Jeremiah’s Journey – 19: Take The First Step

I recently read a Facebook post about a man who overcame his drug addiction to narcotic pain relievers. He remarked that a doctor and preacher couldn’t help him. I believe he meant that it was not a medical problem, nor was it a spiritual one. What he needed to overcome his addiction was a decision that only he could make, and in his own strength he needed to take the first step, and to daily, continue his journey through withdrawal and beyond. He is now drug-free six months.  He credits his victory to himself. 

Bravo!

Someone commented on his post that God carried him in his darkest hour as if to say, “You didn’t do it, God did!” That relying on God to deliver him from his addiction is the appropriate belief as though to rely on one’s self is less worthy.

No!

God created each one of us and gave us strengths and gifts, each one not like another. We are made stronger by the struggles that we encounter in life. Without resistance, a muscle grows weak and will eventually die. This man is now stronger than he was before, and as he stated, “Pain is real, but don't cave in, just push. Each day you don't take anything you get stronger. Believe me, it will get better, but you gotta want it.”

Yes!

Without the strong desire for change, one is not going to change. Without taking the first step, nothing is going to happen. Those who are trying to profess their faith, often say, “Well, I keep praying for it, but nothing happens. It must not be God’s timing,” but with true faith, we have to get up and walk. Sometimes our waiting on God is actually God waiting on us . . . to do something He wants. This now drug-free man did meet with his preacher four times and lamented, “Go to your church and ask to talk to your preacher and see if, after four times of trying in your hour of need, you get, ‘I have not the time for you.’ ”

I have no doubt that during this man’s visits with his preacher, they prayed. They prayed for strength to overcome, deliverance from his addiction, and healing to restore his mind and body. And likely, the preacher recommended drug rehab as the solution. The preacher did his job as a spiritual leader and recommended people trained in a drug recovery program.

You see, it really is difficult to see God at work if your mind is numbed with narcotics as the now drug-free man professed, “Ten years that shit closed my eyes, but now my mind can see again.  This might offend some, but I don't care: When I turned to anyone, no one was there but me, and yes god was not there either, so after years of believing and seeing him turn his back on me, I turned my back to him cause god or a rehab is not gonna cure you, only you are. Sac it up and push through it, you will be amazed when you finally know that you can count on you again.”

Stay strong, man! 

You are courageous. God has your back on this even if that is all you show him. God loves you, and as your eyes open to the beauty of His creation, you will find that He is there with you. 

Praying for you!

The man replied to me: “It is not about a god who may or may not be there and it's not about paying someone who pretends to care for someone so they help, that's just about money, because if both things I just mentioned were truly what they should be (doctors and preachers), both would just show up. My point is, you gotta look inside yourself and decide that it's time for yourself just to get better, like I said, you gotta want it before you can get it.”

So true! 

If you want something, you have to take the first step. It’s like playing chess; you have to make a move to get a response. Waiting on God is a good thing. You don’t want to get in front of the truck that only God sees coming your way. And, you don’t want to get in front of His blessings for you. Why? Because then they are behind you. You missed the good fruit that God wanted you to pick.

Another posted this: “Congratulations. But who do you think carried you in your darkest hour? God didn't get you into it...he carried you out.”

The drug-free man responded: “No he did not I'm sorry to say, I mean no offense but I carried myself out, one has to remember you can only count on yourself and that's my point behind it all. I would believe if god had done it I would not have been blown off so to say like yesterday's trash in the garbage. Bottom line to people, if you wanna get better, look in the mirror and don't count on anyone but yourself cause at end of the day when shit hits the fan and splatters all around, you gotta clean your mess up no matter if you put yourself there or if someone else put you there.”

Both are right. 

The drug-addicted man did need to make that decision and he was strong in himself to take the steps he did, and the man is a son of God; he is a Believer. At times, all of us need to admit that we have been angry with God, but God does not turn His back on us when we turn our back to Him. Jesus proclaimed that none of His sheep would be lost. Jesus loves you, this I know . . . and you will someday return to Him. God bless you, man.

The man responded to me: “All I'm trying to say is that it's not about what you believe in or don't believe in, it's about being able to believe in one's self, and that's what most people lose, is that ability there. This country will give about anyone a pill to make something better, kind of odd how the two biggest killers are not black and white but alcohol and pain pills, and both are legal, but OMG if you say weed, you are bad. I never seen someone killed in a car by a high driver, but you can turn the news on any day of the week and see the other. Seems backward to me, but hey what would I know.”

You are a wise man, my friend.

Who do you think carried him through his darkest hour?

I believe God did. I believe God is truly what He should be, and He showed up. Let God do it. Surrender is not a weakness when the one you lift up your hands high to is God Almighty.

This story is dedicated to all the people who suffer with drug and alcohol addictions, to those who who are in recovery, to the victors that overcame, and to the doctors, preachers, and substance abuse rehabilitation counselors who care for them. 

I feature below a dear friend of mine who has her story to share. Please click on the link to hear the story told from her heart of her recovery from alcoholism:

Karen's Story

You can contact Karen Little by clicking on this link:

Karen Little Recovery

SHARE THE GOOD NEWS WITH SOMEONE YOU KNOW THAT SUFFERS.

