In search of a life - chapter 1 - the Revelation

Posted by Pastor Bruce Marsee

IN SEARCH OF A LIFEChapter 1 – The RevelationStan sat alone on a bench at the bus stop, aimlessly staring at the office park across the street and the parade of cars and people entering the gate. He didn't have to wonder about what their day might be like. He had once worked in a similar environment, but that was years ago.He sat alone, tired from sleepless nights and the memories of past failures, as his mind replayed a long list of regrets. A failed marriage of nearly 20 years, three children who didn't know if he was alive, dead, or in jail. A two-year marriage to a prostitute and cocaine addict that had led him deep into the pit, costing him his house, his job, his friends and family, and his mind. 35 years of addiction had taken its toll, on not only his mind, but his body as well. He felt sick to his stomach, as he considered all that he had lost.What was the answer? Where was the door out? He had tried, within himself, to escape the grip of addiction through countless recovery programs and church meetings; but inevitably he found himself back in the pit, which he had created.He thought to himself how out of place he felt, living among the many homeless addicts who were living on the streets, and sleeping in the woods or under the overpass bridges. Hustling or stealing to support their addiction. Eating what they could steal or find in a dumpster."What am I doing here?" he questioned.His entire life seemed to have the same question. He really never felt that he fit in. In school, he felt socially awkward – reluctant to make close friends, for fear that they would find out just how much out of place he really was. His parents were strict, church going people who insisted on his attending church and being involved in all the church functions. Youth groups, junior choir, Midweek Bible study.He had a passion for the arts, singing and acting; but wasn't allowed to pursue any activity that might interfere with his church attendance. Even in the circle of friends he had at church, he felt out of place. Like a piece of Tupperware sitting on the china-cabinet shelf. Success was not at question, here. He had once been a division manager for a credit card processing company. He had aspired to the level of regional operations manager in a major cable software company. He was a cabinetmaker who had built and installed his cabinetwork in countless buildings, from Boston to Key West. He had an IQ higher than most, and the ability to communicate with people on all levels of society. From corporate executives to slang-speaking street thugs.He tried to remember how he got to where he now was. Searching deep into what was left of his memory, he sought to find the little boy within, who laughed and played and dreamed of pleasant things. He was tired of the nightmares that had left him restless. He was tired of the endless string of lies, that had become a part of who he now was and totally clouded the truth, even from himself."Who was to blame for his current condition?" he wondered.He was alone, even in a crowd of people; he couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness. He felt unfinished, incomplete; like a piece of unassembled furniture with missing pieces.Could he ever feel whole again? Was this to be the end of his usefulness in life? He had disappointed everyone he ever knew. Could life be any worse? The thought scared him, as he pondered the question.He sought to find refuge in solitude, as he searched for a place where things wouldn't remind him of where he was and what he had now become. But there is no escape from one's self. He remembered something he had heard years before.“The person you really are is who you are when you are all alone."As he searched for the answer, he came to the conclusion that he, alone, was responsible for the life he was now living. The thought of what he had become disgusted him. He had become one of the unloved and unlovable people in today's world.As he sat there, alone, his thoughts returned him to a time when life was safe. A time when he actually felt loved. He searched for his earliest memories of life. He remembered a time when he stood, at twelve years of age, and preached to a group of other children about the three parts of prayer: praise, supplication, and thanks.He remembered being six years old, standing at the park fence; and singing to a neighbor, a song he had sang at church with his parents the previous week. How she had been brought to tears and called him over to reward him with a hug, and a dollar. Times that he had gone to the local nursing homes, with other youth, to just sit and talk to the elderly.He thought of the time when, at seventeen, he had played the part of King Caspar, in the Christmas opera, Amahal and the Night Visitors; and how his father, for the first time, told him how proud he was of him.His thoughts took him to his induction into the Army; and how proud he was to serve his country in the midst of her most unpopular war, Vietnam. A war in which there were no heroes. Only victims.The war left many scars on his life. Not scars visible to the eye, but scars