“You were a knight,” said Merlin. “Somewhere in the world
there is defeat for everyone. Some are destroyed by defeat,
and some made small and mean by victory. Greatness lives
in one who triumphs equally over defeat and victory.”

—John Steinbeck
______________________________

It was a lifetime ago, seems like. And it wasn’t the most logical thing I had ever done. Certainly not the most necessary. But it was something I had walked around and poked at and looked at from different angles for some time. It happened more than ten years ago, and it was the first time I had ever done such a thing. Back in 2007, toward the end of an extraordinarily messy and stressful year, I bought me a new truck.

It was a Dodge. And it was a big deal back then. A 2007 Dodge 1500. With a Hemi. Brand new. Fully loaded. With a sun roof. And a sliding rear window that opened with the push of a button. The color: A bold electric blue. Thus the name of my constant traveling companion and road partner since that day: Big Blue.

And it seems so strange in a lot of ways, looking back. Where in the world has the time gone? I remember telling a good friend, back when Big Blue was gleaming and young and new. I’ll drive it for five years or so. Trade it off, then. It’ll have some miles, but it’ll have some value. I chuckle at those words now. It was a naïve thing to say. But I had never owned a brand-new truck before. Or a brand-new vehicle of any kind, really. Well, unless you count my new black buggy, back in Bloomfield. I mean, a motorized vehicle. I had never owned a new motor vehicle before. My head was spinning a little. And I didn’t quite know what to expect.

I remember the night I drove it off the lot, after work. It was a Monday. I remember this from a couple of things that were going on around me about right then. I stopped at my brother Steve’s house on the way home. Proudly pulled up. Come out and look at my new truck. Look how the mirrors fold out if you have a wide load. Ain’t that the coolest thing? And everyone seemed excited and impressed.

And those first five years? Well, those shot right by as if propelled from a grenade launcher, is what happened. Whoosh. The days were gone, just like that. Then the weeks, then the months. And, yeah, a lot happened in those years.

Big Blue was simply a part of my persona, in my life and in the blog. We went on a lot of adventures together, me and that truck did. I never used it rough at all. Never abused it. Never so much as talked rough to it. I always changed the oil right on time. And the five-year mark, that would have been in 2012. The year after my book came out. I remember thinking about what I had told my friend, back when my truck was new. And I looked at my blue steed. It was just getting comfortable. Under a hundred thousand miles. Heck, it was still like new. And I figured back then. I’ll drive it until it gives out. I’ll run my truck into the ground.

And that truck was connected to me and my life like a thread. You think about it. Wherever I was at any given time of day or night, Big Blue was somewhere close by. Rental car trips excluded, of course. But still. The truck was my physical connection to wherever it was I wanted to go. For more than ten years. It’s a little startling to look back over all that time from a perspective such as that.

My truck was my truck. An extension of me, of what I did, and who I was. I was quietly content. It never crossed my mind, either, that my next vehicle might not be a truck. I mean, I was a pickup guy. And that’s as far as my brain went, when it came to what I was driving on the road.

Until last spring. And like a lot of things that come along and establish themselves in your mind and consciousness, I wasn’t looking for anything when it got here. I was heading down to Florida to see Dad for a week. The Enterprise people tried to shake a little toy Hyundai on me, when I came in that morning to pick up my rental. That’s what they had, and that’s all they had, the guy claimed. A Hyundai Elantra. And I was just as adamant. No. That will not work. I will not drive a Hyundai all the way to Florida. They don’t have any headroom. What else you got around here? There has to be something that will work. There has to be.

The nice Enterprise guy was pretty young. And he saw I was fired up, that I meant what I was saying. I will not drive a Hyundai. I will not do it. He was thinking to himself. Be that way. Still, he smiled politely. And he poked around on his computer. “I have a black Jeep Wrangler, here,” he told me. “For a small upcharge.” I interrupted instantly. I’ll take it, I said.

Had this been a scene in a movie, there would have been muted thunder in the background as the nice young man pulled up out front in the black Wrangler. Or at least an orchestra would have been playing. Cool looking little vehicle there, I thought to myself. I walked out and got into the Jeep. And drove home to load my bags. It drove like a little tank. I could get used to this, I said to myself.

