gratitude attack

Grace and peace to you! In my first few years of sobriety, I used to get what I called "gratitude attacks" fairly often. They came on suddenly, and they affected me really strongly--even physically. The hair on the back of my neck would stand up; I'd breathe in really suddenly; I'd get goosebumps even. And they happened whenever something in me clicked, something like, "Thank God I don't have to do THAT anymore!" or when I saw something really beautiful that I might not have noticed before. In fact I remember my first "attack" was triggered by a stand of daffodils in bloom that I saw somewhere in Brighton on my way to a meeting.



Well, they don't happen as often as they used to, and when they do, they come on a little more slowly, a little more quietly. They last a little longer these days too. And I've been having a rather extended gratitude attack ever since dinnertime yesterday. I got together with my brother, his wife, my nephew and nieces, and, unusually, my 94-year-old Dad. Dad--deaf as a plank--held up his end of things pretty darn well (except for the incident with the gravy, but hey . . .) And we had a chance to talk in the car on the way home, about how things are for him, about how hard it is--he used the phrase, "It breaks my heart"--not to be able to do some of the things that need to be done. "I used to see work and go do it," he said. "And now my body tells me what I can and can't do."



When we got to the house, he had a little trouble getting out of the car, and he was kind of unsteady on his feet. "I think I'll go lie down," he said. Good idea. But this is the man who was riding his bike last summer, and who still sat cross-legged on the couch a few short months ago.



So why, for Pete's sake, am I having a gratitude attack? Simply this--he's still around. He's remarkably sharp. And I love him. It was just wonderful to have him there for Thanksgiving dinner, to see him doting on his grandson, Daniel.



There's a lot of sadness, a legacy of unspoken disappointments between us. But those things seem to be fading lately. And I do love him, and I'm awfully grateful he's still around.

not that good at being bad

I came across this quote from Joan Chittister in my morning quiet time today:

Life is not a game we win, and God is not a trophy we merit. No matter how "good" we are, we are not good enough for God. On the other hand, no matter how "bad" we are, we can never be outside of God. We can only hope in each instance to come to such a consciousness of God that no lesser gods can capture our attention and no trifling, self-centered gods can keep us from the fullness of awareness that is fullness of life. It is the project of life, this coming to wholeness . . .

It made me think of what you hear sometimes in 12-step meetings, people saying how they thought of themselves as the worst of the worst, beyond any help, uniquely bad, only to find out after putting some sober days together that, in fact, they weren't all that good at being bad!

No matter how good we are--no matter how many good works we do--we can never be good enough for God. But thanks be to God, we can never be so bad as to be outside God's grace. We are never, ever, beyond God's grasp, never ever.

This week's Gospel (if you don't use the All Saints' readings) is the story of Zaccheus, the tax collector. His livelihood depended on defrauding others--stealing from them, in fact. He was, as far as we can tell, likely to have been pretty bad. And what does Jesus do when he sees Zaccheus in a sycamore tree? He invites himself over for dinner. This Jesus will eat supper with anyone, even those of us who are pretty good at being bad.

Thanks be to God.