made deep in his heart from things he had seen and experienced. The ugliness of war. He tried as hard as he could to bury the images in the deep recesses of his mind, but they seemed to come out every now and again.He hurt for his comrades in arms who had to face, not only the same ugliness, but had to return to the hostility of public opinion. Having fought in an unknown land for an unknown cause. So many lives wasted. So many mothers and wives left to bury the dead. So many addicts created. So many MIAs. Men who returned with less than they left with. Men who had to leave a part of themselves there. A piece of their innocence, a piece of their minds. Men who returned, in body, but who were still missing in action.It was in Southeast Asia that he had been introduced to drugs. Hating the taste of alcohol, he had turned to drugs to help him block the pain of what he was seeing around him. Something to shunt the fear and cover the pain.He returned from the war addicted to Heroin. He remembered the feeling of detoxing on the plane coming home. It was as if he had left a part of his heart behind. He would look for something to fill the hole, but could find nothing that would erase the memories.Eventually marrying, he had three children that gave him a renewed sense of purpose. He worked hard to provide for them; and spent what time he could, playing with them and enjoying watching them grow. At this time in his life, he had quit doing drugs, except for smoking pot, which he felt was a harmless vise.As his children became school age, he realized that they needed to be taught the moral lessons that he had learned as a child. He started taking them to church and enrolling them in Bible school programs. He would kneel with them, nightly, as they recited their nighttime prayers.It was at one of these times, when praying with his then four-year-old daughter, when something moved in his heart and brought him to uncontrollable tears. He was feeling the Spirit of God speaking to his heart. When his daughter asked why he was crying, he said,I don’t know, honey.”She asked him, “Are you crying because you love Jesus?”“Yes, honey, I’m crying because I love Jesus.”The next words out of her mouth totally stunned him, when she replied,“Well, Daddy, all you have to do is ask Him into your heart.”He knew he had to surrender, but felt that he could never ‘live up’ to what he perceived a Christian to be. One thing was certain; God had a call on his life.Guilty of infidelity, he found himself in a loveless marriage, with a woman who was unable to forgive him or ever trust him again. He continued to attend church with his children. He played the piano for the church choir, although he still smoked pot daily. Somehow he justified his behavior and appealed to the grace of God for daily forgiveness. He wanted to give it up, but just wasn’t able to see the damage it was causing him.His marriage irretrievably broken, he divorced the mother of his children. He moved into an eighteen-foot travel trailer behind the shop where he worked. He lived alone, there, for five years.One Sunday, at church, he met a much younger woman. They struck up a conversation and made a date to go out. He was flattered that someone so young could find him to be attractive. It was she who would introduce him to crack cocaine.As he reviewed his life, and the decisions that directed it, a sense of total defeat overwhelmed him. He could see nothing in his future more than a daily routine of hustling money, buying dope, and feeling like a failure. He was trapped in an endless cycle, which he had created for himself, and could see no possible way out. He resented everything about his life. He hated his addiction. He hated the drugs. He despised the drug dealers.He stood up and, looking into the sky, he questioned God,"Why don't you just kill me and do mankind a favor?"He walked around for hours, weeping like a child. He was sure he had lost his mind. He stood on a bridge overlooking the expressway; and calculated that, if he jumped, he would hit the pavement in less than two seconds. He pondered the actual time required to go from the bridge to the pavement. Based upon what he could remember about math and science, he came to the conclusion that his frustrations in life could be over in 1.4 seconds.He grabbed the railing, preparing to leap; and spoke to God, and said;“I’ll see you in 1.4 seconds."But then he hesitated, as he felt God reply,"You'll give an account for your life. Are you prepared to do that?"He told God that he was tired of his life, as it had become.Again he felt God speak, saying,“OK, jump. But what if you land on a car? And what if there is a family in that car, and they die as a result of you jumping? Are you prepared to answer for their lives?"He cried out to God,"No, Lord! I just want this to be over, and I'd rather die and go to hell than live another day as a slave!"He experienced something he had never experienced in fifty years of life. He heard God's voice say,"Then get off of this bridge!"He had just had a close encounter with a living God. A 'Burning-Bush' experience!Confused and tormented by his addiction, he determined that, if a man was suicidal