My Higher Power has made Christmas a season of respite rather than regret

I haven’t had a drink for 3921 days. That number is a fraction of the people who are responsible for my sobriety.

Today I am experiencing the gift of walking serenely and quietly through what used to be a season of drunkenness, humiliation and profound regret. Each day I have the opportunity to decide that anger and resentment are not worth the effort. Most of the time I am comfortable with mystery, and it doesn’t really matter if I ever solve it. I’d just as soon not.

Most of the people who gave me this gift aren’t aware of their importance or that they even participated.

My wife, my children and her family, and my brother and his beautiful kids fill the old emptiness with love and affection and a desire to do better and be better.

My dear and oldest friend, the son of my cousin and a sister-in-law that I never met, but nonetheless know, they are among the multitude who never received my inexplicable remission.

My favorite married couple who cared for me in the dark times and light; newspaper staffs; cousins, aunts and uncles who showed me kindness; friends; coworkers and supervisors who were and are more than coworkers and supervisors.

A certain counselor/mother and a certain attorney who calmed my raging heart and showed me I was worth their sacrifice. A school principal who fought for me and never judged me for my sins.

Monks and priests, who reminded me to seek progress rather than perfection and to sing prayers of gratitude. Nuns and other women with generous hearts whose hospitality and tenderness healed me.

Doctors and nurses who warned that if I didn’t change I would die, and who celebrated when I finally listened.

Basketball coaches, players and referees who gave me something to measure my progress and maturity by; and schoolchildren who called out my name and made fun of my attempts at Spanish with a Missouri accent, and their teachers who demonstrated that I had a long way to go to truly serve. People like them, and people on welfare with two or three jobs, they showed me what a real work ethic is.

Highway Patrolmen who handcuffed me and made the highways a little bit safer; a judge who sentenced me to jail, but with a kind voice; the men who shared my holding cell, somehow bringing humor, friendship and warmth to a terrifying moment; probation officers who were the first people to bear witness to a change in me.

People suffering poverty, oppression and homelessness and the people of means who help them. They humble me and stretch my heart open; people who trust me to serve them, and people who make me work for that trust.

Acquaintances and strangers on the street who walked in and out of my life, dusting it with a bit of magic. Musicians, authors, poets and people who make me laugh and cry.

Mother Nature and Father Time for teaching me to accept life as it is and to value the moment.

The tattoo artist who inscribed the Serenity Prayer and the word “Surrender” on my forearms as a daily reminder that I’m not the center of the universe.

Those I’ve hurt for making me accountable and for forgiving, and those who hurt me for whetting the tools of sobriety and helping me find the relief of forgiveness.

Most of all, I am grateful for other alcoholics and addicts—newcomers, old-timers, sponsors and strugglers–sober or still suffering. Those like Carol, Jacob and Kathy who have paid the ultimate price, sacrificing their lives to remind those left behind that they still have a chance.

Though most of these people don’t know who they are, I remember each one.

They are the God of my understanding, my Higher Power.

The Unicorn

The unicorn, sparkling eye and serene smile

Chin uplifted with unicorn confidence

Unafraid of being different

Comfortable in unicorn skin, a palomino of hearts

A punk-rock mane, unique even for a unicorn

And flawless horn, singular, clean and straight

”I love yuo Dan,” writes a little girl I’ve never met

With unicorn boldness, and unicorn spelling

Beneath her work of unicorn perfection

Yet another miracle, on the morning I celebrate

The day I became a unicorn

A walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction

I will not be ruled by fear

My morning mantra, walking from the parking lot to the shelter

I will not be ruled by fear, I mumble. I will not be ruled by fear…

…I will not be ruled by fear

My fear is not the person who lives on the street, the woman fleeing domestic violence or her abuser

Not the drug addict, nor the person hearing voices

I hear voices of my own…

…who unleash swarms of worries, mock confidence, whisper self-doubt

I talk too much, I don’t speak up; I reveal too much, I keep too many secrets

I am chaos and perfectionism, forgetful, and obsessive

ADD and OCD

Mindful and distracted

I offer no comfort, then give too much advice

I read minds and make up answers

Oversensitive, and insensitive

I am dependent, I am controlling

I am timid and arrogant

I am lonely and loved

Oh, but sometimes the voices are drowned out by a mumble

I surrender and they submit

Sometimes I accept the contradictions

Today, I am not ruled by fear

A meaningful life

Following Friday Morning Outreach at Catholic Charities in Santa Rosa, Kevin Connolly would ask volunteers how many conversations they had with the people they had encountered.

Statistics were gathered — how much coffee was distributed, how many clothes were
handed out, how much oatmeal was served?

