Six years

The month of April means quite a few things to me. 

On April 1, my ex and I found out she was pregnant. We didn't tell anyone that day six years ago because they would have thought it was an April Fools' joke. It was the beginning of big changes.

It was also the month I decided (with God's blessing, though not His directive; I never felt He was telling me) I should upend our lives and start over in South Dakota after putting down roots in Ohio for the better part of two decades. My ex lived there for three decades. It was a big move for us, especially because she was pregnant. All that stress, did it impact my son in the womb? I don't know. 

In April six years ago I stopped drinking. I don't know the exact date. I was an avid homebrewer. Though I was no stranger to liquor, my preference was always beer. Liquor tasted like burning. Beer tasted malty, roasty, hoppy, and next to perfect. Still, I felt I had to quit. Starting over in life isn't easy, and I didn't want any hangers-on from my old life. I truly put everything I had into that move. 

How bad was my alcoholism? It was a significant crutch; it got me through life. But I often overindulged. One time I drank Jagermeister and stole someone's bike (I put it back later). One time I stole some plants from the front of the bank next door when we lived downtown. If I drank more than seven drinks, I did things like shave my head for no reason. I can mention more shameful things, but the point has been made. There is no use feeling bad anymore. Bad things happened when I drank, clearly. My life was already very much a disaster. Drinking was like adding fuel to the fire. I was normally a very straight-laced, upright person, and when I drank, sometimes I did bad things. Ninety-nine percent of the time I didn't, of course, but I don't remember those times. I just remember the bad stuff I did. Needless to say, my behavior was unbecoming of the person I was normally. Alcohol is for hopeless people. Today, I have hope. I don't want to feel bad anymore! I'm free! But I digress.

Though many good things were left behind in Ohio, I shouldn't lament them. God granted me the wonderful gift of starting over, and I was determined to do my best. It was hard, too hard, unnecessarily hard. I still wonder why people were so hard and unwelcoming, why circumstances were so awful at times. What was the point of all of that? 

I focused on miracles instead. It was a miracle I was going to be a father. It was a miracle I found my way back to my boyhood home in the Black Hills. It was a miracle I was learning things I always wanted to do (often with surprising results) and things I never thought I would do (with even more surprising results). The friction was stupidly constant, unbelievable, and just plain dumb. I will never understand the meanness and hardness of other human beings. It made a difficult transition in our lives so much harder than necessary. The coldness and callousness I will never forget. It was like crash-landing on an alien planet, and the aliens were not friendly — at all. Nothing made sense then. And, sadly, not much has changed.

There were good things — like walks in the forest in the coolness of morning with my son strapped to my chest. I had to get out of that little cabin in which we first settled (with most of our stuff in storage). I had to get away from the brawling, odious woman with whom I lived. So I carried our colicky baby with me often alone on hikes to, as I said, give her a break. But it was a break for me, as well. I remember one morning when I entered a clearing and the sun kissed both our faces, my son looked up at me sleepily and smiled. It was the most welcome smile in my world. If I could come out here and give my son a better life, then it would all be worth it, I thought. I don't know if I've done that.

Looking back, I realized God wrought a miracle when I stopped drinking. How did I simply walk away from something that often defined my life for 16 years? How did I quit with no pain, no remorse, no second thoughts, no desire, no withdrawal? I was simply released. If I was a true alcoholic, as I thought I was, shouldn't it have been harder? Surely God did something there which I have not adequately thanked Him. So, thank you, God, for giving me freedom — and so easily. Maybe I didn't need that fight on top of all the other fights I was facing. My life was simply hard enough. 

The past six years have not been easy. But they haven't been without reward, either. I've seen my son grow and flourish and so many things I never thought I would see. Though I see my son only half the time, it's still more than I ever thought I would have. The divorce that seemed necessary simply shredded and humbled me. Maybe we were not right for each other. Maybe we were broken. But, in retrospect, I was definitely broken. Out of that awful broken place I lived my whole life, God rescued me, pieced me back together, and somehow took all that pain away. The root of my pain grew in my childhood, and God severed it and set me free. What I saw as an unending bleakness and blackest night, God saw as a corridor to a better place. Having been through the worst thing I could imagine and, coming out the other side intact, I have no fear of the future.  

My journey of faith is constant. With every day it gets stronger. There is an urgency. There is no time to waste. Whatever the future holds, I know God is in charge. And whatever I have to go through, I know it will be worth it. How does faith grow in such inhospitable soil and thrive through such wretched treatment? If faith came from me, it would have died long ago. It would have sadly given up. That's why I know faith doesn't come from me. It is a gift. It's the one thing God tells us we have to have when we come to Him. And even that He gives us. 

The last six years were hard, but God brought me through it and sustained me. I am not the same man I was six years ago or even one year ago. I don't know anything about tomorrow other than God is in charge. And, really, that's all I need to know. Thank you, God, for six years of sobriety. And for every perfect gift.

Thank you for reading. And God bless.