It turned out to be way cooler than anything I had imagined. I mean, I didn’t know. So it’s easy, not to have imagined it. A black Jeep is a black Jeep. It stands alone. A dark knight. Instantly recognizable. It’s mean, lean, and wickedly cool. And I soon learned just from driving south and back, in those few days. It’s a Jeep thing. You wave at other Jeeps.

I had a wonderful trip, down to Pinecraft, to see Dad. We had a blast, he and I. Just hung out and relaxed. You can eat what you want, when you want. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, I told him right up front. Just nip it in the bud, I figured, any kind of contention. When a man gets to be the age my father is, he’s got the right to do pretty much what he wants. Enjoy life, I told him. There are no rules while I’m here with you. You don’t have to take your pills if you don’t want to, even. And if something happens, it happens. You can’t live forever. (He took his pills right on time every day, because he didn’t have to. He just decided to, on his own.)

My little black Jeep was a big hit wherever I went, down there with Dad that week. Everybody made a fuss. It was a blast to drive, locally and on the road. We just fit each other, the Jeep and me. And for the first time ever, my thoughts and desires strayed from my big blue truck. I didn’t stay true to my Dodge Ram 1500, 2007 model. I sure didn’t. My heart wandered. The thought kept running through my mind. I could live with a Jeep like this.

And by the time I got back home, the plan was anchored in my head. Somewhere in my future, there would be a black Jeep Wrangler. A two-door. This was firmly established. No hurry, though. All good things take time, I reckoned. So it would come when it came, the black Jeep. And I went back to living life as I had before. Last year was a little different. There were serious stressors, all around. I drank lots of scotch whiskey and fretted about whether my second book would sell on the open market. Until I didn’t anymore, and it did.

Fast forward, then. To now. The New Year came at me. And I thought about things. Well, backing up, a little. Late last year, me and Big Blue had our unfortunate little accident. We spun around on the ice, like a mad cow. My truck has a small dent in it, now. And I got to thinking, early on, this year. It’s time to get a few feelers out, to look for a Jeep. And not just any Jeep. A black Jeep Wrangler, two-door. I remembered, then. I have a good contact in the car business. Check with him. Let him keep an eye out for you.

I’m not sure when I first got to know Linford Berry. It was probably when my book came out, back in 2011. We were Facebook friends, so he may have been a blog reader before that, at least for a while. He lives down in Virginia, in good solid Mennonite country. Harrisonburg. And when I first met him, Linford was a pastor at a big old Mennonite church down in the area. I always had a little bit of a problem with that part of the equation. I’m not particularly fond of Mennonites. They make me skittish. It’s so close to the place I came from, and whether real or imagined, I always feel silent, pulsing judgment from that brand of people.

Don’t get me wrong. Next thing, I’ll talk myself into a hole, here. I never had any kind of judgment problem with Linford. Never felt anything but complete acceptance from him. But still. I have minor issues with the church he was associated with. The Conservative Mennonites. And they are not bad people, as in evil. Certainly, I have a lot more in common with them than I have with mainstream Mennonites from Harrisonburg. Leftist crackpots, a lot of mainstream Mennos are. Mad with rage. A year ago, many of their women donned pussy hats and raised their fists and marched and cursed Trump. The people who did that will never live down their vile and shameful actions. Menno Simons must be spinning in his grave.

All right. That was a bunny trail. I met Linford a few times after my book came out. Once, when he was in the area for a conference, he looked me up and we had lunch. I never was quite sure what he told the people at the conference. “I’m having lunch with that backsliding reprobate, Ira Wagler, to see if I can talk some sense into him.” Maybe he said that. If he did, he never let on. He was always completely accepting and open and very cordial to me. We had a fine time at lunch that day.

Linford dabbled in cars. That’s how he made a living, I reckon. Preacher pay ain’t all that great. And a few years ago, he quit his preacher job and went full time into his business, Mountain Valley Motors in Harrisonburg and Dayton. And he auctioneers, now, too. It was a little wild, to see him branch out into a whole new world and a whole new place. I cheered for him, though. I understand why people do that.

So, anyway. I messaged Linford, about the second day of the New Year. Hey. I’m wondering if you can help me. And I told him what I wanted. A black Jeep Wrangler. Recent model. Low miles. Two-door. Hard top. He had a few questions. I told him about what I wanted to spend. And I told him. There’s no hurry at all. Just keep an eye out. If you see something I might want, let me know. And he said he would. OK, then. I had done what I could do. Now. Wait.

