Grace In Motion

She is my best friend.   I have known her for over thirty years, and she is as comforting and familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

I was lost in thought as I drove to her house yesterday.   The backdrop of a chilly, stark November day seemed fitting for what we had to do.   

She opened her door looking radiant.   These days she always looks radiant.   She is two and a half months sober.

~~~~

In August I dropped her off at a treatment center, and she began her journey into recovery from alcoholism.   As I drove away that morning, my insides twisted and churned with fear.  She seemed strong, determined, but then again she always seemed strong and determined.  It is her way.

She is woven into the fabric of my life; I couldn't imagine me without her.    She has to make it, I selfishly begged.   Please, please let her be okay. 

We are an improbable match, the two of us.   She was always the passionate, strong, street smart, fiery one.    I was the quiet, shy, introverted people pleaser.   She drank to have a good time.   I drank to feel normal, accepted.   

Booze got us both, in the end.

After I got sober three years ago, I wondered what would become of us.    It was hard to see her still drinking, still having a good time.   Selfish, petty thoughts took over:  we were the same, after all.   Why did I have to stop and she got to keep going?    

Then I started noticing things, worrying about her.   That bright spark in her eyes dulled, although her determination and drive never wavered.   She attacks life head-on; she always has.    I knew it would take a lot to bring her down.   

I wrote a post about how it felt to see a loved one in trouble, after having lunch with her last April.    I hadn't seen her in a while, but I knew, without a doubt, that booze had her in its grip.    She didn't deny it; she said she was being careful, keeping an eye on her drinking.  

I knew she had passed the point where keeping an eye on it mattered.   We are the same, after all.   She was in trouble, and I felt helpless.   If you can't save your best friend, who can you save?    

The answer is simple, and frustrating:  nobody.   You can't save anybody.   You don't have that kind of power, no matter how much you wish you did.

So I waited, and I prayed.   I let it go, and hoped that when and if the moment came and she wanted help, that I would be ready.   

That moment came two and a half months ago.   She was finally sick and tired of being sick and tired.  She faced a pile of personal and legal troubles, but I could see that wasn't why she wanted help.    She wanted help because she had lost herself, and she wanted to find herself again.

What I have witnessed over the past two and a half months is nothing short of a miracle.   She grabbed on to sobriety with both hands, and hung on for dear life.    She chased sobriety as hard as she ever chased anything, and that is saying something.   This is not a woman who backs down. 

She goes to at least one recovery meeting a day.  She found a network of support in her local recovery community.  She opened up, asked for help, and talked and talked and talked.    She faced her truths with dignity and humility.  She owned her role in her troubles, and stepped up to make her amends and pay her debts to society.   

She surrendered.  She got out of her own way, and let the people who love her step in and help.   

She is grace in motion.

~~~~

Yesterday we drove to another treatment center.   This time it was part of cleaning up her legal troubles: a mandatory two week inpatient stay.    I was worried about her.

"How are you doing?"   I asked, casting a glance over to the passenger seat.

"I'm okay," she said.  "I'm ready."

"This is going to be hard, I think," I replied. 

She was quiet a moment, and then spoke to me about acceptance.   We talked about how all things happen for a reason, and the hard part is getting out of the way so we can see the gifts that are present in the face of difficulty.  

"No matter what," she said, "it's going to be okay."  

~~~~

The rules are strict at the treatment center.   Patients bring their belongings in a large trash bag, and the list of prohibited items is long.    Her intake appointment was the first one of the morning.  I was not allowed to go in with her; she had to face this alone.   We sat quietly for a moment in the car, and then she took a deep breath, looked at me and said, "Okay, then.   I guess it's time."

I looked over at her, concerned, but she was smiling.   The bright spark is back in her eyes, and it shone with determination and acceptance.  

"You gotta get a picture of this," she joked, as she slung her trash bag over her shoulder.   

"Yeah, one for the Christmas card this year," I smiled, as I snapped her picture:

She strode confidently to the entrance, giggling to herself, ready to face whatever the next leg of her journey will bring.

She could have been bitter, angry and resentful.   She could have cursed her lot in life, raged against having to spend two weeks there when she's doing so well already.   

But she is a sober woman of grace and honor, and she can see the light inside the darkness, the lessons to be learned in the hard times.

My heart swelled with love and pride.    She is going to be okay, I thought.   She is okay.  We are okay.