me that there is nothing, nothing in the world…that can separate us from the love of God. And that love is made manifest in our Fellowship. You have shown me and taught me how to recognize God’s love all around me. An old-timer – was it John? – said to me recently that sobriety is growing to recognize that God is everywhere. Love is everywhere. Gratitude is everywhere.

So I’ll end with a list: I am grateful for the sober years that John and I had together. I am grateful for the easy sober laughter we shared. I am grateful for the sober spats and the sober reconciliations. I am grateful for going sober to church and for going sober to meetings together. I am grateful for our sober dinner parties. I am grateful for our sober symphony concerts and sober Red Sox games. I am grateful for the garden, a gift of our sobriety.

And most of all, I am so grateful for sobriety, for recognizing that God is here with me now, and that God always has always been with me--has always been with us.

Nothing can separate us from God’s love.

Christine A. H.

Saturday we will celebrate July 4^th,  the passing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia by fifty-six delegates of the Second Continental Congress in 1776. The cry was freedom from being repressed by a power that had become foreign and was now interfering with their lives. The fourth of July is a day to honor those who decided “enough.”  It was “a moment of clarity.” The delegates heard a call to an alternative life where they could become the people God had created them to be.

I suspect the delegates did not have all the pure motives for breaking away from England as we hear about in the orations in the days to come. Some motivations must have been financial.

This commemoration is beginning to sound unusually familiar to us in recovery. By some miracle, we have a “moment of clarity,” a moment of truth that gives us courage to make a decision for change.  My experience also is that even when our motives are not pure, we are still led to a change that will save our lives and the lives of so many others.

I think about my moment of clarity. It was not because I was driving with small children in the back seat of our car after I had had too much to drink. Rather, it was because I feared I might lose the career I had worked so hard to accomplish. Others also come to recovery not to seek help for themselves but because of a relationship with a spouse or child or employer or a court. They had not yet realized how they are captive to a disease that is unrelenting and will only get worse.

I remember when I first came to recovery that the promises spoke most clearly to me. I give thanks for the person who put the promises on the wall of our recovery room. “We will know a new freedom and happiness.” (Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 83)  NEW FREEDOM. NEW FREEDOM. Freedom to become the person God created us to be. Freedom from hiding alcohol. Freedom from carrying alcohol hidden in a suitcase on every trip in case there was none there. Freedom to speak and not fear that my speech would speak to my inability to speak. Freedom not to drink before a party so I could drink “socially” there.  Freedom to be an alert, awake, and conscious part of my family’s life.

As we all celebrate the birth of our nation, this fourth of July, I hope we also will celebrate the birth of an alternative life of freedom for each of us. It is truly a milestone to honor and give thanksgiving for our higher power who led us to “the moment of clarity” and for more people than we can number who carried us with them along the way. It is indeed a historical event.

Joanna Seibert

I've noticed lately that something in my ego bristles at the word “surrender.” I can't shake off the military connotations, and that throws my whole relationship with my Higher Power into an adversarial mode. Then, when I try to soften my heart and become willing to let go of my way, my will, I stubbornly don't want HP to have Her way, either.

But reframing the story in my mind, I feel the release and relief of a different kind of surrender. I can imagine being lost in a dark forest. Thorns and clinging vines block my passage, the sun's bright face is obscured by tall trees. I don't know what wild beasts or poisonous creatures are stirring, to my right and to my left. Darkness is coming and I am cold, hungry and afraid. In this situation, I would gladly surrender to anyone who could tell me which direction I needed to go. Thrashing around in an unknown place filled with hidden dangers doesn't usually lead to good outcomes.

If I was turning myself over to someone I know and trust, it would be an even easier decision. And I do know this Higher Power who demands my surrender. She is the one who fills my life with the tender love and care of my friends and family. My Higher Power offers me birdsong and flowers, sunshine and dramatic, sweeping storms. The third step invites me to turn my will and my life over to God's care, not to an indifferent commander of an opposing army.

Surrender itself is not the cause of my pain or discomfort. It's the resistance to surrender that makes every decision seem a burden, every step a hard slog. Giving up on having things my own way means difficulties begin to melt away and choices become more clear. When I let go of the idea that I am the sole keeper of life's answers, it is humbling – but it feels infinitely better than forcing my way alone through a hostile landscape.

