Hope Memory
On a Sunday morning in July I brought my few precious days of sobriety
along with me to the meeting at Hope Auditorium. Feeling fidgety and timid I
shook the many hands that were extended to me, uttered the words, “I’m Doug and I’m alcoholic”, took
a seat among newfound fellows and sensed that I had come into a room filled with grace.
That Sunday and the many Sundays that followed, I heard the stories of abject suffering and blessed redemption told
by the ones who had lived them. I listened and I listened and I listened until
I realized that, by the grace of God and God’s recovering children at Hope Auditorium, I had listened my soul alive.
Thank you,
Doug K.
Sunday Morning Hope
We braved furious winds, blizzards and thunder to get to a place on
Sunday morning where we were guaranteed peace. When we had little buoyancy, we
were courageous or desperate enough to beat the odds of wind chill and heat stroke. We greeted strangers until they became
friends. That’s Hope for you, a place that saved the sorry, the unwilling, the crabby, the unlucky, the sick and those
who ran out of gas. Those who talked too much, those who thought too much, learned
to pause, to attain a better way—the right size way. Hope was not an
easy fix, but it was comfortable after the first few times we listened without judging.
We didn’t know everything, we never would.
Old timers bossed us around and lead us by example. Thank God for them. Thank God for the young and the 24-hour sober man or woman. Thank God we were able to see long-term health and rightfully earned faith before it was too late. Hope became humility when we allowed it to follow us outside the room.
We came to Hope by invitation of the law, spouse, kids, colleagues,
friends, emergency rooms, treatment centers or because someone pushed us through the door.
We were scared.
Décor–astonishing! Paneling
from the late ages, carpet that came with coffee stains right in it, chairs from every office-remodeling job in the city of
Lincoln, Nebraska. At first we might have snubbed our noses at the sight—until
we looked for more than physical beauty. We didn’t get well on snobbery. We grew healthy portions of acceptance instead, and eventually, gratitude.
Beauty is in sobriety, coming to accept our dents, piercing, tattoos,
tails, dresses and tattered blue jeans collectively. We represent rock and roll,
metal and a little punk. We are fight song and a little country, classical and
choir, barbershop, shoop shoop, square and Thriller.
We arrived by bicycle, hatchback, truck, motorcycle, skateboard, second-hand
shoes, high heel, low heel, fancy boots, and soles half gone. We were always
looking for more than side streets or parking spots. A friendly supermarket shared
space with us when the lot across the street shut us down. We could not close
down as an organization, but we didn’t want to be towed either and we definitely couldn’t live with resentments,
so we waited for alternative illuminated symbols for moving forward. Our sober
legs of many years, days or hours went on green, stopped on red, or jaywalked (we’re sorry) to a place called Hope.
Basically it came down to walking through the doors. We were a little on the grey side with red noses, with brown or blue blurry eyes, half open or bugging
out. Every race was welcome, every story we thought was unique, was already published. We came to understand we belonged before we knew why.
People were laughing—something we hadn’t heard in a long
time, and crying when a sobriety birthday of a year or more was celebrated. We
poured chemicals on our emotions so long we could hardly identify them. Hope
wasn’t camp. It was our last whistle stop before the train of addiction
laid us flat.
Hope was where the coffee was strong, free and hot—when another
person said hello when you’d leave and hello when you sat down. The price
of admission cost less than an ice cream cone.
If we came back each Sunday we were more than temporary members of
the human experience. We became able, without doing it alone, to reshape ourselves.
We don’t want to change our address, but we have to, so we pack
up our name, Hope, clocks, pictures, microphone, bar, bell, sayings and anything legally ours.
We are moving somewhere down the line, into a new ring of fire, space cowboys and my fair ladies.
We take the friendly ghosts of ones before us, now angels or at least
curious little devils! Hold the door folks, and switch off the light. We’re moving on.
Future Hope Family Members
A little grey bar
pregnant with ladies drinking Budweiser
gather for the vice presidential debate—
if Sarah Palin says she can see Russia from her house
they can see it too—from a backyard in Wynot
a porch swing in Exeter and by god,
the top of a barn near Brainard.
With only a swig of knowledge
they’re going to the White House in a minute
drunker than a seven hundred dollar billy goat.
DMc.
