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Posts tagged ‘Christian recovery’

pride, part two . . . or, a sampler of thoughts on arrogance

Sometimes, my "better than" comes from wounds. Maybe yours does, too.

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repost: a light between here and there

the Grandma I wrote about in this post passed away today. she was an example to me of a love that endures at a time when I needed it most.

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a light between here and there

I wonder how long we will live along this dark highway. . . in the dailyness of nurturing, guiding, growing, of learning to be faithful in small things.

Because sometimes, I wrestle with the limits of my little light.

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when I fear I have lost my flavor

Sometimes, discouragement knocks hard on your door and it takes everything in you not to invite it in to share a giant piece of chocolate cake.

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blessings for the broken part four

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. . .
When did we buy the lie that happiness is the means to happiness?
That what feels good is right and what is painful is wrong?
Hungry is not comfort. Thirsty is not pleasure.

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blessings for the broken, part two

We used to wear our grief.
Black for a day, a month, a season, a year . . .
To show loss.
To let the world around us know we carried sorrow.
Appearance had meaning.

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blessings for the broken, part one

The breaking was just as much for me as it was for him.
I see it now. I saw it then.
But my eyes are are slow to turn the image upright. . .

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My mind replays tapes of failure when I lie in bed too long awake.
Things neglected. Things forgotten. People neglected. People forgotten.
Failure that I'm not really sure is always failure.

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marking time

Tally Marks

Time will not be managed.

It will not slow. It will not rush. It will not freeze.

I want these short winter days to stretch long. To keep the candles going long after the power returns — careless of chores — just to finish a game of cards in the glow.

Funny how the power outage last night was a welcome relief. The frenzied pace of life is beginning to make my heart ache.

I push hard on the brakes, attempting to slow the clock. Attempting, in my own way, to live deep like my fellow woods-dweller Thoreau.

Saint Paul whispers to me with words of purpose, memorized when I was unconscious of the depth of them: Redeem the time because the days are evil. 

* * * * *

I confess I have been a time marker. Ticking off the hours, the months, the years, waiting for the passing of time to do its business . . .

Seconds til the game’s over. Minutes til school’s out. Hours til I can go to bed. Days til my mom visits. Weeks til the baby is due. Months til the debt is paid.

. . . Years til was is accepted as true . . .

The first days, weeks and months after we flushed Dave’s Ultram passed agonizingly slow.

I know Dave was counting them off.

Seconds of self-denial. Minutes of nausea. Hours of withdrawal. Days of restlessness. Weeks of coming back to recovery meetings. Months of accountability and faithfulness. Hours of clocking in at work. Months of humbly handing over receipts or handing the phone to a friend or pastor to confirm where he was.

Years of honesty.

Trust is not instantly restored. Trust takes time.

It was a terrible penance, I know, for Dave to live with me. My reluctant hope resembled skepticism, my beat-up faith expressed in anger.

I must have quit marking time some time ago . . .

I hadn’t noticed. 

But in the looking back, I see.

Time is for proving.

* * * * *

Recovering addicts mark the days. And celebrate them.

A coin, signifying 30 days. 90 days. 6 months. A year of daily battle. Two years of defeating destructive habits . . .

And now, we have come to five.

Five years and two months on a path of healing, removing heavy, bitter stones along the way.

Time heals . . . for we are no longer the same.

The anniversary passed quietly. A kiss. A moment of silence in the midst of the chaos of living . . .


I am not in a hurry, now, to pass the time.

Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons. Neither the offender nor the offended are any more themselves.– Blaise Pascal, The Pensees, 1669

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