"My neighbors have a dog in a four foot by four foot pen, and it is starving," she said, always the animal activist.
"Call animal control," Sandy replied, brusquely.
I agreed. "Call animal control," I replied as well, ever the dog lover.
The meeting started as Mrs. Mary sat and looked indecisive. We talked of letting go and letting God.
God is such a contentious subject for me. I always feel so lax in my sobriety turning over all my problems to a higher power. I take a certain pride and independence in staying sober, by my will, that will probably lead to another drunk some day. "Some days" tend to happen sooner than later.
"God has worked wonders in my life," Mrs. Mary said with a look of awe upon her face. "When I lived in that terrible, rundown neighborhood in Chicago, he was my strength and solace."
I wish I could find God. I grew up in a family were being religious meant you were mentally ill. In the throes of her schizophrenia, my mother joined the Catholic church and went to mass religiously. My father and siblings didn't talk to her for months, ashamed. They put her on new, mind-numbing medications and she never went again.
There have been times in my life were I thought God was speaking to me. My ex-wife would tell me I was crazy. God spoke through the Internet and the television. Journals were kept of these new parables of God's word. Crazily, I would watch the nightly newscasts for revelations. Dan Rather was a prophet in my mixed up mind.
"I wish you would take your medications," my wife would tell me, exasperated, turning off the TV to my great protests. She didn't understand my infatuation. No one did, except me.
Today's meeting harkened back to simpler and gentler times -- times spent in A.A. where I would grow to feel so grounded. They say often in Alcoholics Anonymous that "meeting makers make it!" Maybe I need to get involved in A.A. again. Maybe I need to find God. It is always maybe, though -- waiting for life to find me and not vice versa.