I had been raised in a time when religious traditions were
readily exchanged for unconventional attitudes about sexual
experimentation and all methods of self-indulgence. The latter
fit me perfectly. The youth movement of the 1970s offered
unbridled freedom and captured the imagination of many
students in my generation, and I became one of its most avid
followers. As I pursued an unscripted, pleasure-seeking path, it
took only six years before I completely lost my grasp on reality.
I threw away my education, ties to family, work ethic, morals,
childhood faith, and any thread of self-respect.
From that most ugly pit, which included addiction to drugs,
sex, and alcohol, I looked up and called out God’s name. Not in
a church service or under the guidance of clergy; instead I
found myself in a hallway, talking to a janitor who found me in
tears after a drunk-driving court hearing. His advice? Talk to
God.
What should have sounded like a radical—even repulsive—
idea to someone as irreligious as myself, seemed both inviting
and vaguely familiar.
Without much hesitation, out loud and in front of this
stranger, I told God, like a remorseful child might break down in
front of her loving father, that I was sorry for—everything.
Then I asked God to just help me live, to change me.
Desperate is a word that describes those who have no
recourse; they can’t find their way out of a hole or a mess or a
dead end. And very often they have arrived at their destination
of hopelessness with only themselves to blame. They have no
other options, no Plan B. No one even cares about them
anymore. Their well has run dry. Their time has run out. They
are alone in the world. And they are the first to admit they