Can't Judge a Book...

Maret was a sweet little homeless lady who came to the Christian 12 Step Bible study held at my church every Monday night.  She was well groomed (as much a homeless person could be) and always carried a beaming smile on her face.

Every week, she walked in, said hello, grabbed some coffee and quietly perched herself in a corner chair.  She hardly ever spoke.  When she did, it was a few direct words at most.  Demure silence functioned as her modus operandi.  

For months I observed Maret, confounded by her homelessness.  She seemed so sweet and kind … so normal.

Finally, one night, she opened her mouth and shared at length.  It wasn’t a particularly long-winded share, only lasting about four minutes.  But that night, Maret spoke just long enough for me to learn volumes about why she was homeless … she was NUTS! Off her rocker! Coo-coo for Cocopuffs!  I don't remember exactly what she said (something about aliens and CIA mind control techniques), I only remember my stunned reaction to her brief (but bizarre) oration. I had completely misread this woman because she never offered anything but an outward image.

*"Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise; when he closes his lips, he is deemed intelligent." Prov. 17:28

That’s human nature, isn't it?  We tend to judge people, places, things, and ideas according to the outward presentation they offer, rather than the whole package. What we offer determines how we're viewed by those around us.

A dearly departed old-timer from my home group used to say, "Learn to listen, and listen to learn."  There's much wisdom to be found in this advice. 

*"A fool takes no pleasure in understanding, but only in expressing his opinion." Prov. 18:2

There's also much wisdom to be found in an old adage that says, "We remember 30% of what we hear, 40% of what we see, 50% of what we say, 60% of what we do, and 90% of what we see, hear, say, and do."  A vast majority of the solid recovery I gained over the years came from listening to to the advice of those who went before me, observing the positive behaviors exhibited by my peers, sharing at meetings, and putting it all into action through attending meetings, step work, commitments, sponsorship, and actively pursuing an ongoing relationship with God.

I could not simply sit around, waiting for recovery to find me.  I had to get to work and actively participate in my sobriety.

*"Prepare your work outside and make it ready for yourself in the field; afterwards, then, build your house." Prov. 24:7

F.E.A.R.

F.E.A.R. - Forget Everything And Run!

Anger held one of the top spots on my "Character Defects Chart" during my addiction (and well into my sobriety).   Granted, my rage wouldn't explode without reason.  There always existed a complicated process, a slow-burn if you will, required to build my emotions up to the point of detonation.  Once I reached my boiling point, I literally saw red and all bets were off.  Total loss of control.

The process typically developed as follows:  It began with a test of patience (which I promptly failed).  My impatience gave way to pride, which in turn, fed into rage.  Rage sponsored negative action, which often translated into destructive results (up to and including incarceration).

For example, during one particular trip to the grocery store, I grabbed a few small items and noticed a cashier opening a new register.  Just as I reached the checkout line, a little old lady, with a month's worth of groceries, rushed in and cut me off.  She had to get in first.  I stepped back and bit my tongue  (patience tested).  After her voluminous collection of food had been scanned through, this woman had the nerve to reach into her handbag and produce a stack of coupons the size of War and Peace. My pride whispered in my ear, "Can you believe this woman?  How inconsiderate! Who does she think she is?  Does she think her time is more valuable than yours?  Are you just going to stand there and let her disrespect you like that?"

As I contemplated my next move, that dear little old lady made the untimely mistake of fishing for a pen in the depths of her enormous purse, while producing a checkbook with the opposite hand.  Pride gave way to anger...

"WE HAVE A LIMITED LIFESPAN, LADY!" I exploded, throwing my hands into the air.  "I stood by when you cut in front of me!  I said nothing when you pulled out that ridiculous stack of coupons!  Are you seriously going to waste more of my valuable time with your antiquated checkbook?  Let me guess, you're searching your purse for ink and quill, am I right?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME??"  As an exclamation point, I hurled my handful of items across the isle (destructive results) and stormed out, leaving both the little old lady and cashier in a wake of slack-jawed silence.

The result:  I had to shop at a different store that day... and many days to come.

My Grand-sponsor once told me, "The root of all anger is fear."  My initial instinct was to disagree with his statement.  I could understand anger stemming from fear when someone cut me off on the highway - that person put my life in danger, in turn, I got angry.  Makes sense.  But I wasn't afraid of the old lady with the stack of coupons, was I?  ... or was I?

Further examination unveiled an interesting discovery: Fear comes in all shapes and sizes.  "Physical" threats (i.e. dodging insane motorists on the freeway) represent one form of fear.  But a much more subtle and insidious fear derives from "emotional" intimidation.  On a very base and instinctive level, that little old lady put the fear of God in me.  On a subconscious level, I convinced myself that if I allowed her to walk on me, and didn't fight back, it would set a precedent that would allow others to follow suit.  In essence, I feared the possibility of global disrespect.  Sounds silly when you say it out loud, eh?