Surrendering my own will and waiting for an understanding of what my Higher Power wants for me often seems an impossible task, especially when I view it over a period of weeks and months. On the days I have managed it with any kind of success, I have moved minute-by-minute in a careful dance of “do the next right thing.” Do the dishes. Call the doctor. Pay the bills. Take a nap. When I am able to trust my actions moment-by-moment, I build hours and then days on a foundation of God's will.

But moving forward, I can't always know that I am surrendered to HP. It is only looking backwards in time that I see how those “next right thing” moments stack up and offer me direction. It takes perspective to see the long-term fruits of the program. When I am surrendered, with a moment-by-moment dependence upon a kind and loving H.P., my program promises me a life filled with God's “ease, balance and grace.” That's something worth surrendering for.

-Karyn Zweifel

Our regular weekly noon discussion meeting of “St X. Noon” occurred this year on Memorial Day. We had finished the usual readings of the Steps and so forth and then the search for a topic raised its head. Identification of a topic is usually not a problem. Recovering alcoholics, it seems, don’t have any hesitation speaking out in an AA Discussion Meeting but for some reason the request for a topic this time fell on deaf ears. I’ve always thought that “Gratitude” was the final safety net for identification of a topic for discussion. So, I suggested it and we were “good to go.”

I had a couple recent occurrences for which I was very grateful: my brother-in-law reporting that just before Memorial Day he had been declared clean, if that is the right term, from the usually deadly onslaught of brain cancer. It has been several years since he started treatment which proved successful.

Another thing for which I was grateful was remembering on Memorial Day those in the Program who were the “old-timers”, those who were there when we finally showed up, usually last resort for us. They were there to provide aid, comfort, to keep us on the straight and narrow path — in some ways these folks were as important to us as the troops who paid the full price of a defense of our country. The old-timers assisted the resurrection of our being from that death spiral we were or would have been riding had we not walked in those church basement doors.

Bill and Dr. Bob told us that the Program was merely one drunk talking to another. That’s what we did at meetings. And so we moved from a selfish attitude toward life in general to one of empathy, a realization that the universe didn’t need us that much, that we weren’t the most important people in the scheme of things. We learned to appreciate our differences and to build strength on those differences. We learned others had trod the same path as ourselves. We also learned to emphasize with and remember those who didn’t make it. We ourselves had probably failed before so it’s no great surprise that others have stumbled. We don’t defile them, we comforted them — perhaps with some tough love, but at least with empathy and a hearty reminder that all of us had already played games with the Program at various levels of intensity.

We have to remember that the Program tells us that the Steps describe us to take positive action on a variety of human levels — from our souls to our relations with others — and with ourselves.

So, next year, when Memorial Day rolls around, I’ll recall Bob, the Plasted Plasterer, Dr. Father Scanlon, Ladder Bob, and all the gang that was present when I finally decided to walk down those steps into the basement of the First National Bank for the regular Tuesday East One gathering of those seeking life’s comforts through the Program and sharing with newcomers what we had learned.

Jim A/ St. X Noon

How are Pentecost, the Birthday of the Church, and June 10, The Birthday of Alcoholics Anonymous alike?

They both begin a season of sanctuary. A time of love, acceptance, understanding and peace.

The message of Pentecost is very, very clear: speak in a language clear enough so that everyone can hear the message. The message? God is love. You are a beloved child of God.

The message of Alcoholics Anonymous is equally clear: speak your truth out loud so that someone else might hear the story. The story? You don’t have to drink: you can talk to me instead.

On the day of Pentecost the Good News of God’s love was spoken so people could hear it in their own language. They understood. They got it. They were safe, among friends.

How many times have we gone to an AA meeting and left with wonder, saying “That speaker tonight told my story…I am not alone…there is a way…”

AA is a practical guide to living a life of love. Recovery starts out with acceptance of who and what we are: alcoholics, unable to manage even our own lives. But through the power of AA, through the fellowship and the program, we learn to love ourselves. And then that love can spill out and we can start to love other people. We take responsibility for our actions. We learn that we matter. We learn that what we do and say and think affects other people and we decide what we want that effect to be. We have choices. We are free.

