Now, to my noble-hearted editor/literary agent, Julie Hill. First, I am deeply sorry for the horrific beating you suffered at my ignorant hands. Your patience and courage (as well as endurance!) over these years have been nothing short of biblical in their application! Your commitment to excellence and detail is, to me, astonishing and reflects your character very well. Thank you, also, for acting as my etiquette advisor. (I now know that using such words as “with no clothes on” and “Statue of Liberty” in the same sentence is entirely in bad taste!) And Julie, without your constant encouragement, I would have lost faith in this project long ago. Thank you for all of it.
My deepest love and gratitude as well to John Vanden Ende, who was responsible for almost single-handedly saving my life several times over and whose uncanny “people skills” have earned my undying respect! Thank you for understanding me so well, my friend.
My love and deep gratitude to my other very own doctor, Dr. Rea, who has nursed me back from the gates of death, yelled at me, worried for me (so sorry!), and been a true friend to me while I was being a royal pain in the glutes!
Thank you, George and Audrey Anderson, my oldest of St. Andrew’s friends, who, in more than one way, were responsible for this entire extravaganza, and in particular George, for your many prayers, shared Scriptures, insights, and unfailing commitment to see God’s plans and purposes fulfilled in my life. God bless you, George! Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
There is one man in particular I wish to express my deepest and most sincere gratitude to. Someone who knew me while I was nothing but a backpacking gutter tramp—my dear friend Tom Nichols, whom I love with all my heart. Tom, thank you for standing by my side, picking me up time and again, for praying for me, encouraging me to never give up, and for bending so far backwards for me that it went beyond any rational thought or expectation, all at great personal cost. Thank you, my friend. You knew me long before my freedom, and you loved me when I was at my most unlovely. In the words of the great Vulcan, Spock, “You have been, and always shall be, my friend!”
I wish also to express my gratitude to both Steve Bell and Tim Huff, not just for reading and responding to Dancing on a Razor but for being a standard and an example for me to aspire to. I can only pray that my life has even a fraction of the impact you and your messages have had on this sorely troubled world.
Special thanks to Cathie Raynor, a teacher, a reader, and a wonderfully positive support. Thank you for reading through Dancing on a Razor (three times?) and for valuable insight into certain key areas. Blessings on you, Cathie!
Thanks as well to Susan Wilkinson, for all your wonderful encouragement and kind words. Also, for your valuable input on Dancing.
My particular thanks go out to Jeff and Bonnie Harris (a.k.a. my “Rock and Pillow”), whom I love deeply, and to John and Hilda Van Gysell, my two dear friends and elders who not only loved me but I think actually liked me as well! Special thanks to Hilda for publishing various articles of mine in the St. Andrew’s newsletter.
My deepest love and gratitude to my entire small group Bible study folk: John and Ivy Rooney, Sylvia and Richard Wakelin, Cathy Maindonald, Paul and Susan Evans, Florence and Sheldon Culham, and Steve and Julie Hill, for your great understanding and your patience with my “spontaneous outbursts of enthusiasm.”
My sincerest thanks and deep affection for certain friends of mine: John Bedore (for the many rides to and fro), Joel Harrower (for all your wise words), Bill Paterson (my dear and unflaggingly loyal friend), and George D. (my first 12 Step sponsor … that I ever actually used!). I also thank God for Doug Hall, whom I know God placed into my life and my heart. All of you played an important and irreplaceable part in my recovery.
Thank you, Doug and Bonita Austin, for your many prayers and all the other ways in which you supported me. Special thanks to Doug, for all your genuine efforts to understand addiction and how to be of help.
And of course, to certain key friends at St. Andrew’s Church and elsewhere, my love and thanks: Ryan and Becky Campese, Mike and Christina Degazio, Brian Maxwell, John and Jerilyn Roycroft, Alister and Jan Harrison, Grant Bartlett, Glen Marnoch, Rob Tesky, Kathy Kaye, Cathy Faubert, Les Tihor, and Nancy and Peter Slater.
Now for my own. Mother of mine, there simply are no words I can speak. Perhaps God may know the love and honour I hold in my heart for you. Thank you for the ocean of wisdom from which I have come and the steadfast gentleness of your own heart. Miles and Leith, you are my two pillars—my strength. Liana, you’re my stone and pestle—my wisdom. Scott, you are my beauty, my fragrant rose—and I love you all! I thank God for the family we have—that we are—and I would have no other!
To my Lord and my God: Even though my words will fail, I thank you, my glorious God, for showing me your beauty. I thank you for showing me your grace and your mercy and for all the faithful love you have had for me throughout my entire life! I bow low before you, Lord, for I am stunned by your grace. You are my King and my God! You are my heart, my life, and my deepest desire! You are everything—and I am yours! I belong to you, Jesus, body and soul, for better or worse—for forever and ever, amen! All of this is your story! All this, everything, is you—your love, your power, your grace, and your mercy. I thank you for it all! I ask you, Lord Jesus, for your name’s sake, only one thing more. Please, my God! Let me see more! Let me see more of you—every promise of God, fulfilled and revealed—the Holy One, full of glory. I ask, Father, let this be so … (to be continued).
Amen!
Preface
The vast majority of this book was written over a course of seven months in a drug and alcohol treatment centre. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Not only that, but I’d never written anything in my life before. When I first put pencil to paper I was still in withdrawal and shaking so hard that the words I wrote were almost illegible. I was sick, depressed, utterly hopeless, and suicidal. This would be my sixteenth treatment centre over a 40-year period, and I had absolutely no reason to think this one was going to make any more difference than any of the other 15 centres (or all the other times I had done everything I could think of to stop drinking). Even people who were close to me in all sincerity had asked me more than once why I even bothered getting up any more—why I even bothered trying. I had been advised on several occasions to just take a shotgun and blow my head off—that I should put myself and everyone else out of their misery because misery was all I was capable of creating. Many times I had asked myself the same questions—in fact, many, many times. I knew of more than one way to put an end to my life: a quick heroin overdose, or maybe just one step onto the highway and into the path of an oncoming semi-truck. BAM! Done.
But I couldn’t help it. I just had to stand up one more time, just once more—because I knew something. Way deep down inside of me I knew something that no one else did. I knew God, and I knew what he had promised me. And I still knew, even when I was in the pits of hell, that he had promised and that he would keep his promise. I would try to quit trying—to stop believing and not care anymore, to just give up completely and stay that way. I wanted to forget that hope even existed—because it hurt, because hope was for dreamers and idiots. But it was impossible to forget. You see, I knew too much, and I had seen way too much. For a time, I walked on that razor-thin line between faith and apostasy, life and death, heaven and hell—and for almost two years I begged God not to take my life—not yet. So there I sat, with no hope, full of hope, hoping against hope that just maybe, maybe somehow, maybe something would change—somehow. I had no idea how close I was to discovering a freedom I could never have dreamed possible, that light and life and overwhelming joy were right around the corner, and that I would laugh in tears of wonder at what I would discover.
One of the things they told me to do at the centre was to journal every day. Journal?