God Exists

The Meaning of July 1

Your author, circa 1993

There won’t be a Conservative Wahoo on Monday morning, as I am (as you should be) celebrating our nation’s independence this weekend. This special “Saturday” edition is timed to an important day, as you will read. Happy Fourth!

Thirty years ago this morning, I set out from my townhouse in Vienna, Virginia for my parents’ house in Mount Laurel, New Jersey to spend the Independence Day Holiday. I was 28 years old and a Lieutenant in the Navy, finishing up a tour in Washington DC as the Flag Lieutenant to a three-star admiral. Soon I would be heading off to training that would lead eventually to a three-year tour as Operations Officer on a Cruiser. Professionally, I was on fire. Personally, I was a mess.

Six months earlier, I separated from my wife of three years, a beautiful soul with an infectious laugh, a million-dollar smile, and a warm and generous family that I loved and that loved me. Six months later, the divorce that I realized too late I didn’t want, was final. I had filled the previous six months with work, alcohol, and ungentlemanly conduct. Several weeks before that morning 30 years ago, I had been stopped by the local police on suspicion of drunk driving about five hundred yards from my house. The cop said park the car and walk the rest of the way. Not being able to recognize the right answer when presented with it, I was stopped again two weeks later—this time RIGHT IN FRONT of my house, but my blood alcohol content did not trip the law at that time.

On the night before thirty years ago this morning, I stopped at a bar in Tyson’s Corner for some reason that now escapes me (I wasn’t much of a bar drinker—mostly a lot of Labatt’s Blue by myself), and as I left, I had a minor fender-bender with another fellow who shouldn’t have been driving, and we agreed that there was little profit in pursuing the case. I made it home safely no doubt to a few more Labatt’s.

The next morning, I rose with what for me was a standard issue debilitating hangover, the kind I had earned many times in the previous ten years, what with four years of fraternity life at UVA and six years in the Navy of that day. My head ached, badly. My stomach was unsettled. And so I got in my car to drive the 2-3 hours to New Jersey.

Twenty or so minutes later, I was on the inner loop of the Capital Beltway heading north, and the pain in my head was transcendent. I needed to throw up. So I challenged death, pulled over to the right (where the shoulder is on the inner loop), opened the car door and dry heaved for a bit, the act of which served only to increase the pounding in my head. The car rocked as others sped past mere feet away. When I finished with the business at hand, I sat back in my seat and cried—from both pain and despair. What was I doing with my life? This is ridiculous. You’re too smart to be this reckless. You are wasting EVERYTHING.

Your author in rare UVA form, ca. 1986

So, I broke with personal convention, and I began to pray. To God. For help. I earnestly asked God to help me go 30 days without alcohol. Just a month. Prove that I can do it. That was all, God. Just a month. Surely you can see Your way to make that happen.

Then I began to realize what I was asking. What I was asking was for God to give me a month to prepare for the day 31 bender. Maybe I’d do it. Maybe I’d go the whole month. But once it was over—what was left to restrain me? Surely not self-control, which had as yet not made a significant appearance in my life.

So—desperate and in pain—I threw the long ball. I prayed slowly, and I prayed clearly, and I asked God to help me never to drink again. Zero. Nada. Cold-ass Turkey. There was no bargain. No compromise, no “if, then”. There was only—please help me.

I made the prayer, dried my eyes, and then determined to drive through the pain.

But there was no pain.

My head was clear.

My stomach was settled.

In an instant.

I knew then, as sure as I know it today, that God heard my prayer and answered it. I have no idea why. I realize that most people’s prayers don’t turn out like they want. But mine did. On that day, about that prayer.

I drove to my parents’ house fortified, knowing that something miraculous had happened. Soon after arriving, I asked my Dad to join me on the back deck to talk about something. He had given up drinking several years before, and so I asked him what he needed to do it. Did he go to a doctor? Did he go to AA. “No”, he said. “I just stopped. And so can you.”

I went back into the house and my mother was in a bit of a state, as I rarely separated the two of them when I had something to talk about. I told her that I had a drinking problem, and that I was determined to stop. She broke down in tears and said, yes, you do (apparently, I had distinguished myself at a family gathering earlier that Spring), and I’ve been praying about it.

God had apparently heard both of our prayers. Thirty years ago last night I had my last drink, and with God’s continuing help, it will be the last one ever.

Many, many times since then, people have said, you were young. You’re more mature now. You could handle moderate drinking.

Maybe.

But then I would break a promise. To God.

If I break a promise to God, how could any human trust me?

I’ve never again made such a specific ask of He Who There Is No Greater Than, at least on my own behalf. I suppose praying to be a better man and a better partner is pretty specific, but progress on those fronts has been a good bit slower than on the subject of this essay. I pray for the health, safety, and contentedness of specific people, and I assume God hears those prayers.

I wish everyone had an experience like mine, the kind that provides life-sustaining faith. I know not, why this is not more common an occurrence. I realize it is unsatisfying to some, many, most—but if I knew why, the whole truth of God would be lost, because I would know His mind. So I content myself with utter ignorance of why—and pray instead for God’s love in the world.

Thirty years is a long time. And it is a momentary flash. Actuarial tables suggest a non-drinking, non-smoking fellow of my modest height and girth has a fair shot at thirty years more. Hopefully, in 2053 I’ll remember having written this essay, and it will seem a long time ago. And a momentary flash.