So what do I mean, “season of sanctuary?” What season? What sanctuary? The season is now. Now is the time when things are happening. Right now. This is the season of love.

What sanctuary? The halls of AA--the undercrofts and basements, the upstairs rooms and Serenity Clubs--the halls of AA are safe places. People can come and be accepted. People can come with all their sadness and anger, their restless, irritable discontented selves and they will be listened to. And they will learn to listen to someone else and in doing so, they will become human.

What sanctuary? The chambers of our hearts that are open to love. The real, tough love of accepting other people as they are, knowing that in God’s kingdom they are doing okay.

We work very, very hard to offer sanctuary--acceptance, love, peace, understanding--to whomever we meet, wherever we are. We respect the dignity and worth of every human being.

And we show that by listening. We listen. We honor. We accept.

We are sanctuary.

Christine H.

When I came into the program some forty years ago, I heard the then old timers say, “First, I came to the meetings; then “I came to believe in the program,” and then. “ I came to believe in a Power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity.” How cute! Oh, did I have a lot to learn.

I came into this program thinking I had so much to offer giving my background of having been a minister, a counselor. Yes, I had a lot to learn and a lot more to unlearn.

I sat in meetings judging people for what they were saying, the cheap clichés, the jokes, the drunkalogues. What was I doing with “these people?”

Thanks to my Higher Power and my arrogance I stayed around long enough to get sober. Initially I wanted to show my boss that I could stop drinking as well as show my Aftercare Counselor I was doing more work than those in our Friday evening group. In fact, all I was doing was going to meetings. When I look back at that time I realize, “I came” to the meetings and, what I heard was sinking into and changing my stinking thinking.

For almost five years “I came” to the meetings and that was it. Oh, I did “Do” the steps. In fact, “I finished them.” Then I had an experience that got my attention, that I needed help. Doing the steps, superficial as I was, was getting to me and finally brought me to the realization of my powerlessness

“I came to believe” in the program. Yes, no one could explain to me how or why it worked. It just worked. Go to meetings. Read the Big Book. Talk to your sponsor.

Then someone said to me that when I go to meetings, I needed to listen to what “those folk” shared and ignore the differences. I needed to Read the Big Book and apply it to myself. I needed to talk to my sponsor and also listen to him.

“I came to believe in a Power greater than myself.” Yes. I believed in God but, the God in which I believed was a vengeful one. My God was “out to get me.” I lived in fear of the God in whom I believed and prayed to. I knew there was a loving God and I talked about him/her. And then I read “create your own image of God.” This brought me far outside my comfort zone. Now, I needed to talk to my sponsor. I needed to talk to those who not only thought as I once did but also to those who thought differently from me and who could challenge me and my belief system; take a good look at step one again and ask myself, “Would a healthy person do what you did?” “Do normal ethical people do what you did?” The answer was staring me in the face; hit me on the back of the head like a hammer. My behavior was that of one who not only had lost his values but also insane. I had a difficult time in accepting that kind of insanity. “It wasn’t my fault. I just drank too much.” “I don’t remember that. I can’t imagine me doing that.” “I can’t imagine me saying that.”

“I came to believe in a power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity.”

That Higher Power helped me accept myself as a human being; as one with a disease called addiction; that I made, can, and will make, mistakes and I can now go on living. Sanity is accepting that I am not perfect in any form. Sanity is to be responsible. To be responsible is to be able to respond and not always react. To be sane is to have peace of mind even when I make mistakes. To be sane is to enjoy the here and now of living in the present.

In returning to Steps one and two I finally understood the process as I came to believe I had to work and live steps one and two before I could learn to trust self, others and the God I would call my Higher Power, and a Higher Power I can call God.

Sometimes before I turn out the light I ask Siri to tell me a joke. A part of my mind sneers at this, that I would turn to an artificial intelligence for company or solace. But the better part of me defends my little habit. It’s a random bit of self-care, virtual company as I whistle past the graveyard. Being alone at the close of the day brings up a sort of primordial fear in me: perhaps I’m afraid of being unconscious, unaware and undefended. That fear is something shadowy, lurking around the edges of my consciousness and nibbling at my sanity. It’s almost embarrassing to think about, but I am afraid of going to sleep. Or perhaps I fear the release that precedes slumber, the letting go of all the day’s plans and hopes and little failings.

