Space for God

I had never led a retreat by myself and worried I’d come off as unprepared and not able to give anything to the group. I worried that I’d get lost, miss the ferry, get carjacked, or hit a moose. I was crossing into Canada—aren’t moose everywhere?

I was at a retreat two years before where a woman in the audience confronted one of the leaders about her imperfect physical recovery. Would someone confront me about some aspect of my recovery? Was I comfortable doing this service? No.

I could only give what I had been given, and only to the level of my ability. I’d committed to this service and had to surrender to that commitment. I had to feel my discomfort and fear and take the next right step. So I packed, prepared, and found my passport.

Toward the end of the retreat, I found myself deciding it was time to worry about my drive home. Odd, I was choosing to worry. What was that about? Another way to keep myself distracted? Under the illusion of control? Out of God’s hands?

I realized that I had confused God with myself for most of my adult life. I didn’t trust God, a God that was once the Big Foot in the sky, ready to stomp whenever I made a mistake. In fact, what was really stomping on me were my expectations and perfectionism—my self, or my ego. Self was trying to keep me fitting in with my environment, which was quite controlled and a tad crazy.

I was master of my environment (as much as we can be, which isn’t a lot) for a long time. Like compulsive overeating, which was a tool for coping, my ego self became too rusted to be effective. In fact, it was broken. The safety of my self had become, like my compulsive eating, a painful way of life, a self-imposed exile from the spirit and a last-ditch effort at complete control.

If my self was not God, then what was God? How could I get out of my own way and leave space for God? And then leave more space? I used to think this was too religious, but the Big Book was right again: The solution is spiritual, and we all get to define God for ourselves.

After the retreat, I dreaded going back to work. But when I arrived I discovered that I’d been assigned pleasant duties for four hours per day. And on my drive in, a truck’s bumper had my nickname scrawled on it in chalk. God was there, letting me know that she, he, or it was present.

I left to lead a retreat and returned with gut-deep insights and answers, peace and clarity, and a bunch of new friends. I am sure there is more for me—that still small voice once told me so.

— Edited and reprinted from Heartbeat of Recovery newsletter, Region One, Spring 2009