And I gotta say. It didn’t take long at all. A little over a week, I think. Tell a car dealer you’re looking for a certain model, and he’ll lock on that scent like a bird dog. And the message came from Linford one day. A message, and some pictures. He had found something at an online auction. He thought I might be interested.

It was a Jeep Wrangler, of course. Black as coal. Two-door. Late model, 2015. Low miles, at 24,000. And it was loaded. There was a little bit of extra chrome on the mirrors and door handles and the grille. And fully automatic windows and locks. I had asked for those almost as an afterthought. Jeeps are stripped down, normally. Plain Jane. Manual locks. Crank the windows up and down by hand. I wanted something slightly more civilized. And now Linford was telling me. He had found it. And he spoke a price that was well within my range.

The online auction was going on right that moment. Right then. So a decision had to be made. Right then. I called Linford. And we talked about it. The price was good, well below market. Before hanging up, I told him. Go ahead. Get it. He said he would. And that’s how we left it.

It’s been ten years since I fretted about buying any vehicle like that. I needed to get a couple of things done. Call Allstate, and get the Jeep on my policy. And stop by PNC Bank just down the road. They know me there. I wanted a short-term loan, to get my Jeep bought. After I sold Big Blue, I’d shovel all that money right over. It’s been years, since I looked into getting a loan of any kind. The ladies at PNC smiled when I walked in. They’ve known me for years, all through the journey of the first book. And I told them. I need to see someone about a loan for a Jeep. My friend Stephanie ushered me into her office. Less than half an hour later, I walked out of there with a check for the full amount of the purchase, for a little over three percent interest. I was pretty amazed at how simple the process was. And I figure to have all that money paid back well before it’s due.

And then it was the logistics of getting my black Jeep home. Linford thought he could get it transported to his yard in a couple of weeks. He wanted to clean it up, make it smell like new, and change the oil. The days passed, and the Jeep still had not been delivered. It’s winter, I told my friend. Whenever you get it, let me know. And last Friday, he got the Jeep home to his yard. It would be ready any time after Tuesday of this week, I was told. Well. I needed to get four hours south, to pick up my wheels. I looked at my options. Then I called Enterprise. Can I rent a vehicle, for one way only? Down to Harrisonburg? The nice young man allowed that I could. I reserved a car, for Wednesday. I’d head down in the afternoon, then drive home that evening. And so my plans were set.

They didn’t stay set all that long. Sometimes, connections kick in, when you’re not looking for them. I told the people at work. I’m heading down to pick up my Jeep. My boss, Reuben, asked how and I told him. I’m driving a rental car down, one way. He looked at me. “Why don’t you let me fly you down in my plane?” He asked. “I’ll do it for whatever the rental car would have cost. Just consider it a perk, for working here.” That would be great, I said.

On Wednesday, shortly after noon, we drove Big Blue over to the Chester County Airport. A short time later, Reuben’s jet-prop plane was high in the air, heading south. After a little more than an hour of flying, we landed at Shenandoah Valley Airport. A little place with a single runway. We waited there, in the General Aviation Terminal. Minutes later, a black Jeep whipped in and parked. There’s my wheels, I told Reuben. We walked out. And there it was, all cleaned up and gleaming. My new black steed. I greeted Linford and introduced him to Reuben. We stood and chatted for a few minutes. Then Reuben walked back out to his plane for the flight home. Linford gave me the keys to the Jeep, and we drove the fifteen minutes to his office to fill out all the paperwork. And I signed over that loan check.

Linford has a real nice business going, there. He’s the only car dealer I know that I would trust enough to do what I did. We chatted and caught up a bit, as I signed here and signed there. He asked how the next book is coming along. And I told him. It’s a different road than the first book was. I’m just getting started, walking.

With Linford, as I’m ready to head on out.

He handed me a file with my paperwork, and we walked outside to the Jeep. The Dark Knight. That’s the name I chose. It seemed fitting. Linford attached temporary tags and told me what to do when the title gets to me in the mail. And then we shook hands. I thanked him. Got into my black steed. Made final adjustments to the seat, and double-checked the mirrors. Shifted into gear and eased out the drive. And I crossed myself as we pulled onto the road. Lord, you are the giver of all gifts. Thank you for this blessing. Grant me safe travels on the road home.