Letting go means looking hard at the illusion of control. Although I may believe I have some control over other people, places and things, that’s usually false. I really only control what’s inside my hula hoop. When I do a tenth step at bedtime, it helps me sort out what bits of my day I actually had under my control. I have health problems, and sometimes those twist my day out of shape. But I have no control over my cancer, its symptoms and the side effects of my treatment. When I continue “...to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it,” it gives me a way to catalog my day, accept responsibility for my shortcomings, and let go of the rest.

Maybe it’s my expectations deviling me at bedtime. Perhaps I’m just clinging onto every day, unsure that there will be another. These are more manifestations of my inability – or unwillingness – to let go of what is not mine. Yet I have placed my prayer life and my recovery as the linchpin of each day; since I have been sincere in my efforts to pray for God’s will for me, then I can relax into the knowledge that She has never failed me yet. And if, in my stubbornness, I need proof, it is near. I have a safe place to live, the wind outside stirs the trees with an invisible hand, the birds sing, I am loved.

Remembering that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, that HP and I have been in good contact and I am actively working to stay in Her will, not my own – perhaps I need to remind myself of that at the end of the day. Or maybe I should let go of my sleep difficulties altogether. What does it matter if I sleep till noon? As long as I do not fill those damnable hours of midnight to dawn with recriminations, anxiety and fear. As long as my waking hours are productive (or mostly not counter productive) then what does it matter what time I sleep?

Today, I said my “morning” prayers at 4 in the afternoon. It will be dark soon. While that fear may return, I don’t need to know the origins of it, or know its shape or volume in order to contain it. I can simply give it away, ask my Higher Power to remove it. And while that removal is taking place, Siri can keep telling me jokes.

“Letting go means looking hard at the illusion of control.”

Karyn Zweife

“Next we launched out on a course of vigorous action…” page 63, The Big Book

It was Saturday, March 14. I was preparing to lead a day retreat the following Saturday with a local Matt Talbot group around the theme of page 63 from The Big Book. It was perfect timing for my recovering journey! I felt tired from the work I had committed to do as an interim minister and the people I was serving for the past 18 months. Every attempt to move forward with changes needed for them to become the change-makers seemed fraught with excuses and refusals. While attending my home group meeting early most mornings, my regularity had faded to 2 or 3 times a week, maybe. The group, a solid part of my recovering life the past 12 years, was becoming usual, predictable, and frankly I was bored … NOT a healthy place for this alcoholic to be! So, this retreat day would be the perfect foundation for completing another Step 4 and 5. And then …

COVID-19 changed everything! The retreat I was to lead was cancelled. Our diocese suspended all public worship, and I was plunged into the world of “virtual” worship each Sunday. Like all other gatherings, daily AA meetings were put on ice as well. Sure, I could reach out to my sponsor and other friends along the happy road. Sure, I could connect with one or more of the “virtual” AA meetings that quickly appeared. Sure, I could do SOMETHING about this needed step work. Sure I could, but getting traction on this was not happening. And then …

A friend from the rooms, who I also shared time with as spiritual director, began having spikes of fever, a general flu-like weakness, and then THE COUGH. He was referred for testing for the Corona Virus. The first was negative, then the second showed positive, and then the third returned negative. Since the medical world could not figure out what to do, they sent him home and said if it got worse, go to the ER. He called me immediately, feeling the need to work through his Step 4 & 5 in the case that he … The gift of his sense of life urgency cleaning his life and spiritual house gave energy for me to do the same. We covenanted to complete what we could in a week, and then meet on his deck at appropriate space with masks to share these steps with each other. By the time we met, his physical manifestations had settled, the coughing disappeared, and he was on the mend. He went first, I followed. Tears, laughter, comfort, and inspiration to move on to Step 8 and 9, to move forward in a time when nothing else was moving forward. It was truly grace, nothing else but grace. I hold this truth from writer and recovering companion Anne Lamott -- “I do not understand the mystery of grace -- only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us.” And then …

I received a text from the chair of our home group. He wanted me to know that the group was still meeting with appropriate limits. When a member anniversary was to be celebrated the group conscience agreed that the anniversary person would be specifically invited in these unusual times. So, on Saturday, May 23, I’ll be present at my home group with mask of face, a smaller group of my recovering friends, to give thanks for 23 years of recovering life. I could not do this without the grace of God, and the living, loving presence of my recovering friends in all the places I have traveled. And for this, I am grateful.

