And yes, Mother's Day is not yet here, nor is that a topic I've ever seen in a recovery group. Today, we're going to talk about mothers. No, I haven't heard it done that way, but in response to a hundred different topics I have heard stories with mothers at the center, both in gratitude and thankfulness for faithful love and support and in pouring out horrific pain and fear. And I have seen many women in recovery speak of overcoming the regret of failing to be the mother they should be, of using motherhood as a source of inspiration and strength to do the work to get and stay clean, and of gratitude that now they can be good mothers to the children they love. You can not hang out with recovered drunks and druggies long without motherhood, positive and negative, coming up. And while this is a couple of day's early, this is my last new writing before Sunday.
I am grateful that I do not fall into that latter category from the first paragraph. I have an amazing mother, and she is still with me. I have been richly and truly blessed. And she, unfortunately for her, is an example of how you can do it right, raise a child with love and discipline and the truth of God as the foundation for everything you're building, and yet still have that child become the prodigal. My mother didn't drive me to drink or drug, she didn't look the other way as I ran wild in the streets (It took a lot of work and energy to sneak around behind the ever watchful eyes of my mom and to escape her nose that seriously seemed to be able to smell smoke and alcohol from a mile away). It wasn't my father's fault or actions either, but today we're not looking at dads.
It also most certainly was not due to a lack of instruction. Oh how my poor mother tried. I can't help but wonder at times how hard it must have been to feel she couldn't get through, to see that nothing was changing or that things were getting worse rather than better. How much love it took to inspire that faithful prayer she covered me with year after year without any evidence that I would live long enough to have it answered, that I would ever quit running from God. I didn't finally get clean and sober, didn't fully resurrender my will and life over to the care and love of God until I was nearly 40 after all. And she knew I new right from wrong.
My momma didn't raise any stupid children, despite the evidence of the stupid choices I have made in the past. And she told us, told me. That is not acceptable. I cant begin to guess how many times I have heard those words from my mother's lips. And the times when it was a tad more serious came that is not acceptable, young man. Young man, two words spoken in such a way that even at 46 I completely understand that I am not too old or big to be disciplined by Mom. I am still her child and always will be. But boy, when I had really blown it came the heavier Son, that is not acceptable. Son was different than young man. With it came a heaviness and disappointment, and, often, exhaustion.
Son, and everything in that word said can't you see how much I love you. Can't you see how much I don't want this pain and misery for you. Can't you see that I want better for you. Can't you see how I'm trying to keep you from falling into the ditch or the grave? I care. Please listen. Please respond and let me help you and guide you. I hurt when you hurt and this is killing me. You know better. You know this isn't the way. This isn't right. Son, I love you totally and completely, but what you are doing and the road you're on, that is not acceptable.
And she never accepted it. Never. And she never gave up. She kept fighting on her knees for the life of her first born. Seven years ago, a week and a day after Mother's Day 2010, it stuck, the not drinking and drugging. But the journey on the road to recovery, this prodigal's return trip home, began well before seven years ago. It started even before the 15 months I managed to do before the last relapse. It started before the seeking and searching for an answer in prison. Even before the turn of the century and the conviction. The seed for the return was planted even before all the times she tried to steer me away from the wrong road and reminded me of what was and was not acceptable. It actually began before I ever stepped foot on the road to hell on earth. My mother's instruction began at my birth, but her prayers for me began even before that, and they never stopped, never gave up, never accepted defeat, never believed for a moment that the idea of freedom for me and a life worth living were hopeless and foolish dreams. Despite the decades of brokenness she looked at me with a determination in her eyes that said I will see you free and understanding that you are loved if it kills me.
Today I only hear her tell me something isn't acceptable a few times a year, usually when I am being a smartie pants, speaking fluent sarcasm or getting a bit crass. It happens. Progress rather than perfection. Her dreams for me moved the mountain of hopelessness and despair from my heart. That's what her faith and endurance helped do. I am so grateful for her faithful prayer, her constant love and yes, every single time she spoke those words, Son, that is not acceptable.
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