Who's your Gregory?

I've had this on my heart, and I just need to get it out.

Wednesday night, my dad, sister and I went to the Eagles Concert.  We grew up listening to the Eagles so my dad treated us to dinner and the concert. 

We won't mention the part about my boots being too small and having to make a pit stop at the Mall before hand to find some flats because I thought I was going to have a panic attack if I didn't get them off.  Pregnancy making your feet grow is the pits.  I've been a solid 6.5 my whole life, but a 7 is now a must.  I'll be selling my boots soon.

Anyways.  The Concert.

We made up up to our seats.  Very top row of the 3rd level.  High up.

We took our seats and got comfy.  Up the steps comes Drunk and Drunker.  And what appeared to be the mother and wife.  My anxiety rose as the only 4 seats in our section were right next to me.  Large and pregnant and hot.  But thank God I didn't have those boots on. 

They filed in, one by one to our row.  A few times Gregory (we knew his name right from the start, as the other 3 were trying to make sure he could stand up) about fell over the row in front of us as he made his way past us.  Tim, who we initially thought to be Chip, was telling Brenda (Gregory's wife) that they should have brought a harness for Gregory.  Momma closed out the gang.   Momma and Tim both had a beer in their hand, as if they hadn't had enough already.

Lord.  This was going to be an entertaining night. 

As the show began, Gregory got louder and louder.  His apparent drunken state was too much for the gentlemen in front of him to handle.  A few times he turned around, offering a threat to call security, a foul word or just a cross look.  This wasn't sitting well with Gregory. 

Words were exchanged several times between Gregory, party of 4.  Brenda telling Gregory he had a 'bad case of the dumb ass', momma pulling Gregory down when he was getting a little too rowdy, Tim/Chip trying to be a voice of reason while drunk himself.  It was a sight.  The blind leading the blind. 

Intermission came and Momma and Brenda went.  That left me beside Gregory, a seat between us.

This is where it gets good.   

We struck up a conversation pretty quick.  Eye contact with a drunk is about all you need to get that going.  He asked my name.  He informed me he had a dog named Annie, a pit bull.  He'd never fight a dog, roosters maybe, but never a dog.  A few minutes later he asked my name again.  I reminded him of our recent conversation and we went on. 

He started mouthing about the man in front of us, letting me know he could kick his {ahem} and that he could throw him over the rail if he wanted  among other things.  I calmly said 'now, he bought his tickets just like you did and he just wants to enjoy the show too...and you are all up in his business with your singing in his ear.  Just leave him be and you have a good time, but be respectful'.  Well, you have a good point there Annie, he said. 

He didn't like how this man had treated him and I can't say that I blame him.  Drunk or not.  You treat people how you want to be treated.  And Gregory needed love and kindness.

I could tell he was harmless so I started joking with him. 

How many beers have you had tonight Gregory?
Only a few?  Likely story. 
Oh really, well HOW BIG were the ones that you had?
Thinking for a minute, 'now why do I have to answer all these questions? he asked.

I politely told him he didn't have to, but I was just curious. 
I then went on to ask him when he started drinking and he matter of factly said 'about 5:30 this morning'.  Tim agreed that this was the case.

I asked him if he did this every day and he, in that same, matter of fact tone, answered my question with a confident 'yep'. 


I don't meet a stranger.  Have we covered that yet? 


I asked him if he thought maybe this could be a problem.  Again, same quick answer, 'yes probably.'

I motioned towards my dad, who was sitting on the other side of my sister. 

I said 'that man right there used to have that same problem.' 

'He's an alcoholic?' He said.  'Yes.  He's been sober 20 years.'  23 years, my dad quickly corrected. 

And so the tone changed.  They shook hands.  Gregory demeanor immediately changed.  He complimented my dad on 23 years.  He complimented my dad on his daughters.  He asked if I remembered my dad 'like that'.  I do.  He was impressed that there we sat, all together, the 3 of us, what used to be a rocky past, having a wonderful time.  Sober.  I informed him I'd never had a drink.  Never had the desire.  Nor will I ever take that first sip.  His eyes never left mine.  He listened intently  We talked of meetings and sponsors and being better.  Being different. 

Gregory knew about AA.  He knew about meetings.  He knew he'd need a sponsor if he were ever going to be any different.  Do different.

'I like being sober', he said.  'But I like being drunk too.'  My dad knew those words all too well.  He's said them and heard them many times along his 23 year long road to sobriety.

Brenda and momma came back.  Tim went and got more beer.  Gregory continued to banter with the man in front of us.  The concert continued.

As we made our way back to the car, Gregory filled my mind.  My sisters too.  We talked about him most of the way home.  My dad, having the experience that he's had, filled us in that it probably wasn't alcohol making Gregory the way he was, it was more than likely the hard stuff.  Cocaine.  My heart sank.  How does one get to that point?  He never slowed down.  From the time the concert started, till 3 hours later when we left, he never let up.  And never drank a beer either.  He was amped up the whole time. 

I keep thinking about Gregory.  Why were we put there beside him?  Did him seeing us, sober, make any difference?  Did we plant any seeds in his mind?  In his heart?  Will they sprout?  Will that be the last night of the hard stuff for him?  Will he find a sponsor, have 23 years under his belt one day?  He's got a lot more life to live.  He was 48.  A rough, rugged 48.  I wish we had his phone number.  Or some way to follow up on him.  Not me, but my dad. 