and could do it, the best thing he could do would be to get around someone who was homicidal. He looked for someone to pick a fight with, in hopes that they would kill him.He tried to start an argument with everyone he met. The only response he heard was,“Get away from that white boy...he's crazy!"No one bothered him; they simply walked away from him.He spent the rest of the night just walking the streets, studying the places that had become 'home' to him. He watched as a group of fellow addicts waited for the dope man to make his last pass through the "trap." He watched them as they all milled around, separated from each other, like wild animals waiting on some prey to die, so that they could be right there to jump on the carcass as soon as it had taken its last breath.He thought to himself,"These people all have one thing in common, and it isn't their addiction. It is that they are all, individually, alone."Addiction is a self-serving spirit, which separates an individual from everything and everyone around them. It draws you into your own world. Your only thoughts are about yourself and how you will be able to satisfy your own needs.This was the first rational thought his mind had processed, since he could remember.Throughout the entire night, he walked and wept and talked to God. Wondering if he would ever regain the sanity he seemed to have lost. Who could he call? Who could possibly understand his overwhelming dilemma? Who could offer him a solution? Who could help him find his way back?He prayed that God would either fix him or kill him.By early morning, tired from the sleepless night, hungry and weary from crying and pleading with God; he decided to call a preacher who had also experienced a battle with crack cocaine, years earlier. This preacher, Frank, was his only remaining link to his former life. He would see Frank from time to time, as the preacher drove through the area where Stan now stayed. Occasionally, the preacher would stop and talk to him and offer a burger and something to drink. The conversation would always end up on church. This only served to make Stan feel bad. For he saw it only as another failure.Frank answered the phone; and, when Stan identified himself, Frank replied,"You'll never guess who called me last night. Your Mother. She asked me to go look for you, out there on the streets. She felt you were in bad trouble. She said that she had been praying for you the past three days."Stan's mother always seemed to know when he was hurting. Even from miles away."She wants you to come home," Frank said.All Stan could do was cry."I need help, Frank" he cried. "I can't take this life anymore. Please come get me, and take me to the VA hospital, so that I can get into some kind of program."Frank instructed him to walk to a restaurant, about a mile from where he was calling. Stan hung up the phone and did as he was instructed. Not looking back, he now walked with purpose. These were the first steps of a journey that would eventually bring him back.He met his friend, Frank, at the Waffle House, a couple of miles from the 'trap.' He had expected to be met with criticism and ridicule, but Frank greeted him with a hug. Ignoring the odor of the streets, which now impregnated his skin and clothing, Frank asked,"Hungry?"Frank already knew the answer."I'm starved!" Stan replied.Frank ordered something for both of them to eat. As they sat there, waiting to be served, his friend talked about the good times they’d had before his addiction had taken him to the depths of the pit.Their order was served; and Frank bowed his head, and gave thanks – not for the food, but for his friend, Stan, being found. Frank wasn't unfamiliar with the struggle that men face when trying to get out of the pit. For he, at one time, had also been addicted.Frank spoke about a time when Stan had taught Sunday school; and how, by sitting in his class, Frank had been empowered to get out of his former life as an addict. Frank had never told Stan about this, and explained that he had always tried to return the kindnesses shown to him when he was an addict. There had always been a strong bond between the two. Stan had never understood, until now, just why Frank would seek him out on the streets, to give him a few days’ work, here and there. Or why Frank would, or should, even care. But he had always welcomed Frank’s visits to the streets.Frank would never give him cash. But he would, instead, pay for a hotel room for a week and buy him groceries.Frank was now a successful businessman with a thriving business. When they had worshiped together, Frank was always there to meet the needs of the church. When the church had its annual Bible School program, he would volunteer to pay for Bible school books, and would pay to furnish each child with a t-shirt as well as pay for the dinners held each night of the Bible school, for all of the kids.Frank would always say,"You can't feed a soul if the body is hungry."He never sought recognition for his acts of kindness, as he did it for God.Frank told Stan that he had always felt that God had a calling on Stan's life. He talked softly about the call of God on a man's life, and explained that