Three Pages From the Big Book – Pages 7-9

150 150 Mark S
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 But it was not, for the frightful day came when I drank once more.  The curve of my declining moral and bodily health fell off like a ski-jump.  After a time I returned to the hospital.  This was the finish, the curtain, it seemed to me.  My weary and despairing wife was informed that it would all end with heart failure during delirium tremens, or I would develop a wet brain, perhaps within a year.  She would soon have to give me over to the undertaker or the asylum.

    They did not need to tell me.  I knew, and almost welcomed the idea.  It was a devastating blow to my pride.  I, who had thought so well of myself and my abilities, of my capacity to surmount obstacles, was cornered at last.  Now I was to plunge into the dark, joining that endless procession of sots who had gone on before.  I thought of my poor wife.  There had been much happiness after all.  What would I not give to make amends.  But that was over now.

    No words can tell of the loneliness and despair I found in that bitter morass of self-pity.  Quicksand stretched around me in all directions.  I had met my match.  I had been overwhelmed. Alcohol was my master.

    Trembling, I stepped from the hospital a broken man.  Fear sobered me for a bit.  Then came the insidious insanity of that first drink, and on Armistice Day 1934, I was off again.  Everyone became resigned to the certainty that I would have to be shut up somewhere, or would stumble along to a miserable end.  How dark it is before the dawn!  In reality that was the beginning of my last debauch.  I was soon to be catapulted into what I like to call the fourth dimension of existence.  I was to know happiness, peace, and usefulness, in a way of life that is incredibly more wonderful as time passes.

    Near the end of that bleak November, I sat drinking in my kitchen.  With a certain satisfaction I reflected there was enough gin concealed about the house to carry me through that night and the next day.  My wife was at work.  I wondered whether I dared hide a full bottle of gin near the head of our bed.  I would need it before daylight.

    My musing was interrupted by the telephone.  The cheery voice of an old school friend asked if he might come over.  He was sober.  It was years since I could remember his coming to New York in that condition.  I was amazed.  Rumor had it that he had been committed for alcoholic insanity.  I wondered how he had escaped.  Of course he would have dinner, and then I could drink openly with him.  Unmindful of his welfare, I thought only of recapturing the spirit of other days.  There was that time we had chartered an airplane to complete a jag!  His coming was an oasis in this dreary desert of futility.  The very thing-an oasis!  Drinkers are like that.

    The door opened and he stood there, fresh-skinned and glowing.  There was something about his eyes.  He was inexplicably different.  What had happened?

    I pushed a drink across the table.  He refused it.  Disappointed but curious, I wondered what had got into the fellow.  He wasn’t himself.

    “Come, what’s this all about?” I queried.

    He looked straight at me.  Simply, but smilingly, he said, “I’ve got religion.”

    I was aghast.  So that was it-last summer an alcoholic crackpot; now, I suspected, a little cracked about religion.  He had that starry-eyed look.  Yes, the old boy was on fire all right.  But bless his heart, let him rant!  Besides, my gin would last longer than his preaching.

    But he did no ranting.  In a matter of fact way he told how two men had appeared in court, persuading the judge to suspend his commitment.  They had told of a simple religious idea and a practical program of action.  That was two months ago and the result was self-evident.  It worked!

    He had come to pass his experience along to me-if I cared to have it.  I was shocked, but interested.  Certainly I was interested.  I had to be, for I was hopeless.

    He talked for hours.  Childhood memories rose before me.  I could almost hear the sound of the preacher’s voice as I sat, on still Sundays, way over there on the hillside;  there was that proffered temperance pledge I never signed; my grandfather’s good natured contempt of some church folk and their doings; his insistence that the spheres really had their music; but his denial of the preacher’s right to tell him how he must listen; his fearlessness as he spoke of these things just before he died; these recollections welled up from the past.  They made me swallow hard.

    That war-time day in old Winchester Cathedral came back again.

    I had always believed in a Power greater than myself.  I had often pondered these things.  I was not an atheist.  Few people really are, for that means blind faith in the strange proposition that this universe originated in a cipher and aimlessly rushes nowhere.  My intellectual heroes, the chemists, the astronomers, even the evolutionists, suggested vast laws and forces at work.  Despite contrary  indications, I had little doubt that a mighty purpose and rhythm underlay all.  How could there be so much of precise and immutable law, and no intelligence?  I simply had to believe in a Spirit of the Universe, who knew neither time nor limitation.  But that was as far as I had gone.

    With ministers, and the world’s religions, I parted right there.  When they talked of a God personal to me, who was love, superhuman strength and direction, I became irritated and my mind snapped shut against such a theory.

    To Christ I conceded the certainty of a great man, not too closely followed by those who claimed Him.  His moral teaching-most excellent.  For myself, I had adopted those parts which seemed convenient and not too difficult; the rest I disregarded.

    The wars which had been fought, the burnings and chicanery that religious dispute had facilitated, made me sick.  I honestly doubted whether, on balance, the religions of mankind had done any good.  Judging from what I had seen in Europe and since, the power of God in human affairs was negligible, the Brotherhood of Man a grim jest.  If there was a Devil, he seemed the Boss Universal, and he certainly had me.

    But my friend sat before me, and he made the point-blank declaration that God had done for him what he could not do for himself.  His human will had failed.  Doctors had pronounced him incurable.  Society was about to lock him up.  Like myself, he had admitted complete defeat.  Then he had, in effect, been raised from the dead, suddenly taken from the scrap heap to a level of life better than the best he had ever known!

    Had this power originated in him?  Obviously it had not.  There had been no more power in him than there was in me at the minute; and this was none at all.

    That floored me.  It began to look as though religious people were right after all.  Here was something at work in a human heart which had done the impossible.  My ideas about miracles were drastically revised right then.  Never mind the musty past; here sat a miracle directly across the kitchen table.  He shouted great tidings.

    I saw that my friend was much more than inwardly reorganized.  He was on a different footing.  His roots grasped a new soil.

    Despite the living example of my friend there remained in me the vestiges of my old prejudice.  The word God still aroused a certain antipathy.  When the thought was expressed that there might be a God personal to me this feeling was intensified.  I didn’t like the idea.  I could go for such conceptions as Creative Intelligence, Universal Mind or Spirit of Nature but I resisted the thought of a Czar of the Heavens, however loving His sway might be.  I have since talked with scores of men who felt the same way.

    My friend suggested what then seemed a novel idea.  He said, “Why don’t you choose your own conception of God?

    That statement hit me hard.  It melted the icy intellectual mountain in whose shadow I had lived and shivered many years.  I stood in the sunlight at last.

    It was only a matter of being willing to believe in a Power greater than myself.  Nothing more was required of me to make my beginning.  I saw that growth could start from that point.  Upon a foundation of complete willingness I might build what I saw in my friend.  Would I have it?  Of course I would!

    Thus was I convinced that God is concerned with us humans when we want Him enough.  At long last I saw, I felt, I believed.  Scales of pride and prejudice fell from my eyes.  A new world came into view.

    The real significance of my experience in the Cathedral burst upon me.  For a brief moment, I had needed and wanted God.  There had been a humble willingness to have Him with me-and He came.  But soon the sense of His presence had been blotted out by worldly clamors, mostly those within myself.  And so it had been ever since.  How blind I had been.

    At the hospital I was separated from alcohol for the last time.  Treatment seemed wise, for I showed signs of delirium tremens.

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