I remember a little bit how it was, when I drove Big Blue off the lot, back in 2007. I was slogging through some tough times. The cold hard facts of life were raining down in torrents all around. Ten years ago, I was a little naïve about the human condition, about the utter depravity of every human heart. I was a little clueless about a lot of things. But somehow, there was always a tiny seed of faith that showed up from somewhere. And I can see so clearly in retrospect. It was always a gift, that tiny seed of faith. A gift, freely given.

And that day, the future stretched before me. Whatever it held, I was ready. I was cautiously optimistic in my new blue truck. Let come what may. Lord, I said. I’ve seen a lot of hard roads lately. And that’s OK. But I’m just asking. Let there be good things.

And now, it is today. Ten years on. I’ve traded Big Blue for the Dark Knight. And I stand by my steed, ready to ride. I can’t see into the future. But I’m eager and excited. There’s a new day dawning. There’s a new road rising. I look to the heavens with a grateful heart. And I believe, in faith.

There will be good things. There will be, because God is the giver of all of life. And all His gifts are good.

*******************************************************************
It’s been a while. More than a decade. That distant roaring you hear is the sound of Eagles fans celebrating a very rare appearance at the Super Bowl a week from this Sunday. I’m a transplant here in Lancaster County. I don’t care for any teams from Pennsylvania. But of the state’s two NFL teams, I’ll take the Eagles every time. The Steelers are total anathema to me. I despise that team with a passion.

Many years ago, president Kennedy spoke in halting German. “Ich bin ein Berliner.” In that same spirit, I now say, “Ich bin ein Eagles fan.” For one day, I will cheer for the Eagles to fly. On February 4, 2018.

And regardless of how tired everyone is of the vile Patriots (I am beyond weary of them), one fact remains. Love or hate Belichik and Brady, they are the greatest coach/QB combination the NFL has ever seen. Brady is without question the most talented quarterback in history. The numbers speak for themselves. The man is a phenomenon. Just as well as not, he could already have seven Super Bowl rings instead of five. Little Eli Manning got in the way twice. Brady surpasses all who played the position before him, including Joe Montana and Terry Bradshaw. We are witnesses to greatness on the football field such as has never been seen before.

Still. There is a time and a season to all things under the heavens. Nothing gold can stay. Brady is the aging warrior. He’s been there many times before. He may win the battle, but this time, I think not. The Eagles have been underdogs so far, and they have been completely unintimidated. They will win their first Super Bowl, and it won’t be all that close. Eagles 34-20.

Living in the Promiseland,
Our dreams are made of steel.
The prayer of every man
Is to know how freedom feels.

There is a winding road
Across the shifting sand.
And room for everyone,
Living in the Promiseland.

—Willie Nelson, lyrics
___________________________

It seemed like an ordinary morning, a few weeks ago. Well, almost. It had snowed some, the night before. Just barely covered the ground. I grumbled to myself as I cleaned my truck, and got it all warmed up. Winter sure seems to be creeping in. I drove on down to Sheetz to grab my coffee, like I always do. And then I settled into my nice warm truck, to head to work. Such are my scattered memories, near as I can gather them, looking back.

I drove out and turned left. There was some light snow on the road. But I never gave it a thought. I accelerated out, then slowed up, to cross the railroad tracks. Bump, bump. I stepped on the gas again. And exactly right then, my world spun around and out of control. I’m talking literally, when you’re looking out the window.

My truck suddenly lunged out of the right lane. I can’t quite remember, it all happened so fast. I think my back wheels pushed around to the right. Ice. There was a layer of black ice under the thin blanket of snow. As the truck shot into the left lane, I instinctively stomped the brakes (big mistake) and yanked the steering wheel to the right. The wheels grabbed, and I was shooting toward the right ditch. So I reversed the wheel turning. To the left. The back was coming around. I was helpless. I haven’t felt that helpless in a long, long time.