However, attaching a number to the personal
connections between volunteers and people experiencing homelessness was a form of reflection, a reminder of the joy in a morning of good work and the mutual respect, dignity and compassion between the servant and the served.

Kevin asked each volunteer how many “brief’ interactions they had — a hello, a good morning, a let me know how I can help — then he asked for “meaningful” interactions — conversations about struggles on the streets, swapping tales and laughter, helping someone find just the right shirt or pair of shoes.

I always thought Kevin was conservative in reporting his own numbers. Every conversation with Kevin was meaningful. When he looked a person in the eyes, they became the most important person on earth. A grandfather, retired financial planner and Catholic Charities board member, Kevin was a busy man, but never too busy to stop and bless a person with his easy Irish charm.

Kevin suffered a stroke while meditating at a Cursillo Catholic retreat. Over the next two weeks he dutifully prepared his family for his departure. He died Feb. 27, as he lived — peacefully and prayerfully, surrounded by family — a good death for a good man who lived a good life.

In the Rule of St. Benedict, the 6th-Century Saint insisted that “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ.”

When I arrived at Catholic Charities I felt nervous, out of my element, worried that I might not be up to the job of starting a volunteer mentoring program. Kevin and his wife Honora were among the first people to greet me. We talked in the lobby for more than an hour. They were curious about me. They asked about my family and the place where I grew up and the places I had lived and travelled to over the years, and what gave meaning to my life. They were interested in the work I had done and the work I had come to Catholic Charities to do. Honora was already rattling off a list of people I could recruit as mentors, and Kevin smiled at me, a friendly warning that I was about to enter the hurricane of kindness that is his wife. Kevin and I talked about our shared Irish heritage and they both wondered if in their travels they had visited the Benedictine Abbey in Missouri where I had worked.

When we parted, it occurred to me, I had always known Kevin and Honora. We just hadn’t met before.

I experienced  a couple who effortlessly extended the radical hospitality of St. Benedict.

Honora, fueled by optimism and exasperation, seemed capable of willing an entire community to good works. Kevin walked a few steps behind, smiling with contentment as she burst through walls, his ember of patience and competence and humor a counterbalance, recognizing that change comes in hard, daily work and planning, and quiet, simple acts of kindness. Kevin and Honora gave me confidence about what lie ahead. I certainly wouldn’t be doing it alone.

Once in a while I come upon a person who has something I want. It’s in the way they are present, comfortable with themselves and with others. They walk through a day trying to change the world without letting the enormity of it overwhelm them. They suffer with those who suffer and fight against injustice, but they do it with hope not anger.  They find joy and refuge in gratitude.

I want what Kevin had. I dream of making people feel like he made me and so many others feel.

“When I was a kid, I learned about angels and saints,” Kevin once said. “I knew I couldn’t be an angel, but I thought there might be a chance I could become a saint.  So that’s what I’ve tried to do.”

The Catholic Church has saints not to be worshipped, but rather to provide something to strive for. They are people who despite all the foibles, sinfulness and struggles of  the human condition found some glimmer of holiness. They have something we want.

As a Catholic, of course Kevin strived for holiness. In the end, what else is there? Whether he ever achieved it is beside the point. Progress, not perfection was his expectation for himself, for his family and for his community.

I imagine Kevin waking each morning and asking God for the strength to do his will. He had no illusion that poverty and homelessness would be ended in his lifetime if ever. But he had no choice but to do the work. I imagine him each evening thanking God for the strength he sought.

Change happens because we see something in other people–experience, wisdom, serenity–that we want. Entire communities are changed when enough people want something better– something more compassionate, more nurturing, more neighborly.

The work of Catholic Charities is deeply rooted in Catholic Social Teaching. Some bishops call it  the “Church’s best kept secret.” Respect for the dignity of each human being, a clear preference for the poor, a call to participate in community, protection of workers over profits, these are some of the principles.

“Demands involving the distribution of wealth, concern for the poor and human rights cannot be suppressed under the guise of creating a consensus on paper or a transient peace for a contented minority,” Pope Francis wrote. “The dignity of the human person and the common good rank higher than the comfort of those who refuse to renounce their privileges. When these values are threatened, a prophetic voice must be raised.”

Prophets proclaim the truth. Some proclaim this truth in the town square with great words. Some proclaim it one person at a time, not with great rhetoric but with quiet service.

When I visited with Kevin, I felt joy, peace, calm. I knew that somehow things were going to work out.

I also felt challenged to be better, to experience his understated confidence, to allow myself to be humbled, to know Kevin’s truth, his holiness.

Sounds like a saint to me.