God never repents of a call on someone; even if they mess up. Broken in spirit, Stan confessed his weakness and failures to God, and asked Him for forgiveness.After they had finished their meal, Frank suggested that Stan call his mother. He did. She convinced him to return home and seek help there. Even his dad, who surely must have been disappointed in him, asked him to come home. Frank got back on the phone and told Stan's father that he would put him on the next bus to Detroit.The journey had begun.Stan arrived in Detroit after a 16-hour bus ride. He had rehearsed, over and over again in his mind, exactly what he would say to his parents. But as soon as he saw his father waiting in the parking lot of the bus terminal, Stan’s mind went blank. He had planned to explain his behavior with excuses; such as poor friend selection, a bad marriage, and a host of other made-up excuses. It was a fact that Stan had grown tired of lying, so he decided to step up and place the blame squarely where it belonged: on himself.He got into the car, quietly clutching onto his backpack – the only remaining piece of his former life. It contained only two shirts, a pair of jeans, and a change of under-clothes (all stolen from a laundromat), a disposable razor, and a bottle of aftershave that he had gotten in a trade for dope.They then drove toward the house; neither speaking, but both were burning inside to say something. Finally, the silence broke. His father was first to speak."Well, what are your plans now?"His voice was strong and direct. He swallowed hard, and forced the words out. And as calmly as he could, trying not to show his fear, he answered,"I plan to go to the VA hospital and admit myself into their drug rehab program."Again, there was a long period of silence. Then, not looking directly at his father, he said,"Dad, I know that I have embarrassed myself and shamed your name. I know that I can never make up for my actions. But I want to get clean, and I do appreciate what you and Mom are doing to help me.""What your mother and I are willing to do to help you really doesn't matter; it’s only what you are willing to do to help yourself that will make a difference."The words pierced deeply into Stan’s mind. He really thought he had tried to help himself. He had attended 12 step meetings and had talked with drug counselors at the VA; and had even attended church a few times. What more could he do?Just then, he realized that he had only gone through the motions of recovery; never really doing anything for himself. He would have to come up with a new strategy, if he was going to beat his addiction. Right then, he purposed to make positive changes in his character. The first being, never to tell a lie again. People would just have to accept the truth about him, or move on.From that moment forward, things would change. He would no longer have to remember what he had told. The truth will always stay the same, no matter how many times you tell it. A lie will change over and over, again; but the truth will always be the truth.He had come to learn a valuable lesson in this thought. Certainly, he was not the first to come up with this idea of truth. But, no matter what memory cell had delivered it to his consciousness, he was thankful. Perhaps he hadn't completely lost his mind. He was thinking,"God is remolding my mind."Just as He promised in the book of Jeremiah, God was remolding the clay. As long as the clay would remain pliable, He could put it back on the wheel and remove the rocks and imperfections that kept it from being used as a vessel of honor.“Honor.” Now, there was a word he hadn't thought of in a long time! His former life had been filled with such dishonor that he had forgotten the very meaning of the word.Fear gripped him, as he considered what he would have to go through in order to recover from the life he had led. He would have to face all the demons that had ever attached themselves to him. Later on, he would discover this truth:God will never lead you into anything, which he will not also lead you through.Stan contacted the VA, in Detroit, for an appointment. He was asked if detoxing was necessary. It was not, since he had been clean and sober for four days. They set an appointment for a week later.During the time he had to wait, to be assessed, he did very little. It was almost as if he was afraid to move. Afraid that he might do or say something wrong and upset his parents. In his mind, he still replayed the evil and unlawful things he had done while on the streets. People he had taken advantage of. Lies he had told. Houses and businesses he had robbed. Disgusting things he had been a part of, to feed his habit. He was suffering from a serious bout of manic depression.Finally, after four days, his mother came out to the front porch where he was sitting quietly."Son, what's wrong?" she asked.With tears welling up in his eyes, and barely able to speak, he answered her."Mama, I don't know."How could he tell her that he felt like he was going to go crazy?"Son, I can't bear to see you this way."Now she was beginning to cry.