There are a few things that happen, when you spin out on ice. Well, a few things that I remember. First, you grasp in a split second how utterly helpless you are. I remember that feeling of surprise and fear, when I realized my truck was out of control. And I remember one other thing about that moment. I remember looking ahead and around, to see if there was any other traffic, anywhere close. Thankfully, there was not. Not a car in sight, at least not anywhere close. So that much was established in my brain. If you hit something when you’re spinning, it won’t be another vehicle.

I don’t know. I was going twenty-five, maybe thirty. Not that fast, really. Except on ice, it’s fast. Oh, yes. It is. And the next two to three seconds were just about the wildest ride I’ve ever had on the road in any vehicle, anywhere. I had never, never had any kind of road accident before. Never, not even for a scratch. That history of clean driving was about to go the way of the dinosaur, for me. It was a wonder I ever held on as long as I did. But now it was over.

Big Blue kept sliding from one side of the road to the other. And then my truck just spun all the way around, clockwise. The tail end swooshed into someone’s yard, missed a telephone pole by less than six inches, and crunched into the little Railroad Crossing sign that was planted less than two feet from the telephone pole. The little sign flattened to the ground like a broken weed. The driver’s side tail light popped out and shot across the yard like it was propelled from a gun. And my truck finally shuddered to a stop, back in my own lane. Sadly, it was facing the wrong way.

Way back at the light on Rt. 23, several cars had crossed and were creeping my way. I blinked my headlights, then slowly crept off the road, into the drive of some commercial business. I parked and got out. I mean, I wasn’t hurt, or anything. But I was a good deal shook up. Whatever had happened wasn’t a fraction as bad as what could have happened. Had a car been approaching in the other lane, well, I could be with Jesus now. And had the rear of my truck crunched into that telephone pole, Big Blue would have been totaled. Those two equations shot through my head before too many seconds had passed.

There was a good solid dent bashed into the driver’s side, behind the rear wheel, just in front of the tail light. Looking at that dent, and what I did hit showed me how close I had come to smashing into the telephone pole. It was less than six inches. I calculated it all out later. Right that moment, I was worried about one thing. Did my truck still run, or was it damaged underneath, where I couldn’t see?

It wasn’t damaged underneath. I could still drive it. So I got back in and headed on toward my place of work. Very carefully and very shakily. And that little story is why I chatted with my Allstate agent later that morning. It’s also why I stopped at Enterprise and picked up a nice gray Jeep Wrangler (four-door) late that afternoon, and parked my truck at a local body shop in New Holland. I was turning in my first auto insurance claim, ever, for anything. And Allstate has been a real class act so far, I gotta say.

And my little spin-out that morning, well, I’ve looked back over it in just about every way there is to look at it. It was a tale of inches. Six inches one way, and I would have missed everything, would have driven off, blithe and scot-free. Like I always had, up until that morning. Six inches the other way, and Big Blue would have been totaled by the telephone pole. As it was, the little Railroad Crossing sign inflicted some damage and a lot of inconvenience. So it could have gone a lot better. And it could have gone a lot, lot worse. I guess I’ll settle for what actually happened and accept it. As if there is a choice. But still. There are different ways to calm your heart.

I’ve thought a lot about that morning, those road conditions, and what happened to me that had never happened before. Mulled over it a lot. And I gotta say. That morning was a microcosm of what my whole year has been like in a lot of ways. I was spinning out of control for more days than not, I think. I was walking calm, about half the time. At least I told myself that. But for most of the year, there was so much going on out of my control that I forgot to control the parts of life that I could. I’ve been there before, more times than I care to admit. And when I forget to control the parts of life that I can, it usually boils down to one word. Whiskey. Somehow, somewhere back there, I had chosen to embrace the one nemesis that can never be fully and finally slain.

It’s always a choice. Everything you do is. And there is only one person in all creation who is responsible for your choices. You. Always. Talk to me about addiction all you want, and how tough that life is. It still boils down to how you choose to deal with the aftermath of your previous choices. And no, that’s not trite or harsh. It’s just reality. I know what it is to be addicted. I know how hard it is. Trust me. I know, way better than I want to.

So, anyway. That’s where I was, for about the first eight months of this year. There was a lot of tension flowing around, for different reasons. My book was being shopped on the open market. And word from the field was sparse. There were other things going on, too. Other pressure points. There were. And I went for the “easy” way to deal with the stress of it all. I reached for the bottle. And I drank hard every day. It was a choice. It seemed like a choice I wanted to make. The easiest choice, on a table full of hard ones.

