The Faces of Recovery

"Whom you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

That's the opening admonition of every 12-step meeting I've ever attended, and I have no intention of violating that vital rule. That said, I am going to relate an incident which greatly encouraged me and I hope will put smiles on many a worrying face.

Last night I dragged myself out of my comfort zone and went to an Al Anon meeting. That's a bit of an overstatement, as I've gratefully attended many a recovery meeting on and off for nearly 40 years. It's OK to out myself, as I have very few secrets where my recovery past is concerned, so for the record, I'm a veteran of several such programs, and have found them to be literally lifesaving in the mental health department. But by "comfort zone" in this instance, I simply mean I was nice and comfy, relaxing in my room after a busy day, but decided at the last minute to un-comfort my cozy self and take care of my head (which tends to take on a life of its own when I'm worried about someone or something, as I was yesterday).

As happens often when I divest myself of "snuggy-ness" and do the right thing, I found myself richly rewarded.

This particular meeting is always well attended, and last night was no exception. Arriving a few minutes late (my usual MO), I found there was nary a chair to be had. Lots of cushion-y furniture is arranged in a circle in the main part of the room, and there are always a few folding chairs set up around the perimeter. Latecomers like me end up in those less desirable seats, but there wasn't even one of those to be found.

 I did, however, notice one chair in the outer circle with a bunch of junk on it - nothing like a coat or purse, which would have indicated someone was sitting there, or of course, I wouldn't have moved it. This meeting, like most 12-step meetings I'm aware of, took place in a room rented from a church. The items I'm referring to were "office-y" things from the church that had somehow ended up on the seat of this chair.

Here's where the miracle started to happen. A young man a few seats down, not realizing I had found a place to sit, stood up and offered me his chair! I quickly indicated that I had solved my dilemma, but thanked him profusely in whispered tones for his kindness.

Then miracle number two kicked in. Another young fellow had snagged himself a primo seat on the couch in the inner circle. I don't even know how he realized what I was struggling with, since theoretically, his eyes would have been on the speaker as opposed to something going on behind him. Nevertheless, he gallantly stood up and insisted I take his seat.

Let me insert here that I've been so conditioned by the supposed equalization of women (which, admittedly, has resulted in a much greater leveling of the playing field vocationally and economically, but has also yielded the unfortunate side effect of many niceties "gentlemen" used to perform for "ladies" going by the wayside) that both these acts of chivalry somewhat threw me. In the first case, the young man didn't need to follow through on his offer, as I had located a chair. In the second instance, I was being offered a more comfortable spot in the inner circle. This meant, because of the way the meeting typically runs, I would get a chance to "share" (i.e., say a few words about how I related to the topic of the meeting) before he would, and if time ran out, he might not have the chance to speak at all. Sharing is an important part of recovery, as it forces attendees out of their comfort zones and hopefully steers them towards healthier thinking.

So, you see, this guy wasn't just giving up a soft seat; he was potentially forfeiting his chance to grow a little bit in his recovery.

I had to make a split-second decision. Would I accept this young man's act of chivalry, or simply indicate that I would be fine in the austere chair I had cleared? I must admit, vanity played a small part in all this mental wrestling. Was he making the offer to a woman, or to an older woman? In other words, was his gallantry due to my sex or my age? The former, I found lovely. The latter, although still chivalrous, might suggest I was over the hill!

Laying those concerns aside, I accepted his gracious offer. I later reciprocated when, as I had predicted, the opportunity arose for me to share. I relinquished the privilege, offering it instead to my Sir Galahad, and publicly acknowledged both young men, who had truly proven themselves gentlemen.

I find this anecdote encouraging on many levels. Apparently, our society isn't as far-gone as many believe. There may be hope for us yet.

But wait. It gets better.

It turns out both the gentlemen to whom I've referred are in recovery for substance abuse. In fact, they were part of a group of recovering addicts who attended the Al Anon meeting for reasons of their own. Without divulging any of their stories, let me just say that all expressed gratitude for the warm welcome they received from a group they knew was formed in response to the antics of addicts.