“Is everything alright, between you and God?""Yes, Mother. I've prayed and asked for forgiveness. But God seems to be so far from me."She told him about a revival meeting that she had been invited to, and asked him to go with her. He agreed to go with her, despite the fact that he knew he would feel out of place. He couldn't seem to shake off the dirt and get clean enough to get close to people who had been cleansed by God. Nonetheless, he promised to go.After supper, he took a shower, shaved, and put on the new slacks and shirt that his mother had bought for him, earlier that day. He looked all right, he thought, as he looked in the mirror. The four days of rest had done a lot to clear up the dark circles he had under his eyes, when he arrived. The odor of crack cocaine, which had impregnated his skin, was gone.He sat with his mother in the service there, but somehow not there. Disattached, present in body only. He had been raised in church, so he knew how to put on that 'church face.' As the preacher spoke, he quietly prayed that God would fix him. When the altar call was given, Stan asked God to show him, somehow, that he had been accepted and forgiven.The preacher spoke to the crowd, but he felt the words were being spoken only to him. Then the preacher announced,"Someone is here, tonight, who has been struggling with a life-controlling issue. You have asked for forgiveness and God has forgiven you. But you've been suffering with a spirit of depression and a spirit of oppression. You've questioned God. The enemy has almost convinced you that you are a hopeless case, and that you can never be forgiven or made whole again. If that's you, please come now, and let me pray with you."He didn't hesitate. But he got up and went forward. As the preacher laid his hands on him, his mind went absolutely blank. When he came to his senses, he was on his back, underneath a pew. He wasn't sure of what had happened, but one thing was certain. He had felt the touch, the physical touch, of God Almighty! His mind had been touched. He could feel a physical change in his being."It's gone, Mama,” he cried. "I'm free!"The spirits of depression and oppression had left him. These were the first of many demons, which would be released from him.His dad took him to his appointment at the VA hospital. He talked with his dad during the drive to the hospital. They spoke about a newness of life. He assured his dad that, for the first time in years, he felt he was 'on track.' They walked through the huge facility together. For the first time in his life, he felt like a son. He felt the love of a father for his son. He sensed the concern of a father for a suffering child.They waited for his name to be called, to meet with the counselor. He knew that he would have to come clean with his addiction and supply them with all the details. When his name was called, his father told him to go on; that he would wait there for him. He turned to his Father and said,"Dad, come with me."They went in to speak with a counselor. Stan explained how he had come to this point. His father sat there, quietly, hearing for the first time about this son he had raised, who had turned to drugs to fill a void in his life. All the sordid details of his addiction.At the end of the meeting they were asked to go back to the waiting room and await the recommendation for treatment. Knowing that putting his father in a position to have to hear all the sordid details of his life, which he had always taken great pains to keep hidden, must have hurt him deeply. He looked at his father and said,"I'm sorry that you had to hear all that stuff, but I think you have a right to know who and what I am."His father's reply shocked him.“It’s alright, son, everything is going to be alright."After a short time, they were called back into the counselor’s office. From behind a small desk, the counselor said,"We recommend a six-month program. You will attend two 12-step meetings a week, and see a psychiatrist once a month."It seemed less than adequate to him. So Stan asked,"Are you sure that will be sufficient?""Well, you're not currently using; and you obviously have a support system with your parents."They left the hospital. On the way back home, Stan’s father asked him if he felt that he needed a more intense program. He told his Dad that he didn't see how two meetings a week could do much to help him. They agreed to look into a different solution.When they got back home, he called several drug treatment programs, only to find out that the cost was too great without some form of health care insurance. He called the Veteran’s Administration hospital in Atlanta; and, after speaking to a counselor there; Stan was accepted into their long-term program: 100 meetings in 90 days. He would be housed in an apartment with other recovering addicts. He would receive $40 in food stamps per week, and a transit pass so he would be able to get to and from the 12-step meetings. This sounded like a good plan to him.Stan boarded a bus returning him to Atlanta. He went directly to the hospital that sent him to a facility, where he would spend the next 90 days.The facility was an apartment complex on the northwest side of Atlanta. The two-bedroom apartment housed four men, already. He looked