I had a heart checkup in June. About every six months or so, good old Dr. B summons me in. Does the basic stuff. Heart rate and blood pressure. And the big ten-thousand-dollar question. How’s your heart beating? Is the A-Fib back? I was nervous about that checkup, back in June, as the day crept up. So about two weeks before, I stopped drinking. Cold. As far as I knew, my heartbeat was pretty steady. But still. It couldn’t hurt to clean up a bit. Get the alcohol out of my system.

The day arrived, and I went in. And so help me, this is true. That very morning, I could feel my heart beating wrong. Erratic. I knew it before Dr. B told me in a sad voice. “You are in A-Fib.” We talked about it, and I told him I was nervous. He upped my dose of the one med I take, and told me to come back in six months. And this, too, is true. The next day, I checked my heart rhythm every hour for half a day. Solid and steady as a rock. Good grief. I called Dr. B’s office, and left a message. My heartbeat is back to regular.

But still. I knew the alcohol was affecting my heart in a bad way. I don’t want to make a bigger deal out of it than it was. But I knew.

A little bunny trail, here. Sometimes you hear people say, when mentioning someone who passed on. “He drank himself to death.” And it is understood exactly what is meant by that statement. It’s something like this. Oh. That kind of man. Yeah, he sure didn’t have much self-control. He wasted his life away. He sure loved the bottle. He drank all that hard liquor. What a sinner. We can only hope he repented at the last second, and maybe just squeaked through the door into heaven. Probably not, but we won’t know for sure until we get there. If he made it, he’s probably stuck in a little room way down in the basement somewhere. We’ll have to go looking for him.

That’s what people think to themselves and mutter to each other. Not me. I don’t go there. I understand completely when I hear that someone drank himself to death. I understand the pain and loss and bitter sorrow that such a person could not face. I know the monsters that lurk in the recesses of the mind and in the dark corners of the heart. I know, because I deal with my own demons of what was and what might have been. I hear those voices calling in the night. I understand, because I poked my head through that door and looked around a bit. And I gotta say. It’s not a terribly scary place. I wasn’t frightened there, in that room where death is. I understand why people go there. And I understand why people choose to stay there.

It was pretty normal, what I thought to myself and what I spoke back then, when I was drinking hard. Let the book deal come through, I told God. Let me get it written, and then I’m done. I don’t care, after that. Just let me last that long. That all I got to live for. That’s how far I had stuck my head through that door. To get to where it seemed rational, such thinking. I knew it was a lie. But it was a lie I chose to believe. It was like my truck was spinning on the black ice, out of control. I felt helpless and hopeless.

People around me could tell there was something going on inside me, and that it wasn’t going all that great. Nobody said much. Not until two close friends told me, separately and privately. “You are not well. Your eyes look bad. The whiskey’s getting to you.” The weird thing was, those two friends didn’t even know each other. They still don’t. That jolts you, to hear two voices saying the same thing from two completely different places like that. And you hesitate, in mid stride. I have to at least hear what was spoken to me. Is it true? Be honest with yourself. And right there it is, one of life’s hard and fast rules. Be honest with yourself. I fought hard, not to be.

Somehow, a few slivers of light penetrated my brain. Just enough so I drew back from that destructive door I was hell-bent on walking through. Stop. Make sure this is where you want to go, before you step through. I mulled the thing over in my head for weeks. And I saw it. There. That other door is the one you want, not this one. And I wasn’t real sure how to get from the wrong door to the right one. Or that I actually had what it took to open the right door, once I got there.

I didn’t set out on a big, majestic quest, or anything. I just turned from the wrong door and stumbled along aimlessly, without a lot of hope in my heart. And then, one day, the right door inched open. And from somewhere, there came a mustard seed of faith. It was almost lackadaisical, how I chose to step through that door. I just decided one night. I’m going to quit drinking until I get a better handle on things. That’s it. There were no promises. No vows. Not to God. Not to myself. Not to anyone else. Just a simple, almost offhand decision.

And in the distance, the dragon of fear stood to block my passing, belching all the fire and smoke and noise and rage that only such a dragon can. I clutched my sword and tried to look brave. It was hard, not to turn and flee.