It got me thinking.  We each have our own ministry.  Ways in which God can use us. I always struggle with wondering where my ministry is.  Obviously my #1 ministry are  to those in my home.  My husband and my child.  They are my #1 ministry.  But outside of that, I think Gregory is my ministry.  I don't know if it's growing up with an alcoholic father, or if that's just where my heart is, but the recovery ministry is something I feel very strongly about. 

For some it may be children.  For some it may be the homeless.  But for me, talking with Gregory was what my heart needed.  I didn't feel out of place with him.  I didn't feel like I was judging him by asking questions.  I just felt like we were planting seeds.  I pray they sprout.  I pray they take up root and that his life will be forever changed.  Not BY us, but through us. 

As my dad said, 'when a person gets in that spot, humans are powerless to give aid.  Deep down inside they know it can be better, they just don't know how to get there.  No one ever dreams to be an alcoholic or drug addict. It just happens.'  One drink at a time.  And then, just one more.  Not for all, but for some.

I challenge you to look for your Gregory?  Where can you make a difference today?  Even if you can't even follow up on that seed, plant it.  Pray for it.  One day, we'll have an answer.  But until then, keep planting.  Find your Gregory.

Grace for the momma

I overslept.  I paid for the Tylenol PM I took last night at 10:30.  What was I thinking?  I was thinking about my heavenly 2 hour Sunday afternoon nap I took and knew I wanted to SLEEP so I was trying to induce sleep.  However.  I paid for it.

I need to leave the house by 6:45 to get to work by 8.  I was just waking up at 6:45.  Great.  Fantastic start to this Monday.  This last Monday that Easton would be commuting with me to work.  He starts a new school April 1.  Closer to home.  Less money.  All around a good plan, but it still makes me sick.

We hurried to get ready and got out the door by 7:15. I knew several counties were out of school for Spring Break so I was hoping this would help in our late-ness. 

I got Easton loaded in the truck.  He'd dropped a glove.  I retraced our steps and found it.  I got in the truck to realize I left my phone.  I turned the truck off to go back in to get it.  I get back in the truck, I unwrapped Easton's granola bar and backed out the driveway.  I need a tissue mommy, I hear from the back seat.  I open the glove box and get out a tissue.  I wanna do it myself.  No Easton, you don't need the whole pack.  He wipes his nose and throws it back up front.  He thinks he's helping by doing this, but my truck looks like a war zone.  Sweet boy, just hold it in your seat for the next 17 times you will ask before we even make it to the interstate.  We have 2 miles to go before we make it to the main drag that takes us to the interstate.  About 8 miles on that main highway.  By about mile 5 I had already passed about 16 tissue and 3 wipes, half of my banana, cleaned up yogurt from the front of his jacket, which he thought would be best to eat with his fingers, passed back his milk and I was grabbing the 4th wipe from the console when I lost it.  I. Lost. It. 

Instantly, the guilt came over me.  He's 3.  He's only 3.  It's early.  No one wants to be rushed.  He's only little once.  He depends on me.  This is our last Monday carpooling together, as we've done every day since he was 12 weeks old.  And that set the tone for the whole ride in. Quiet.  Somber. 

He knew it too.  He was quiet.  He was gentle with his words when he did speak.  About 15 minutes down the road, I apologized.  He looked at me with those big brown eyes as if to say 'you let me down, mom.'  But, I apologized again.  I asked him if he accepted my appology and he said yes.  He sang Little Bunny Foo Foo all the way to school.  He wanted to know what the Good- Fairy said.  I reminded him. 

And the good fairy said...
Little Bunny Foo Foo
I don't wanna see you
Scoopin up the fild mice
And boppin 'em on the head.

He sang it all the way in.  We held hands walking in school.  I told him I loved him.  He knows I love him.  I know that without a doubt.  He bound in his room with a big smile on his face and kissed me and gave me my I Love You's at the door.

I've cried off and on all day long.  These days are so short.  They go too quickly.  Most mornings we are up and out the door by 7am, and land back at home around 5:30 or 6.  I then have 2 hours with him, which consist of laundry and supper and clean up and bath and then bed. 

The guilt creeps in every so often.  I rush, rush, rush to get him to school.  Then we rush, rush, rush home to get to bed.  Every day.  It's exhausting.  At times I really wish I could stay at home with him, but I know how much he loves his friends and his school (and hopefully will feel that same way about his new school).  I think back on my own childhood when my mom worked.  I went to daycare.  Every day.  But the afternoons were spent with her.  I don't ever remember feeling anything less than HAPPY to be with her.  It didn't matter what we were doing, we were together. 

In between moments of tears, I offer myself GRACE.  So very quick to offer it to others, but so extremely slow to accept it myself.  And.  It's not excuses.  It's grace.  Grace to do better, starting now.  Grace to do better, starting today.  Grace, that when I pick Easton up, he will KNOW he has my attention for the hour and fifteen minute ride home.  Grace that when we get home I can sit down and play a minute.  Or just sit and  hold him.  Grace.  Grace.  Grace.  Grace to let go of the little things that I think are important but to take time for the big things that really do matter.  Grace.  So freely offered.  Yes so difficult to accept at times.  And Grace to be able to get up and do it all over tomorrow, but with a new attitude.

Thank GOD He never runs out of it for me. 

It's a new moment.  Starting now.