around, curiously, trying to figure out just where to set his knapsack down. The House Leader, a recovering heroin addict, told him to put his stuff in the front room."You'll be sleeping on the front porch."It had once been a front porch, but had been enclosed to accommodate another bedroom. There was a small twin bed and a dresser inside."Put your stuff here, in this dresser,” he was instructed. “Here’s a copy of the meeting schedule. Don't be late. And don't ever miss a meeting!"With that, the House Leader disappeared.Stan unpacked his 'life' from his knapsack. He only needed one drawer of the dresser for everything to fit.He was happy to be in a program that could help him figure out how to stay clean. But he stayed anxious, most of the time. As he would travel to and from the meetings, the bus would pass close to many of the areas where he had bought and used drugs. From time to time, he would see people whom he had either bought drugs from, or smoked with. The battle was again raging.He was at the brink of giving up, again, when he called his mother's sister in Kentucky. He spoke with her about where he was, and explained the anxiety he was feeling. She told him,"You need to get out of there, now! I'm sending Jeff [her son] to come get you.""What about my program?" he asked."I've got your program right here!" She exclaimed.He knew she was talking about getting closer to God and letting God take him through recovery."Ok, I'll do it," he resolved.Within eight hours, Stan’s cousin had arrived to take him to the next stop on his search: Southeastern Kentucky.He arrived at the home of his Mom’s sister, late in the night. He was weary from the trip and felt uncertain about his ability to follow the oath he had now chosen. He only knew a few people in the area, and they were all family. In one respect, he felt a sense of security. But something inside of him kept reminding him of past failures to “stay clean.” He whispered a short prayer, asking God to keep him fighting the evil, which had all but destroyed him.Everything here was new to him. Stan was making a new start.“Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” he muttered, silently, to himself.His aunt greeted him at the door; they sat down at the kitchen table, as she explained that his mother had called her and asked her to help him find peace, again. He hadn’t thought about the word “peace” in years. He pondered on exactly what the word meant to him. He remembered how it was used during the Vietnam conflict. How the “hippie movement” had made it their credo.Now, it had a much deeper meaning in his life. He analyzed the word itself. Peace, the absence of war. War, that was a word he understood. Not just physical war, but the war that rages in the minds of men everywhere. How is peace negotiated in the mind? He would find the answer to this question, in time. But this truth is not a truth that man can lead himself into. It would take Godly counsel to understand how to achieve peace in the mind.After a snack of warmed-over supper, Stan’s aunt showed him to his room. He unpacked the few items of clothing in his backpack, and stacked them neatly in the corner of the room, on the floor. His heart was touched by the kindness shown by his aunt and cousin. No one had mentioned his addiction issues. It was as if they didn’t know anything about them. He knew better, but was thankful that they didn’t want to talk about them. He really wasn’t in a position to discuss them. At least, not then. He knelt down at his bedside and prayed, thanking God for rescuing him from himself.The next morning was Sunday. Stan’s aunt was a member of a Pentecostal church, and faithful to attend. She asked if he wanted to go with her. He said,“Okay,” and put on the best he had to wear – a clean pair of black cargo pants, a yellow shirt, and a pair of yellow-and-blue tennis shoes. He felt under-dressed, but he felt that God understood that this was his best.Nervously, he entered the church, where the pastor greeted him with a hug and whispered into his ear,“I know where you’ve been and what you’ve been through. But I’m only concerned with where you and I will go, together.” For the first time in years, he felt a sense of true acceptance. He was starting to believe in himself, again.He continued to attend church and move closer to God. He was emotionally moved by the praise and worship music. Now, more than at any other time in his life, he really knew and understood what to praise God for, and why He was so deserving of that praise.Stan still hadn’t fund gainful employment. He worked at odd jobs for people in the church, and tried to repay his aunt by doing jobs around the house. She always tried to pay him. She knew what it was like to be broke and penniless, and always made sure that he had some cash, even if was only a little.He continued to worship, whenever he attended church services. He was even asked, on occasion to sing. He had testified to the congregation of his miraculous deliverance from the pit of addiction. There were no more secrets, no pretense, and no mask to wear. He wanted only peace, the peace that comes only from God.

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