ONE REAL VICTORY
In the following days and weeks, my first without alcohol or drugs in years, I felt as if the world were tightening on me like a vise. I moved slowly, painfully through my daily routines, afraid I would crack. As the pressure mounted, my life seemed ready to explode.
The fuse was finally lit when I received a summons to a formal deposition on the automobile wreck I had been involved in over a year before. The case had taken so long I had nearly forgotten about it. Now on top of all the other pressures, the wheels of justice began to grind. My recorded testimony would be the first step in deciding whether or not the case, a civil suit filed by the owner of the other car, would go to court. And I was scared.
The letter came to me at the office, on insurance company letterhead, instructing me where to go for the deposition. I showed the letter to Mrs. Felton who assured me I could have half a day off and that the entire matter looked very routine. I wasn't so sure.
I literally trembled with tension on the drive to Watsonville, the county seat. As I headed north along the ocean, I mentally reviewed my life — the drinking, all the stupid times I'd been drunk, the accident, the night of the class reunion party in Chicago — and admitted I was out of control. I also thought about the past weeks since I had given up drinking, given up speed, and begun to cut back on marijuana. I felt a tinge of hope I was almost afraid to acknowledge. I wanted to change. I had been trying to change.
As I thought about all this, I decided I would take yet another step toward cleaning up my life. I decided I would stop deceiving people — I'd tell the truth about the accident. If I was ready to face the truth about myself, I wasn't going to lie to others either.
I felt my determination wavering as I parked my car outside an old California-style building and walked slowly up the walk. Inside I presented myself to a receptionist, who directed me down a long hall. I stopped in front of two huge wooden doors with the name of my insurance company's law firm engraved on a heavy metal plaque.
The moment I entered, a man in a three-piece suite approached me and inquired, "Rebecca?" I knew by the official tone of his voice I was in for serious trouble.
"Come with me," he instructed, leading me into his office and directing me to a seat in front of his expansive mahogany desk. He looked at me for a few moments before he said, "I'm going to take you to another office in a few minutes, but I wanted to talk to you before the deposition to make sure you understand the seriousness of this." I noted a steely hard look in his eyes as he continued, "This deposition is very official. There will be a court reporter there taking down everything you say.
"Rebecca, you better tell the truth, because if you lie and this case goes to trial, and they find out you lied, you will be crucified in court and . . ."
The man kept talking, but I didn't hear anything else he said. That seldom-used word crucified had triggered a chain reaction in my mind. My mind flashed a picture of Jesus hanging on a cross, and suddenly everything Ralph had been trying to tell me became clear — about how Jesus' death had meaning and purpose, how he died for man's sins. I thought again about all my sins, and it hit me that Jesus died to redeem my messed-up life.
None of these flashing thoughts had time to sink in. The man finished what he was saying and quickly ushered me out of his office and down the hall to a small conference room. There we joined a representative of the other insurance company, the owner of the car I had hit, and the court reporter.
The first questions were just information. Name, address, date of birth, place of employment. Then it was established that I was indeed the driver of my car on the day of the accident at such and such a time and place. Finally, we got to the crux of the questioning.
"Had you been drinking before the accident?"
I remembered my determination to be truthful, and I thought about my lawyer's warning. "Yes."
"Where had you been drinking?"
"At a friend's house." I didn't remember the address, but I gave the name.
"How much had you drunk?"
"I don't know." That was true. I had no idea.
"Two or three drinks? More?"
"I can't remember." Again, the truth. The lawyer asked a number of related questions, but a year had passed, and I honestly couldn't remember many of the details. The things I did remember I answered truthfully.
"Were you listening to your car radio?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you fall asleep at the wheel or did you pass out?"
"I don't know what happened."
Almost an hour passed before the questioning ended and my lawyer escorted me from the room. "That's it," he said outside. "If we need anything else from you, we'll be in touch."
Whatever happened about the accident, whether it ever went to court or not, I knew I was judged guilty. Guilty of wasting the past few years. Guilty of betraying John. Guilty of tormenting my family. Guilty of alienating my friends. Guilty of making a mess of my life.
As I turned onto the Pacific Highway and headed south, the ocean almost matched the sky — California blue. The breakers stretched in ragged white chalk lines down the coast as far as I could see. And gulls looped lazily, crisscrossing the horizon.
But I didn't really see the beauty. It didn't matter — nothing mattered anymore.
As I sped along Highway 1, the majesty of the Pacific coast couldn't touch the ugliness I felt inside. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't slow down.
Maybe I should end it all right now, I thought as the road angled upward along a cliff. All I'd have to do is turn the wheel, sail over the edge, and plummet to the beach below. I would be so easy. Dying would be better than going on like this.
I wanted to die. At least my parents were two thousand miles away where they couldn't see what a mess I had made of my life. I was so far from the person I wanted to be that a drop off a cliff looked like the best solution.
But I didn't turn the wheel. I couldn't. I just drove on, and without thinking, I drove right past the exit for the car dealership. When I finally realized I had missed my exit I asked myself, Where now? There's no place left to go.
Suddenly, I thought of Ralph. I just knew if I could find him, he'd have an answer. So I drove on for two more exits, turned off the highway, raced into the church parking lot, and screeched to a stop.
I tore into the church, ran down the steps, and stopped dead in my tracks in the basement hallway when I spotted Ralph pushing a buffing machine across a freshly waxed floor. "Oh, Ralph," I exclaimed. "You're here!"
