GOING HOME
Only three days after we left Oakland, I dropped Ralph off at his parents' and drove down to Madison to visit my sister.
It was Friday afternoon when I pulled that huge motor home into the parking lot at my sister's apartment. Between the time I parked and when I knocked at Susie's apartment door, an idea hit me.
"Becky, what are you doing here?" Susie exclaimed as we embraced.
"How would you like to drive to Chicago tonight in a motor home? You could spend the weekend and fly back in time to work Monday."
"Sure," she said, "I'm always up for a weekend at home. Did you say a motor home?"
She laughed when she looked over my shoulder and saw it in the parking lot. "You can explain while I pack a suitcase, and then we can get this party rolling."
I decided I would wait to tell her I had quit drinking. There would be plenty of time to talk in the two hours it would take us to reach Chicago.
But the subject of the changes in my life didn't come up before we had pulled onto Interstate 90 and headed toward Illinois. Up ahead I noticed a man climbing out of his van on the shoulder of the highway. He staggered a little, raised his hands in the air, shouted something as we approached, and then fell flat on his face just as we passed him.
My first thought was that he was having a heart attack. I quickly wheeled the motor home over and rolled to a stop. I was opening the door and climbing out before Susie asked, "What's going on?"
"That man needs help," I shouted as I jumped down to the gravel and began sprinting back along the roadway. I could hear the crunch of the gravel behind me and knew Susie was running to keep up. I don't know whether or not she heard me praying out loud as I ran. "Help me, Jesus! Please help me!"
When I reached the man he was sitting and holding his chest and seemed very out of breath. I felt sure he was going to die.
"What's wrong?" I asked, kneeling beside him.
"I think it's a heart attack," he gasped.
I didn't know a bit of first aid, but I knew in an instant that the most important thing I could do for him was to tell him how he could know Jesus before he died and went into eternity.
So I asked, "Do you know Jesus?"
"What are you doing?" Susie looked at me like I'd gone insane.
But I didn't respond to her. I looked instead at the man sitting there in the gravel and told him, "If you want to know that you're going to heaven if you should die, all you have to do is ask Jesus to come into your heart and forgive you for all your sins and you'll receive eternal life."
"He needs medical help," Susie screamed. "Not a sermon! I'll try to flag down someone with a CB."
The man acted like he felt a little better, so I helped him to his feet and into his van. Then I drove the van up to the motor home and helped the man inside so he could lie on a bed until an ambulance arrived.
An eighteen-wheeler stopped and while Susie explained the situation to the trucker and waited for him to radio the nearest police station, I got out my Bible and read Scriptures to this man. I desperately wanted him to experience the same kind of peace and renewal I'd found two months earlier. As we talked, the man began to relax and soon we prayed together, much as Ralph and I had, and he asked Christ into his heart to control his life.
We'd just finished praying when the State Patrol and the paramedics pulled up and rushed the man off to the nearest hospital. The patrolman took my name and address to forward any information about the man's health to me later. I was to be pleasantly surprised a month later to receive a note from the man's wife, thanking me for praying with her husband and telling me that their whole family had begun to live Christian lives as a result of that incident on the side of the road. The man himself had suffered only a severe case of indigestion complicated by a large overdose of Maalox.
I didn't know any of this, of course, when I climbed back into the motor home and started on down the road again with a very bewildered sister. The time seemed right to explain everything that had happened since I'd seen her last. She listened as I told her about my conclusion that I was an alcoholic and how God had provided a wonderful way out for me — that I was a different person now.
By the time we reached the suburbs of Chicago I felt Susie understood what I was saying. But I didn't think she was sure how much to believe. I'd have to show her I'd really changed.
My mind raced and my heart pounded with excitement as I turned onto the street where my parents lived, where I'd grown up. Seeing the same familiar trees and the same familiar houses triggered doubts I hadn't felt for weeks. Nothing has changed except me, I thought. Is that going to be enough?
My parents' accepting hugs helped ease the doubts. I felt a warmth from them I hadn't felt in years — maybe because I felt a warmth for them again. They exclaimed their surprise at having Susie home, too. And they oohed and aahed over the motor home I had parked in the driveway, impressed with my ability to get it clear across the country and with the responsibility I'd been given. Then we retreated into the house, where Mom insisted on fixing us a late dinner, while I gave them a blow-by-blow description of everything that had happened to me since I'd been home in July. I concluded by saying, "I'm a different person now. The Lord has changed me. And the real reason I came home this time was to let you see how much I've changed."
"That's wonderful, dear. And we're glad you've come home," my mom assured me. But, like Susie, she sounded a little doubtful, and I didn't blame her for that. She seemed willing to give me a chance to prove myself, and I was grateful for that. I determined to show her I had indeed changed.
I saw more doubt in her eyes later that day when I told her I was going to my old "stomping grounds" to see all my friends that night. But she didn't say anything.
The first night with the old gang proved easier than I'd expected. Everyone gathered at a friend's house and we just sat around laughing and talking. Drinks were offered and few people laughed when I told them I didn't drink anymore. No one laughed, though, when I explained by saying I'd become a born-again Christian and quickly summarized the recent spiritual changes in my life. There was merely an awkward silence for a few moments, and then someone launched the conversation in another direction. I didn't feel any pressure to drink, and when someone suggested going out to dinner the next night, I quickly agreed.