Paul G.

Newark, Delaware

In the first days of sheltering in place, I was an early if reluctant adopter of online 12 Step meetings. It took some time to iron out the kinks: finding the precise link, making sure your private chat comment was, in fact, private and, unsurprisingly, learning all over again how to raise your hand. Soon enough, like when I first came into the (in-person) rooms, my comfort level grew, and I looked forward to seeing my home group buddies in their little Brady Bunch boxes on my computer screen.

At some point in preparing to preach last Sunday, I began to hear the well-trod story from John 14 in a new way: in my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. Many, if not most, of us associate this lesson with funerals. Some of the commentators wrote something to the effect of “come on, lectionary, we’re in Easter. Why drag us back to the Last Supper? Bummer.”

Bummer, indeed. As these days of pandemic grind on, watching the news suggests a medieval text that lives still in the burial service of the BCP: In the midst of life we are in death. We are surrounded by death in a manner few have known. The mounting numbers are too much to wrap my brain around. Some days I’m just numb.

Then a colleague pointed out that the Greek noun for dwelling place is related to one of John’s favorite words, the verb for abide. Abide. Dwell. Stay. Remain. Abiding is profoundly relational. For those of us who deal with a disease of isolation, abiding with is essential. How often are we told that “this is a we program?” Our sponsors remind us that we are not alone, to stay in the middle of the pack. Recovery necessitates abiding with, staying connected to, each other, our sponsors, our Higher Power.

The number of deaths is still appalling and tragic, yet how blessed are we to have been offered new dwelling places in which to be faithful to our programs. For this addict, abiding with my precious companions in the Brady Bunch rooms of online meetings, I begin to see the promise of the Resurrection in new ways, that even in the midst of death we are in life.

Abide. Hang out. Hang on.

Paul J.

May 2020

Maybe it’s because of my work as a drug and alcohol therapist or maybe it’s in there, but I couldn’t help but read the gospel in this week’s lectionary and not hear the voice of someone in the pre-contemplative stage of change denying their need for help from their addiction. Allow me to expound on this. How many times have we heard (or said ourselves) to our spouse, to our parent, to ourselves: I’m ok, I’ve got this? I can do recovery on my own terms. Meetings, therapy, detox isn’t for me. I can do this.

Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. 

So what if trying to get in the sheepfold by climbing in another way is a sure fire way to set ourselves up for another relapse? What if the sponsor or the therapist or the certified recovery specialist is the shepherd? The shepherd is already in the fold (maybe has been in our shoes before) and if we follow the sound of their voice it’s possible they may lead us where we didn’t even know we needed to go. Because left to our own devices… Well, I think we all know how it ends when we are left to our own devices.

The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.

Because life on life’s terms, right? And maybe not by using in order to cope for the first time ever. And realizing that we may have been our own worst enemy and going in the back door we miss unpacking all the junk that got us here in the first place. Because the junk has to get unpacked and we have been unable to do it on our own this whole time. Why should this time be any different? So maybe we admit our powerlessness, make the appointment and go to the meeting through the front door.

They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.

And then this verse right in the middle of the gospel lesson…Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.Yep, this definitely sounds like someone in the pre-contemplative stage of change. Or any stage of change. Or anyone at all!

Then a whole lot of hope begins to emerge.<</p>

We stop letting our emotions make our decisions. We get a 30 day chip. We begin to build up enough muscle and have enough tools in our tool belt, when we drive past the place where we used to shoot up or see our dealer’s car in town, we don’t even recognize it. If we’ve done enough work and spent enough time with the shepherd. We turn from the voice of the stranger even though it might be our own. We are led into the sheepfold. We are on our way to a meeting. We are on our way to having life and having it abundantly. 

 So again Jesus said to them, Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.  All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them.  I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 

Now doesn’t that sound like a good place to be?

Deborah M, LPC
Lancaster, PA