Twenty-three years ago, early on New Year’s Day, a woman lay curled up on her baby blue living room carpet. Her two girls were at sleepovers at friends’ houses; she didn’t know where her husband was. She wasn’t even really sure she knew where SHE was, which was, unfortunately, not all that unusual. She tried to focus her eyes, but the room kept tilting and spinning too much. Gingerly, she felt around, relieved to find the carpet dry—at least she hadn’t vomited on it. The effort made her nauseous again, so she kept perfectly still for awhile. Her mouth tasted of stale champagne and chocolate truffles. Welcome 1999. Well, Prince had told you to party.

That was the last morning I woke up like that. At some point during that all- too-familiar alcohol haze, Jesus stepped in and said, “You’re not going to do this anymore.” There had been all kinds of “this”’s before; many times that I had vowed that whichever “this” this one was, it was the last time. To be honest, I don’t even remember asking Jesus for help that night. But somehow, He heard my unspoken plea for rescue. He knew I’d had enough. And at intake for treatment, I found that out for real. If I hadn’t quit drinking that night, all the indicators pointed to me being dead within two years.

My story doesn’t start there. There had been 44 chapters written before this one. And it even isn’t my story, really. It’s Jesus’. The best editor any writer could ever have; the kind who understands the plot and where the characters need to go but the author keeps trying to take them in the wrong direction. In the 23 chapters written since that night (yeah, it’s a LONG story), He has guided my pen. Not that I haven’t tried to take it away from Him from time to time…

I know you have a story too, and maybe one that has had as many rough drafts as mine. I hope when you read these posts that they give you hope and a reason to keep on writing, since Jesus wrote the best-seller of all time and He wants to include yours in His eternal edition.