I remember the evening clearly, when it happened. Or didn’t happen. It was a Tuesday night, the last one in August. And I told the guys at Bible Study. There’s something going on. I’m not sure what. But I’m going to have to get a grip on things. The whiskey. It’s getting to me. And we talked about it openly, me and those guys. I would trust any one of them with my life. They would support me, they said, without judgment and without expectations. They meant it, too. If things got too hard, I could call on any of them at any time of any day or any night. I walked out of there, still not quite knowing. That night, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a drink when I got home. You can always make it through one night, I figured. I guess the future will take care of itself.

And it has. I have not had a drop of alcohol since that late August evening after the Bible Study. It’s always for today, that I’m quitting. Maybe tomorrow, too, but for sure only today. There are no promises. There are no expectations. There is only a man, walking along, with a heart of gratitude to God for all of life. That’s it. That’s all.

I don’t know where it will end, or how, or if it even will. I do know this. I’m the type of guy who can be cruising right along. And then, without a whiff of warning, I can go and buy a bottle of single malt scotch and knock it back in two nights. I can easily do that. And so far, I always have, at some point. But until such a time approaches, until temptation calls relentlessly from the old door, I’ll keep walking.

A long time ago, the Lord’s people were wandering aimlessly in the wilderness. They had fled Egypt decades before. And there were many misadventures. This had happened and that had happened. The people were compelled to wander the earth for forty years, until all of the old generation had died. And even their leader, Moses, was barred from entering the Land of Canaan. But before he died, Moses was led up to a high place on a mountain. “Look over there, across the valley,” he was told. “That right there is the Promised Land. The land where I will lead my people.” Moses got to see. But he never got to enter.

The first few days were the fires of hell. Being dry, I mean. And the first few weeks, as well, in waves. The thought was constant, gnawing in my head. A drink. I need a drink. After work, it was all I could do to wrestle Big Blue straight home, instead of heading over to Vinola’s. Somehow, I hung in there. I talked about it before, here on the blog. Almost immediately, the weight started washing from me. More than a pound a day. And that’s what kept me on the right path early on, I think. The weight. I was ashamed and beyond weary of being a big, fat slob. I was done being embarrassed at how I looked in polite company. Never again. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I thought. I never want to be this slovenly again. And day followed day, as night followed night.

Forty-five days. That’s what Sam the Counselor told me years ago, when I was thinking about putting the bottle down for a season. Forty-five days is how long it takes for your body to break free from the physical effects of drinking. After that, you’re clean. After that, you’re free, if you can stay that way. So that’s what I focused on, there at the start. Lord. Let me have forty-five days of freedom. Let me get to that place. And then, let come what may.

After those first few days and weeks, the fires of hell diminished a great deal. I watched what I ate, and didn’t eat a lot of that. And somewhere in those early days, I talked to my buddy, Mike the Barber. By then, I was grooming up a little, starting to take pride in how I dress and how I look. And I told Mike. I put the bottle down. I’m quitting, for now. I don’t know for how long. But it’s here and now. I got some serious writing coming up, I think. The vodka is done. And Mike cheered.

He’s a few years older than me, and he came from a similar place, years ago. He drank hard, every day. And he went to rehab, whatever that is. I’ve never “gone to rehab.” Not saying I shouldn’t have. I just never did. Anyway, Mike got himself cleaned up. He was told he would have to attend AA meetings for the rest of his life. He wasn’t having any of that. He figured it out for himself. I’m not knocking anyone who goes to AA. I’m just saying Mike didn’t. And that day, when I told him what I was doing, or wasn’t, he spoke life to me in a way that few people ever have.

He looked at me. And then he said. “When you wake up with a clear head, each morning is a new high.” I absorbed those words. It’s a code I have claimed and lived by since that moment. Each morning is a new high. It is. It really is.

And moving along, then, in this little tale of trucks spinning on ice and the Promised Land. The days moved on, then the weeks. And after six weeks or so, the pounds slid off a lot harder. I looked at the situation. And I thought to myself. If you’re gonna get down to the weight you want, you’re going to have to starve yourself. I don’t see any other way. And then we all know what happens when you quit starving yourself. All that big fat slob weight will come roaring back, the same as if you had never lost it. That’s what happens.

