Sundays remind me of what I use to be like, what happened, and what life is like now, and my attitude can be condescending towards what was.

I understand why alcohol and drugs were attractive; they alleviated emotions and allowed total stupor.

The reading is a dream come true, and it seems that the writer experienced enough pain to gain the concept of what alcohol is capable of doing, and at that exact moment, they were able to let go of fear and move forward into a sane, healthy life.

For this alcoholic, I wake up fearful, so it’s aforethought of a shout out each day to a higher power of my understanding to help me. I resist the world like a plague. I don’t want to acknowledge its cruel ways. Yet, to keep what I have with this sobriety thing, I am told that I have to give it away. Each day I show up for myself and do my best, and some days my staying sober is good enough.

I hide in books and my cocoon of a shelter, walking in nature and writing my fears. I don’t have to prove my worth because I understand the significance of my powers, and although it might come off as a threat to others, I know that I am a decent person.

The path to faith is to know that I am okay just the way I am. I can attempt to eradicate the fear of being available for the next sufferer by offering my experience, strength, and hope. Sometimes listening to my inner-most apprehensions, I get to shine my light because I can see I am not alone if only I show up and listen.

Faith without works is dead, and it’s Sunday that lets me know that I can start the process again, fresh, renewed, and delighted to help—grateful that my higher power carries that what I cannot—cause I can relate to what it used to be like before recovery. Step by step, I am grateful to be alive and to be of service to help others.

Peace and love. Feel free to share and invite others. To unsubscribe, say so. The reading is attached.  

Author, Lynda M.