We met in an expensive dining room of a local hotel. When some of the other girls ordered something from the bar before dinner, I abstained. When wine was ordered with dinner, however, I decided one glass wouldn't hurt anything.
The goblet of white wine the waiter brought was huge, more than twice as big as a standard wine glass. And that wine, the first alcohol I'd had in weeks, tasted wonderful to me. I had to sip it slowly and fight the urge to order a second.
I went home very proud of the fact that I had controlled my drinking for the first time I could remember. It gave me a lot of confidence in my newfound willpower.
When Penny called the next day to say a few people would be going out dancing that night, I said I'd go as long as we didn't go to our old drinking spot, Faces. I felt there would be too many memories, too many temptations there.
"How about going back to the hotel?" she asked. "There's a dance floor in the bar there."
"Sure," I said, thinking about that big goblet of wine again. "That would be fine with me."
That night, when I finished my goblet of wine I decided, I'll have just one more. This wine isn't really going to affect me. But the second goblet gave me a nice buzz, and it took all the determination I could muster not to order another.
The clock said 12:30 when I got home. That's only 9:30 in California, I thought. I'll give John a call.
I walked to the kitchen phone so I wouldn't disturb my folks, but before I dialed I opened the counter door under the sink. Sure enough, there was a big jug of wine. I'll just have another small glass while I'm talking to John, and then I'll be off to bed.
So I poured a glass and dialed.
John told me about his day — and I poured myself another glass of wine and told him about my day. He said he missed me, and I told him I missed him more. Then I poured myself still another glass. The longer we talked, the more lonesome I got. And the more I drank. The next thing I knew I heard John shouting through the phone, "Becky! Becky! Are you still there?"
As my head cleared, I realized I had dozed off and the receiver had fallen to my lap. "Sorry, John, what were you saying?" I asked.
"You fell asleep, didn't you?"
I denied the accusation. "I'm okay. Just too tired to concentrate I guess."
"Becky! You're drunk." He'd known me too long not to recognize the usual symptoms.
"I am not!"
"You are, too!" There was irritation in his voice, not because I was drunk, but because I hadn't been willing to drink with him.
"I'll call you again soon; I'm going to bed," I said sharply. "And I'm not drunk!"
When I hung up the phone and looked at the empty wine jug sitting on the floor beside me, I knew I was, and I cried myself to sleep.
When I got up late the next morning, Mom asked me if I had been drinking. I wanted to say no, but then I realized she might have found the empty wine jug where I had put it in the back of the cabinet. I really did want to be honest with my mother, to prove to her that I'd changed.
"Yes, I drank some wine," I admitted.
"Becky," she said, "if you're an alcoholic, you shouldn't drink any."
The next instant we were arguing again, but as soon as I realized it, I bit my tongue, told Mom I was sorry, and fled to the bathroom to regain my composure. She makes me so mad, I told myself through my tears. Maybe we won't ever be able to get along.
I began to pray. "Lord, you gotta help me with my mother. I don't want to fight with her. I want a new relationship, a caring, loving relationship."
The tone of my prayer changed from pleading to accusing as I changed the subject. "What happened last night, God? I thought you took away all the desire to drink, but I was drunk again."
I felt angry and disillusioned with God. Then it hit me. God really had taken away my desire to drink — unless I drank. Then the alcohol took control.
Mom was right. As an alcoholic, I couldn't drink at all. For me there was no such thing as moderation, and that thought scared me. I realized for the first time how different my life was going to have to be.
Penny and Wendy had promised to come by and take me out with some other friends again that next evening. So after dinner with my family, I tried to call to confirm the plans. Wendy's line was busy. So was Penny's. Talking to each other, no doubt. I concluded.
As I helped Mom dry the dinner dishes I stopped periodically to pick up the phone and dial again, but their phones were still busy. Eight o'clock came — the time they had said they would pick me up. Eight o'clock passed. I called again. No answer at Wendy's. Penny's dad answered. "She's not here," he said. "She left half an hour ago and I don't expect her back until late."
"Thank you," I said, and slowly hung up the phone. Then I slumped down in a chair and laid my head in my arms on the top of the kitchen table and began to cry. "They aren't coming," I said aloud and I heard my mother's footsteps come up behind me. I felt her hand rest on my shoulder.
My friends weren't coming for me. They wouldn't be coming. That realization hurt, but the tears weren't merely tears of pain. I was grieving, because the moment Penny's father hung up and I heard the phone line go dead something died inside me. In that instant I knew that my past was gone. The old Becky Jacobs was gone.
"Maybe it's for the best," Mom said, with her hand still resting gently on my shoulder.
I knew she was right. I remembered Ralph saying, "When a person becomes a Christian, old things pass away and all things become new." I knew without a doubt that that was what was happening to me. While I didn't want to go back to the old life — I wanted to be a new person — I felt a sudden sadness that only intensified my tears. My friends were part of my old life. Yet I still loved them. Their love and acceptance had been the most important thing in my life for so long, and it hurt deeply to realize our relationship might never be the same.
I don't know if Mom understood why I was crying. She didn't say anything, but she put her arms around me and held me. And I felt understood — and loved — and accepted.
It was a new, wonderful feeling.