My name is David, and I'm an alcoholic.

Every day I say to my God, "I want Your will -- not mine." Who am I talking to? What am I talking about? Who is "God" to me? What does God want from me? I wasn't raised Christian, wasn't raised to believe in any "God." My parents taught me, "Do what you love because you love it, and be good because it's right to be good, not so you will get into some heaven." I'm reminded of one of my favorite high school teachers. I was in her creative writing class in the eleventh grade. She was an old-maid type, very religious Christian. So I wrote virulent anti-God essays in her class. She always praised my writing, and encouraged me. I thought she was nuts. When I ran away from home, I missed a lot of school, got caught by police and sent back. The school asked if there were any teachers I liked. I said her. She called me into her office. We talked for a while about how unhappy I was. Then she said, "I'm so sorry you feel so badly David, I know you don't believe in it, but I will pray for you, because I love you and I believe in you." It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears. My stomach was crying mightily as I choked back the tears in my throat and eyes. No one had ever said such a nice thing to me before, and she meant it. Ever since that moment, I wanted to believe in God. I couldn't tell you who won the World Series two years ago, or even last year. I can't tell you who has the #1 hit single today, or yesterday, or the day before. What the #1 TV show is, I haven't a clue. But I'll never forget who taught creative writing in 1968 at Brandywine High School. Years later, it still haunted me. I sometimes thought I'd like to go back there and thank her. I never did. Many years later, my band was getting ready to play one night at a local country club. I walked by a room with someone else's party going on, and read the sign posted outside the door. It was her retirement party. Ellen Fitzgerald, old maid, underpaid, overworked, under-praised school teacher, was finally retiring. I was drunk. I couldn't go see her and thank her drunk. I looked inside surreptitiously. An old, old lady with gray hair sitting at the dais. She looked bored, sad. I lowered my head and slunk away. I don't know what God's will for me is. I know what it means to be a decent human being. I am always honest when I talk to God. How can I lie? God already knows. This is good practice for me. During the day, I am more likely to be honest. I am more likely to give others the love that God has given to me. I have suffered a lot ... like you. Like you, I have known a lot of pain. Every day I see these things in others -- afraid of who they are. I want to love them today. This love springs up in my heart. It is not something I create. God has taken all the pain I know and have known, and has been changing it into love. I never asked for that. It never occurred to me. And that is why I say to my God every day, "I want Your will -- not mine."

Thanks for letting me share.