This story serves as an example of just one (of many) such outbursts perpetrated by yours truly.  In most cases, fear was not only the cause of the outburst but the result as well.  For several months after, I avoided shopping in that store for fear of someone recognizing me.  Who wants to live like that?  Not me.

In order to overcome my anger (fear), I had to nip it in the bud.  First step:  Pray for patience.  To be honest, the idea of asking God for patience incited more fear in me than the coupon queen.  I knew that  God doesn't fold His arms and blink His eyes, granting patience; He teaches patience.  This meant He would be putting a lot of very dumb people in my path.  Which He did.  Thankfully, God never gives us more than we can handle.  Otherwise, I'd be writing this from a prison cell.

After working on my patience for awhile, an amazing thing happened:  My anger dissipated.  If someone cut me off on the freeway, I didn't flip them off... I smiled and waved.  If someone pulled out coupons, I didn't huff and puff... I ignored it.  Guess what?  Nothing bad EVER happened as a result.  The world didn't suddenly view me as weak, nor was I overcome by a cavalcade of global disrespect.  Instead, my life became infinitely less stressful.

Patience - anger = no fear.  Who said math was hard?

Respect My Athoritaaaay!

Growing up, my brother, Rob, was a kid small in stature but large in attitude.  He didn't need to be physically tough.  His venomous tongue could dismantle the strongest of foes with a few well placed lashings. If that didn't work, he was quick on his feet and could scurry like a frightened field mouse.

None were safe from Rob's verbal onslaughts.  Teachers, doctors, police officers, judges, pastors, principles, and any other adult who demanded respect were all fair game.  Every instance of aggression was met with extreme prejudice, leaving a stunned grown-up in the wake of a rhetorical spanking.  I admired his commitment.

We Noland boys were not to be trifled with.  One did not demand our respect, but earned it. To this day, I firmly believe my brother's example instilled in me a deep-seeded aversion to authority, which followed me into adulthood. 

Police officers were a particular favorite mine. I convinced myself that every "pig" fancied himself a god with a badge and would receive no quarter from me.  To my mind, cops were public servants so enveloped by crime fighting, they adopted the very criminality they opposed.  

Case in point ... It was a warm summer day in Burbank, CA.  I had just exited the Barnes and Noble on 1st Street and preceded to make my way across the road to my car (using the crosswalk, of course).  3/4 of the way across, I noticed the light had turned yellow, so I pushed into an easy jog and hit the sidewalk just as it flipped to red.

The next moment saw Officer Todd Fatta flying around the corner on his motorcycle, lights flashing in full gestapo glory.

"Excuse me, sir..." he stated in the usual robotic, monotone fashion typical of every motor-cop ever to saddle a Harley. "I'm going to have to cite you for crossing against the light." He engaged the kickstand and dismounted, whipping out his notepad.

I looked around, unsure if he was talking to me, and chuckled, "You're kidding, right?"

He wasn't.

"This is ridiculous!" I exclaimed, still stunned by the events unfolding before me.  "The light was green!  I was in the crosswalk!"

Fatta scribbled on the ticket, ignoring my protests. "You'll have to appear in court."

"Seriously? ... What if I don't?  What are you gonna do, take away my shoes?  Suspend my license to walk?  Sanction my pedal privileges?"

"No," he calmly replied, while ripping the ticket from the pad and extending it in my direction. "We'll issue a bench warrant for your arrest."

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" I snatched the citation from his claw, offered a few choice expletives (accompanied by a stern "Heil Hitler!"), and stormed off.  "I'll see you in court, Officer Fattass!"

And see him in court I did, 30 days later.  What happened that day forever changed my perspective on the meaning of "To Protect and Serve."

After taking the stand, the judge asked Officer Fatta to recount his version of the story.  Much to my horror and disbelief, the officer looked the judge straight in the eye and BOLDFACED LIED. Fatta spun a wondrous tale of screeching brakes as I dove for the sidewalk, nearly clipped by a sideways sliding vehicle.

I couldn't believe it!  I thought this would be a fair fight.  I naively believed we both would enter the arena, present the truth, and let the judge decide.  Instead, this man, whose supposed to represent "truth and honor," perjured himself and broke the law... in a courtroom!

Fatta was excused and exited with a smug grin on his face.  I, on the other hand, paid for a valuable lesson on our judicial system in the form of a $100 fine.  As an officer of the law, Fatta's lie was found more credible than my truth.

To me, this was a clear-cut case of "I did NOTHING wrong. Fatta shattered his oath as an officer and should be stripped of his position!"  Here's the problem... I'm not responsible for Fatta, I'm only responsible for ME and MY ACTIONS!  

I must look at my part and discover what I could have done differently in that situation.  If I had treated Officer Fatta with a bit more respect and recognized he was merely doing his job, perhaps he would have seen fit to tell the truth in court.  Perhaps not. We'll never know.  Point is, I let my fear of authority get the better of me and paid the price for it.  Fatta didn't suffer from my angry outburst, I did.  So, who's the fool?

