There Is Hope For Us Yet
Let’s begin this post with a fact: yesterday I lost my job, joining the ranks of people who woke up one day thinking it was a normal day, till that call. It happens every day, especially in the field in which I work.
But that’s not what I’m going to talk about. I want to talk about what happened after.
Yesterday I lost my job, and drove home in tears. I called my husband, my parents, my brother and best friend. I plunked a file folder and photo frame down on my kitchen table and walked into the grass of my backyard. It was a warm Alabama spring day, and I dropped into our hammock, my work clothes still on.
I held on to this sign, which was taped next to my desk: “There is Hope For Us Yes,” a line from theintro music from my favorite podcast: HOME.
I stared at the sign and cried some more. I went inside and made a huge mug of matcha tea. I stepped over some pug poop from a dog confused as to why I was home in the middle of the day. And I called my sponsor.
Yesterday I lost my job, and curled into a ball on a hammock, and said many things I will not write here. This happens every day to people and isn’t particularly interesting. This is the part that is:
“You know what I haven’t heard you say Erin?” my sponsor said. “Anything about a drink.”
“Oh, hell no. Why would I want to do that?” I replied. I meant it. Why would I want to mess up my big, beautiful life? Why would I want to dull any of this?
The miracle of being saved by a power greater than myself.
The miracle of rocking in a hammock on the cusp of summer.
The miracle of knowing, even while I was shaking, it will all be OK. More than OK. Brilliant.
Earlier in the day, I went to church with my son and parents, where we watched the little girls bring flowers to the Virgin Mary on May Day. There, in that church, I felt anchored and held. There in that hammock, I felt anchored and held.
Clutching that sign, repeating a phrase I learned in recovery:
“God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves.”
If this had happened earlier in my life, I would have gone straight to a bar. I would have beat myself up. But recovery has shown me another way. Last night, through my tears, I took off my stifling black pants, changed into leggings, and drove to the closest meeting, where I was comforted and supported. Where I got to tell people: one of my greatest fears came true today, and I did not have to drink.
That’s a damn miracle.
I am a miracle.
Last night storms came through, and I tossed and turned through a sleepless night. But, you know what? The sun came out. The hammock is drying. I took out my old laptop and poured a cup of coffee. I started writing.
I am just beginning. So is the miracle.