Jeremiah's Journey is stories of dreams, of adventures, of compassion and love. Take the ride with Jeremiah and begin with Jeremiah's Journey - 1: Roses Are For Lovers

Praise to my Father for the words He speaks to me.

Copyright 2017 © Jeff Cambridge

Jeremiah’s Journey – 18: Shot In The Dark

I have a confession to make. When I wrote about my journey to Italy and meeting the beautiful Italian girl with the bicycle, I was actually searching for something I had lost. I thought I was moving on, putting the past behind me, letting go of the tethers that held me fast to the ground, like a hot-air balloon, wanting freedom, straining upward, filled with buoyancy. I wanted to believe that; I wanted so desperately to move forward, upward, out of the rut of my past choices. You see, I have done some crazy things in my life, and it was filled with more drama than a lifetime on Broadway. Yet, in my subconscious mind, beneath the layers of protection that we wrap our deepest traumas, I was in search of . . .

            My cell phone rang its cheery jingle. I kept it near my pillow as I slept, never again to be without it.

A year before, I awoke with a start. Wide-awake, I knew something was wrong. I swung my legs off the bed and jolted to my feet, much too quickly for my aging equilibrium, or was it the wine that was still coursing through my veins, my antidote for sleepless nights. I glanced at the night table clock: 4:44 its red numbers glared. Stumbling into the cabin room, I searched in the dark for my phone . . . a flash of light, its screen illuminated in the dark room. Ding. That’s what woke me, dings in the night. I have the ears of a bat, perceiving sounds outside of the normal human hearing, even in my sleep. Bleary-eyed, I squinted at the text. Old age, sleepy, or was it the wine? My brother was texting me. Why would my brother text me at four in the morning? We hadn’t talked in several years, not since he kicked me out of his house. Another story, another time. My youngest brother was having chest pains and was in the ER, the text read. Tests were being conducted. An ultrasound revealed a bulging aorta. Surgery was needed. Get here NOW!

That’s how we met. I mean that’s why I was sleeping with the girl that was with me when my cell phone rang its cheery jingle. It all started with my brother and his open-heart surgery. A friend of his had seen my Facebook posts asking for prayers for his successful surgery and recovery. We started chatting, and in my Indian Jones style, I walked in her bakery to meet her. I know, I’m leaving out the details, but that is another story. I want to tell you about the phone call . . . and my confession.

I glanced at the phone number . . . no one in my directory, but from the city.

“Hello.”

“Jeremiah?”

 “Yeah, who’s this?” My skin tingled. I didn’t recognize the voice. Who is this?

“Oh, thank God you answered!” Her voice was desperate. “I found your number on Facebook. I’m looking for my sister.”

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“Julie. I’m Monica’s sister. Is she with you? Something terrible has happened.”

Shit! Monica had told me about her mom’s failing health. Oh, God!

“Who is it?” Monica sat up, holding the covers over her.

“Your sister.” I handed her the phone.

I got out of bed and hurriedly put on some clothes. The intimacy of the night was long gone, and suddenly, I felt foolish lying in bed naked with her. I flicked on the nightstand light. Monica’s face was drained of life. She blankly stared with eyes of disbelief. Oh, God, her mom has passed.

“No. No. No. No . . . Agghhhh!” She wailed and wailed, then handed me the phone. She sat with her back to me, legs over the side of the bed, covers wrapped around her. Nakedness has no beauty when the floodlights of reality expose every crevice of your existence . . . like the morgue during an autopsy.

“This is Jeremiah. What’s going on?” My mind said this was not about her mom. Too much anguish. Hysterical surprise.

“Monica’s son was shot dead by the police.” My head did not register. What? Son? The son that wanted a plane ticket to come home, but didn’t have the money. I was silent. My thoughts colliding like billiard balls during the break.

“Joshua was killed by the police. That’s all we know. His dad called me. We need to leave for Texas as soon as we can meet. Texas . . . land of law and order.

“Okay,” I said automatically.

“I’ll call you back shortly. You need to take care of my sister. I have to call our mom.”

Mom. Mom was okay. This was not okay, way outside of anything I had ever done.

Stay tuned to the continuing saga of Jeremiah’s Journey at . . .

Revelation7Strong

To begin the series, start with Jeremiah’s Journey – 1: “Roses Are For Lovers”

Jeremiah’s Journey – 17: Out of My Comfort Zone

The din of 600 high-pitched voices, nearly all women, filled the two-story foyer as I wove my way through the crowd to the closed doors of the ballroom. At dawn, I woke to find the mountain view from the porch of the Cabin In The Clouds shrouded in grey wisps. The past seven days I heard just the call of birds by day and evenings of quiet conversations from nearby tables at restaurants I sampled. The sudden change of venue at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference was more than an auditory overload. My deadened nerves had a respite from all forms of stress as I trekked and biked the Black Mountains and leisurely composed my adventures in my last episode, “Jeremiah’s Journey – 16: Mile High.”