In a time when so many are losing their lives to the opioid crisis and other forms of behavioral enslavement, it touched my heart deeply to witness such tender concern and humility on the part of those struggling with addiction. In short, it gives me great hope.

It also reinforces my resolve to pray for folks who are fighting a monkey on their backs. Statistically, the guys I saw last night run a high risk of relapsing. It behooves me to intercede for them and their loved ones, just as I appeal to the Almighty for those in my own life for whom this is a mortal battle.

There but for the grace of God go I.

"Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed

 through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." 

~ Hebrews 4:14-16 ~

The Trouble with Rhoda

I’m trying to figure out why I’m bummed out by a sitcom.

True confessions time. I admitted to my Bible study group yesterday that the “drugs” I use to escape reality, or sometimes just relax (“recreational drugs”?) are food, sleep and entertainment.

In the wake of being so boldly transparent with my Christian sisters, I yielded to one of my three temptations last night, after having an otherwise productive and meaningful day. Specifically, I binge watched Rhoda, the old sitcom from the 70’s in which Mary Richards’ sidekick tries to make it on her own. And she does in many important ways – building a career and forging strong family bonds (despite a bumpy relationship with her stereotypically Jewish mother!) – but in the realm of marriage, our ugly-duckling-turned-successful-swan gets it way wrong.

After an eye-blinkingly brief marriage, Rhoda’s handsome, rugged husband complains, “I’m not as happy as I wanna be,” and persuades his tearful wife it’s in the best interest of their marriage for him to take a hiatus to figure things out.

This would lead his troubled wife to believe he's maybe planning a short vacation in a motel to sort out his priorities. Heaven knows, after one failed marriage resulting in shared custody of a son he seems to often shunt to the side, one would hope he’d tread carefully before dissolving a second union. Instead, he finds himself a dumpy apartment and proceeds to stick poor, estranged Rhoda with the rent for the more comfortable apartment they had shared. Unable to keep up with her bills, she’s forced to move to smaller digs after her Sir Galahad husband counsels her not to get too attached to things.

The saddest part is, Rhoda apologizes and begs her way through their whole separation, even as the man she loves takes advantage of her vulnerability. Consider the following slice of dialogue in the scene where Joe comes on to her when she graciously delivers the dry cleaning tickets for his shirts, which didn’t need cleaning but “were getting her depressed, hanging around here without [him] in them.”

Rhoda: I know what you’re thinking.

Joe: Good. I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret.

Rhoda: And it’s exactly what I’m thinking. It’s exactly what the entire free world is thinking! And I am wrong. They’re wrong. The world, you, me, all of us. And that’s not a good idea, Joe.

Joe (persuasively): I’m not so sure.

Rhoda: Oh, come on, who’re you kidding? All we would be doing is blocking out the real issues, Joe… The problem’ll still be there in the morning. Y’know, it’s no solution, Joseph, really it isn’t…. What I’m saying is, the problem is still there. All you’re really doing is taking the pain away for a couple of minutes.

Joe (moving in seductively): Well, what’s so bad about that?

Rhoda: … What’s bad is that, when the pain comes back, it’s worse.*

Alas, Rhoda’s common sense and resolve lose out to her hormones. Perhaps somewhere in her desperate mind – like so many women – she gambles that, if she gives him what he wants, he'll love her. Whatever the reason, she throws caution to the wind. Arriving home the next morning, she’s met by her sister, Brenda, who excitedly exclaims, “You spent the night at Joe’s! Oh!” Then realization sets in, and she adds sadly, “But you came home alone. Oh!”

Why does this depress me so? Because it’s true! Behind the pithy dialogue and attractive actors, we have the whole saga of post-60’s America. Casual sex, no strings, broken hearts and broken homes.

The saddest thing is, naive Rhoda is reaping the results of failing to heed the obvious warning signs that have been there all along. Her beloved Joe is only following through on the framework he’s been laying since day one of their relationship. He doesn't ask for her hand in marriage; he only asks her to move in. She has to cajole him into stepping up to the altar. Perhaps her biggest mistake, though, is allowing the officiant to wed them with the words, “Do you promise to stay together, grow together, and to trust each other, as long as you both shall love?”