And so I was open to another road. Standing at a door leading to I knew not where. And just about then, my good friend, Ava Shank, came strolling along and nudged me online. “Here,” she said. “I’ve been walking this path over here, and it works pretty well. You should try it. I think it’s exactly what you need.” The path she pointed to? Intermittent fasting.

It was almost as lackadaisical as my decision to quit drinking was. I checked out the links she sent me. Researched things a bit. Eventually, I even ordered the book. Fasting is very much the “in” thing these days. It’s trendy. But does it work? That was my only concern. And then, back in early November, I decided to do it. I went to eating one meal a day. It was no big deal. I’ve never been a big eater. The alcohol was what made me bloated and heavy. So it was very simple for me to cut back to one meal a day. And the thing about that is, there are no limits. For that one meal, you can eat whatever you’re hungry for, and as much of that as you want. Which is exactly what I’ve been doing for the last seven weeks or so. Eating as much as I want of whatever I’m hungry for, once a day. I always finish off with a big old bowl of ice cream, topped with butterscotch. Now that’s the kind of “diet” I can wholeheartedly endorse.

I love it. All the weight I had lost before has stayed off. Plus a little bit more. Not that I weigh myself much. But I’ve dropped a total of thirty-five pounds. Heading for forty. I’ve been shrinking where I need to shrink. My face is thinner than it’s been in decades. I keep notching up my belts, making new holes with a leather punch I bought for that reason. I’m wearing jeans that had been stacked in the corner, never to fit me again. But they are fitting. My winter coats are getting baggy. I figure to make this a long-term lifestyle. Although, like the alcohol, the less I think about it or plan, the better it will go, I figure, too. I feel great. Actually, I feel fantastic. Better than I’ve felt in twenty years. And Mike the Barber’s little observation holds true. I feel it, breathe it, when I wake up every day.

Each morning is a new high.

And I saw it coming at me, as December came knocking on the door. It was soon time for my six-month checkup for my heart. Time to go see Dr. B again. It was on my mind some. And that morning last week, when I got up, I told myself. Stop being nervous. You are feeling great. You should be good to go.

Early afternoon. I drove to the Heart Group in Lancaster and signed in. A nurse led me to a little room and checked my vitals. Blood pressure was totally optimal. My resting heart rate was sixty-one beats a minute. Sixty-one. That’s the lowest heart rate I can ever remember. The most relaxed I’ve ever been.

And then Dr. B came bounding into the room. We shook hands. I told him. I’m feeling better than I have in a long, long time. Decades. I told him about the lifestyle changes I had made in the last few months. No alcohol. The intermittent fasting, I told him about that, too. I have one meal a day. He looked at me, astounded. And he checked out my heartbeat. Deep breath, front, front. And deep breath, back, back. Perfect. We kept on chatting. I told him about the offer for my second book. I’m getting ready to wade in, to tackle some serious writing. He got all excited about that.

And he told me, “You look fantastic. You look alive. Your heart is strong and steady. Whatever you are doing, keep right on doing it.” He went on. “In my practice, almost all the people I see are sliding downward, at one speed or another. Some are slipping down slow. And some are sliding fast. It is beautiful and rare to see you actually grasping life, and making great choices. You have good things happening, here. I love it. Keep it up.”

I figure to do that, I said. Life is a beautiful thing. Each morning is a new high. It really is. But I’ll tell you right up front. I make no promises about anything. It is what it is, today. That’s all. Nothing more, and nothing less. Today is all I got. It’s all I ever had. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. But you will never let the alcohol control you again. That’s what I’m sensing.” Yes, I said. Yes. That. The whiskey will never control me again.

We wrapped it up, then. He reduced my one remaining med to practically zero. Then he told me to come back for a checkup in a year if I want to. There will be no more summons. The ball is completely in my court. I thanked him. I’ll drop off a copy of my second book when it gets published, I told him. We high-fived on that note. And then I floated on out of there. It was a beautiful, sunny day. I don’t dance, but I felt like doing a little waltz, out there in the parking lot.

I’m not sure what the Promised Land looks like. The land where milk and honey flows. The land where you know how freedom really feels. The land Moses saw, but could not enter.

I don’t know what that land looks like. But I figure it’s probably something close to the world I’m living in right now.

Happy New Year to all my readers.