As he looked up in surprise, I blurted out, "We have to talk!"
He shut off the buffer, studied my red, puffy face, and shook his head. "No, Becky," he said. "We have to pray."
He took my hand and led me into the first-grade Sunday school classroom where we sat down in little kiddie chairs. Ralph then asked: "Do you want to pray?"
I couldn't say yes fast enough.
"Do you want to ask Jesus to come into your life?"
"Oh, yes, yes," I cried out.
So right there on those little chairs, sitting with our knees tucked up under our chins, Ralph explained that he would begin the prayer, and I was to pray after him.
Ralph began slowly, "Dear Jesus . . . " Within just a few sentences I knew that everything pressuring me from the inside was going to come spilling out. And it did.
"Jesus," Ralph prayed, "I've been a sinner . . ."
Once Ralph got me started, I wasn't about to stop. I told God what an awful sinner I was. I told him I was sorry for all the things I had done. I admitted I had made a mess of my life and asked him to help to clean it up. I prayed on and on, begging for help in every area of my life. I had heard the expression "pouring out your hear," and that's the best way to explain what I did. I emptied myself out before God. I spilled out my whole messed-up life in that little room.
And as I prayed, a steady, gentle stillness flowed over and through me like a soothing shower, washing down over my head and shoulders into my heart and right down to my toes. As I continued to confess the wrong things I had done, the peace changed slowly to joy, and through my tears I wanted to laugh because it was all so wonderful.
I, Becky Jacobs, was praying to God, and he was listening — I could tell. He was there in that room, listening to me, loving me, forgiving me.
"Jesus . . ." Ralph was leading me again and I was praying the words after him. "Please forgive me for all these things. Come into my life; make me a new person." That's what I wanted. Yes, to be a new person. "Come into my heart. Take over my heart and take over my life. I don't want to control it any longer. I want you in control. Fill me with your Holy Spirit right now, Lord."
And that's what happened. Ralph paraphrased a Scripture verse from 2 Corinthians, saying, "When someone becomes a Christian, he becomes a brand new person inside; the old things pass away and new things are begun!" And I knew it was true.
I was different. I could feel it — and God had done it.
I couldn't wait to get back to work and tell everyone. I stopped in the computer room first to tell two coworkers, Tamara and Ruth. "You won't believe what just happened to me . . ."
They didn't say a word for the next five minutes as I whizzed through a summary account of my meeting with Ralph and a quick description of the joyous high I now felt. Then Tamara just shook her head and grinned, "You've been saved, Becky. I just don't believe it!"
I didn't understand what she meant, "saved." But I didn't stop to ask before I rushed out and told one of the salesmen what had happened. As a church-going Baptist, he nodded and said, "That's great, you've been 'born again.' "
That didn't make any more sense than "saved," but I had heard the term before, and it sure fit the way I felt.
I hurried on into Mrs. Felton's office and sat down in front of her desk. "Guess what just happened?" and concluded by using one of the new terms. "I guess I've been born again. I just know this is going to be the answer to my drinking problem."
Mrs. Felton smiled and nodded silently through my entire account. When I finished she said, "I'm so glad you've found something you think will help you, Becky. I must say, you certainly look different!"
I knew that had to be true. I had felt so uptight, so oppressed for weeks. I'd been depressed and irritable — with a countenance to match. Suddenly I felt so happy I couldn't wipe the smile off my face.
That wasn't the only obvious difference. That same afternoon, when the new switchboard operator wanted to take a break, I said, "Sure, Ellen, I'll be glad to sit in for you." Since I'd been promoted I'd done almost everything to avoid switchboard duty, so Ellen responded to my offer with an incredulous double take. "What's with you, Becky?" she wanted to know.
I told her all about what had happened, and the next day I told her more. And on Sunday, just three days later, she went with me to church, met Ralph, and made the same decision I had, to ask God to forgive and change her. I was ecstatic; now I had someone who could share my excitement and who shared the same experience.
I practically bowled people over to tell them what had happened. Those I didn't get to talk to were soon asking other people, "What's with Becky?" It was obvious to everyone that I had changed.
What amazed and excited me the most wasn't the outward change people could notice but the inner change only I knew about.
Most amazing of all was the fact that I no longer craved alcohol. The moment I asked God to take control of my life the desire to drink that had directed my life for more than five years disappeared. The freedom was almost enough to make me giddy.
I went back to an AA meeting just to see if I could find Bill and tell him Jesus was a better answer than antibuse. He listened and seemed interested. I invited him to church with me, but I don't know what happened to him because he never showed up.
I, on the other hand, would show up at church any time the doors opened, and I met regularly with Ralph for Bible study and prayer. It almost seemed as if my craving for alcohol had been replaced by an insatiable desire to read my Bible, pray, and learn more about God.
It soon became obvious that I would have to move. Pam and I were now going in opposite directions. I told her what had happened to me, but she wanted nothing to do with it. So I began to look for a new place to live, and a new lifestyle.
I maintained most of my relationships at work, but after work my life quickly changed. Ralph began taking me to a Wednesday night Bible study and prayer group, where I found an immediate and new group of friends with whom I could socialize.
The life that had seemed so hopeless, so messed up, had turned 180 degrees and was changing faster than I could believe. I longed to write and tell John all my good news, but he was already on his way back across the country. I'd be able to tell him everything soon enough — face to face.
I could hardly wait.