Whatever happened to “as long as you both shall live?” That one little letter makes all the difference in the world between one-night stands – which is all Rhoda gets out of the above exchange with her own husband, who (spoiler alert) ends up divorcing her anyway – and the intention of persevering through thick and thin. I know it’s a long shot, and I’m well aware of divorce statistics (heck, I’m one of them), but Joe and Rhoda’s vows are more or less a prenuptial agreement wrapped up in pretty prose. The minute the love starts to falter (and trust me, folks, it will – not necessarily permanently, but life’s vicissitudes being what they are, the skyrockets are surely gonna ebb and flow) – the minute that happens, both spouses have just vowed to vamoose!

I see another major problem in this whole story line. My friend, Anne, who listened to me rant when I woke up bugged about it this morning, observed that Joe hides behind a veil, so to speak. He doesn't define their relationship at the outset by establishing plans for a life together, and he's just as unclear when he takes off for the great unknown. Poor Rhoda is left trying unsuccessfully to permeate his veil of vagueness, which is really nothing more than gross irresponsibility.

Why? Because Rhoda hitched her sails to a guy with weak character. And character counts.

Despite the fact that hordes of women have adapted their behavior to fit modern morality (or lack thereof), I submit that we were much wiser when we expected more. When we stopped requiring commitment as a prerequisite for intimacy, we handed over the reins of our hearts along with the keys to our apartments.

Yes, we are fully capable of supporting ourselves, buying our own meals at a restaurant, and making our way home if the need arises. That’s not the point.

Chivalry doesn’t have to be dead just because society has declared it outdated. If the dating process is designed to be a prelude to marriage – an interview phase, as it were – why should we be surprised when the men who enjoyed unearned dividends in advance of the altar turn into husbands who tire of those dividends shortly after the honeymoon?

Ladies, we can let our men have their cake and eat it, too – loveless sex and commitment-less relationships – but Rhoda would tell us to expect to come home alone and pick up our own tab – and not just for dinner.

“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for her, that He might sanctify and cleanse her with the washing of water by the word, that He might present her to Himself a glorious church, not having spot or wrinkle or any such thing, but that she should be holy and without blemish. So husbands ought to love their own wives as their own bodies; he who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as the Lord does the church. For we are members of His body, of His flesh and of His bones. ‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’ This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the church. Nevertheless let each one of you in particular so love his own wife as himself, and let the wife see that she respects her husband.” ~ Ephesians 5:25-33

*All dialogue taken from Rhoda. “Together Again for the First Time.” Season 3, Episode 2. Directed by Tony Mordente. Written by Coleman Mitchell and Geoffrey Neigher. CBS, September 27, 1976. Stage directions added by me.

For more like this, check out: Reflections by Thea: The Trouble with Rhoda: The Other Side

Reflections by Thea: Someday My Prince Will Come ... and He Just May Be a Princess

On Sacrifice

Absurdity

Something very precious is being lost in our country. The loss began happening with the advent of the women’s movement and has continued steadily over the past few decades. The notion that women are entitled to equal earning capacity due to their innate equality in brain power and inherent value has morphed into the idea that they are equal in every respect, including physical strength and protectorate capacity.

I recently viewed the latest Republican debate and was more than a little distressed that several key players ardently supported the mandatory conscription of women, should we revert to a draft. One candidate subsequently voiced his opinion that men should not expect women to protect them. Call me old-fashioned (and I’m sure some will call me worse than that), but I believe a woman’s willingness to nurture life from womb to adulthood should more than satisfy her protectorate requirements. Then again, many women these days are rejecting the former and haphazardly performing the latter, which perhaps has contributed to men’s lack of willingness to sacrifice for them.

Nevertheless, it used to be an insult to be accused of hiding behind a woman’s skirt or tied to her apron strings. Now this bearer of two X chromosomes fears that too many XY owners not only allow themselves to be carried by the women in their lives, but have come to expect it.