I opened the ballroom door and felt a tomb of silence as the door closed behind me. Ted Dekker, a bestselling author, and the keynote speaker was performing a sound check. I ventured to the stage to find a prime view from the front tables. Setting my book bag in a chair, I turned and scanned the immense ballroom. Wow. This is no small conference. I was a newbie, my first quest into the writer’s community. For six years, I wrote in self-imposed isolation until earlier this year when I met C.S. Marks, author of the ELFHUNTER Trilogy. She writes fantasy fiction and my genre—contemporary, literary, transformational fiction—has nothing in common, but her sage advice set my course to become published. My stories are not fantasy. I write about real people in real drama struggling with real issues who transform as a result of consequential events, where the bad girl or guy is not eliminated, rather they receive Christ as Savior.

My eyes met a smile from a guy seated alone at a table mid-way back. I approached him, as he seemed to be expecting me.

“The luncheon starts in five minutes,” I said. “Why is everyone in the foyer? Oh, they’re women, and they like to talk. Such a din out there. And why are we in here? Practical men getting the best seats. Hey, are we the only guys at this conference? I think I’ve found my place. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. My first conference, too. Hi. Tim Brown from Missoula.” We shook hands, and I quickly retrieved my book bag.

“Missoula. Sounds familiar. Does it have a law school?”

“Why, yes,” Tim offered with a look of question.

“That’s it. Buddy of mine went to college there. I remember, now. He phoned me. I acted out the scene, hand mimicking a phone like Ernestine, the snarky, snorting telephone operator who Lily Tomlin created—“Hey, I’m holed up here in Missoula. Snowstorm hit last night. Sorry, can't make it to your wedding.”

“That was 40 years ago,” I remarked. “Wow. Time marches on. Just turned a new decade last week at Black Mountain . . .”

I continued my adventure story only to be interrupted by the chattering throng entering the ballroom en masse.

“There goes our quiet time. So, what do you write, Tim?”

“Medical thrillers. My first book was printed just before I left.” He handed me his card.

“Bone doctor. That’s quite a change of pace. What caused you to become a writer?”

“Mission work. My wife and I have been on medical missions these past ten years.”

“Mercy Ship?”

“Yeah, you’ve been?”

“I work as a pharmacist . . . Heard a calling for medical missions with Mercy Ship . . . Eighteen years ago.” The memory uploaded, and I saw myself walking the woods, communing with Father God. “When I told my wife that God had called me to the mission field, she flipped out, rebuked the idea. Couldn’t understand it, I mean we were newly married, and our first son wasn’t even a year old,” I said with a smirk.

“We raised our three boys on the Mercy Ship,” Tim offered.

My jaw dropped as I looked at him in disbelief. “No way.” I was watching the guy I could’ve become. “Well, it takes the right partner to pull that off.”

“Yeah, Julia is an exceptional woman, a wonderfully supportive wife.”

I hadn’t noticed that our table had filled with the ladies. Hmmm, Christian fiction writers, are they all middle aged?

Tim was already introducing himself and his book, Maya Hope, and passing out biz cards. “Might as well give these away. That’s why we had them printed, right?” He chuckled.

Oh, yeah, the biz cards. I fumbled for mine and followed his lead.

“What do you write about?” She directed her question to Tim, barely audible over the six conversations going on at once. These women! All they do is talk!

“Medical thrillers . . .”

Crap. My genre is too dang complex, too many words. Okay, transformational fiction it is. Real characters that transform as a result of consequential events. Bad girl gets saved. I mentally rehearsed the lines, hoping to be asked.

“Oh, you’re a doctor,” she remarked while looking at his card. “Well, Dr. Brown are you published?”

Doctor Brown. Call him Tim. He’s not here as a doctor. He’s a writer. Medical thrillers. I bet he has some stories, like cutting off the wrong leg?

I turned to the woman next to me, probably a housewife. Boy, was I being judgmental. Sheesh, you’re not even published. “Hi. I’m Jeremiah. I write transformational fiction.”

“Oh? What’s that about?”

“You’ll probably hear about it from Ted Dekker, the keynote speaker. I finished his course in transformational fiction this spring. Inspirational. Confirmed what I already knew. There you go again, Mr. Arrogant. You’re here to discover. Ain’t gonna happen with that attitude. Humbled, I continued, “Actually, the course put me back on track, found my identity, not as a writer, rather as a son of the Father—”

“Welcome, American Christian Fiction Writers!” The MC announced with pizzazz. Cheers erupted from the audience. Tears welled in my eyes, a lump caught in my throat. I don’t deserve to be here, Father.

The words of the Holy Spirit confirmed my presence as from His grace—You did not make this happen. I did.

I had learned a valuable lesson since my fast and prayers in January. I had dismantled my natural impulse to act in the flesh with my striving mantra—I’ll make it happen. I had put on the robe of Grace and embraced my identity as a son of the Father. I daily surrendered my will and willingly and obediently received the cup of my Father’s will for my life and destiny—Let Me do it.

I was out of my comfort zone.

Begin the journey with Jeremiah in his first episode, “Roses Are For Lovers.”

Praise to my Father for the words He speaks to me.

Copyright 2016 © Jeff Cambridge