A few years later, I chose to take part in a "Community Police Class" organized by the Burbank PD. It turned out to be a great experience that taught me to value our men and women in blue. I learned that Fatta was an unfortunate exception.  The majority of our officers are honest and dedicated public servants doing a very difficult job. The class even inspired me to apply for a reserve officer position with the department (but that's a WHOLE other story).

Footnote: Somewhere along the line, my brother discovered the error of viperous verbal vehemence and now uses his powers for good.  As a pastor, husband, and father of five beautiful children, Rob has become one of the most outstanding and patient men I have the pleasure of knowing.  He no longer teaches me authoritative prejudice, rather patience, kindness, and love for my fellow man.  I'm proud to call him "brother."  

  

Denial ain't just a river...

A few years into my recovery, I applied for a Reserve Officer position with the local police department.  As a part of this process, one of the detectives performed an extensive background check in order to determine if I was a suitable candidate. 

During the interview that followed, I sat in front of the Reserve Captain's desk as he skimmed my file.  "Have you ever drank alcohol excessively?"

"Not anymore," I replied, wanting to be as honest as possible. "I've been sober for over four years now."

The Captain promptly closed my file, “I'm sorry, we can’t admit your application if you're a recovering alcoholic.”

I shifted in my seat, confused. “Really? Why not?”

“You could relapse and become an active alcoholic tomorrow.”

“Yes," I replied. "And you could pick up the bottle and become an active alcoholic tomorrow." 

No response.  Nothing. 

"Let me ask you something," I continued. "Would you refuse a cancer survivor a position on the outside chance that he may fall out of remission tomorrow?”

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, “It’s not the same thing.  A cancer survivor doesn’t choose to have cancer.”

Ah, a challenge!  I promptly picked up the gauntlet thrown before me, “Do you think I chose to be an alcoholic?  I have a disease and I'm in remission.  Same thing.” En garde!

 

He lunged, “If you had to testify in a criminal hearing, the defense would drag up your past and use it to show that you were unreliable.”

I parried, “Do you mean they would show the jury I haven’t had a drink in four years, whereby refuting the possibility of impaired judgement?”

“No," he snapped. "They would say that you've had poor judgment in the past which would reflect on your judgment in the present.”

“Look, we’re all guilty of making bad decisions at one point or another." I leaned in, "How do your other officers deal with it in court?”

The Captain seemed genuinely puzzled, “What do you mean?”

“The other officers on the force who are alcoholics.”

He paused for a moment, formulating an answer, “We don’t have any alcoholics on the force.”

That's it?  That weak passé was his answer??  Oh, no...  “I guarantee that a sizable percentage of your officers are either in recovery or in the midst of their disease.  So, what you meant to say was you don’t have any alcoholics on the force THAT YOU KNOW OF.”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Aha!”  I exclaimed, drawing him into corps-á-corps.  “Then denial is the key.  I should have denied my disease.” 

“No. It would have come out in the polygraph.”

“Then the best thing for me to do is abandon my recovery and go out and start drinking again.”(feint and thrust)

“What would that accomplish?”

“According to your logic, if I don’t acknowledge I have a problem, you won’t acknowledge I have a problem." I arose and stepped toward the door, "Now I see why our police department is operating at such a high efficiency rate.” Touché.

And with that, the interview was over.

Shaken, Not Stirred

My brother Rob is 2.5 years older than me.  On February 10 of 1989, he turned 21.  When Rob turned 21, I turned 21.  On February 11 of 1989, I walked into the DMV with his birth certificate and walked out with a fake ID.  I had an honest-to-goodness, government issued identification that said I was of legal age.  I couldn't wait to try it out!

I slinked into TGIFs and bellied up to the bar.  Having never ordered a drink at a bar, I wasn’t sure what to do.  Eventually, the bartender sauntered over with a skeptical furrow across his brow. “What’ll it be?” 

I froze.  What'll it be?  I didn't think I'd make it this far!  What'll it be??  I blurted out the only grown-up drink that came to mind... “Martini!”  Yes! A martini. James Bond’s drink. A man's drink.

“Can I see your I.D.?”

The moment of truth.  Apprehensive, I reached into my wallet and brandished my shiny new ID.

He studied it, studied me, and handed it back. “Gin or Vodka?”

I was all at once elated (because it worked) and terrified (because I was not expecting a follow-up question). “Gin or Vodka?” I thought. “No one ever asked James Bond that question!”

I leaned on the bar, attempting to look as casual as possible, and calmly declared, “Gin will do, thanks.”

Much to my chagrin, a series of follow-up questions blasted across the bar, “Straight up or on the rocks? Clean or dirty? Olives or onions…?”

My head spun.  “Whoa!”  I waved my hands in surrender. “Shaken, not stirred!  That’s all I know, man!”

I drank my first martini that day.  Up until that point, the law seriously hindered my ability to drink.  Now the governor was off.  Nothing could stop me from drinking WHENEVER I wanted. 

That martini was the worst thing I ever tasted and marked the beginning of the end for me.