Masculinity

My dear friend, Cynthia, died several years ago. She was, in a word, brilliant. Her talents in drawing, music, writing, gardening and cooking were second to none.  Her wit was unparalleled. She could find wry humor in the mundane and, as a result, was a sparkling conversationalist. Perhaps Cynthia’s most remarkable feat was her evolution from an introverted, almost reclusive person into someone who forced herself out of her shell to the point where she came to know and love neighbors, perform at a music recital, and find love with an exceptional man named Bob.

Bob respected Cynthia’s independence and fought for it. When Cynthia’s boss mistreated her, Bob supported her decision to leave the position, even though she had no other employment prospects. He gallantly assumed the financial cares of the household, while she happily oversaw home projects. One of my most treasured possessions is a hutch he built for her. I assumed custody of this cherished piece after her passing, and found Bob had inscribed on the back the date of its completion, along with the date Cynthia approved its specifications – a tandem effort if ever there was one.

Possibly the quality which endeared Bob to me the most was his defense of Cynthia's honor. Among other things, my relationship with Cynthia was comprised of mutual barb-throwing. There was no truth behind the insults; it was all part of a complex relationship that spanned my entire lifetime and was based on raw humor and meaningless jibes. However, Bob let me know in no uncertain terms that assaults on Cynthia's character, even in jest, were not funny to him. He lived out his love for her, taking every opportunity to compliment her publicly and show his adoration for her.

When his wife received a cancer diagnosis, Bob joyfully cared for her body, soul and spirit, even in the midst of unrelated personal tragedy and his own health concerns. Although my friend had no health insurance when she fell ill, Bob drove her to appointments and assured his beloved they would find the money for her care. To this day, I suspect he’s still making payments on medical bills she incurred before they were even married.

To me, Bob is the epitome of what it means to be a man.

Maternity

The notion that women can and should gain as much education and career experience as their talents and pocketbooks allow is not only reasonable but essential in today’s society. The days when a woman’s primary concerns were the care of home and family are long past and, as a one who has had the privilege of being both a stay-at-home mom and a breadwinner, I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to spread my occupational wings a far greater distance than my mother did. HOWEVER, ability has brought with it a steep price tag. Many men have come to EXPECT their children’s mothers to give birth, fly right home from the hospital with barely a day or two to recover (sometimes less), and six weeks later be back on the job site pumping milk and rigorously performing  in their profession.

Since when did maternity become less a profession than teaching, ministering to the sick, or running a company? Last time I checked, motherhood required skills in all those areas, and many more. My parenting role has demanded more of me physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually than any paid position I’ve ever held, and the monetary compensation was zilch. No, make that negative numbers. The hours were longer and the stakes higher than any job I’ve ever worked (including waitressing, which is saying something), but the rewards have been commensurately exorbitant. My children’s successes have given me greater joy than any raise I’ve ever gotten, and lasted far longer than any paycheck I ever received.

Some mothers are horrors. I get that. I’ve seen it. Some are mediocre at best and abusive at worst. Should the lack of responsibility of a few denigrate the entire calling, any more than Kermit Gosnell should besmirch the whole medical profession? Should we not still do all in our power to heighten the prestige and purpose of so great a calling, even as we call to account the few bad apples in every bunch?

Sagacity

At the risk of incurring my younger son's ire, let me state unequivocally that my Christian faith informs and undergirds my views on this and every subject. About this, I am unapologetic. Indeed, the founders of this country, while not all practicing Christians, injected Biblical principles into the infrastructure of our democracy. Those same founders, not incidentally, fought for independence on behalf of their wives and sweethearts, who supported in ancillary roles. 

Women today, unlike their ancestors, have the choice to serve directly on the battlefield. Nevertheless, the difficulties of military service, horrors of war, blurring of lines between the sexes and blurring of gender in general all make the military an occupation that should be chosen by women rather than imposed upon them.

Profundity

"Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman. For as woman came from man, so also man is born of woman. But everything comes from God." 1 Corinthians 11:11-12

"So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise." Galatians 3:26-29

" Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her... In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated their own body, but they feed and care for their body, just as Christ does the church..." Ephesians 5:25, 28-29