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A Sinner’s Prayer…A Sinner’s Salvation!

A Sinner’s Prayer…A Sinner’s Salvation!
July 27
00:07 2019

By: Mike Rudon Jr. –

I remember many days, coming off a drunk and wracked with remorse, I would curl up on my bed and pray for release. I would cry out to my God to free me from the demons. I cried out drunk. I cried out sober. I had heard stories from my friends about God lifting burdens from them. I’m a media person – we are bred to be skeptical. So I didn’t quite believe. But I hoped. The people in my circle, most of them, wouldn’t have recognized this person praying to my God. Some of them knew Mike the drunk, Mike the joker, Mike the blasphemous, cynical ass. Others knew Mike the drunk, Mike the confident writer, Mike the lover, Mike the cool guy. Did I mention Mike the drunk? So yeah…not many people outside my friends in my men’s group, and my brother Louis who has been constant, would have recognized this weak, tired, grown-ass man crying out to God.

I did. But I never believed it would happen. I believed, with all my heart at one point, that I would die enslaved by those demons. I said what needed to be said. I wrote what needed to be written. In my mind I didn’t quite believe…but still I prayed. Did you know we are mostly a stupid people? We feel better admitting that we got drunk and danced on a pole in a strip club than admitting that we pray. What a hell of a thing. Even as I write this I am looking over my shoulder hoping nobody is reading and then maybe the world, the WHOLE WORLD will know I pray. Okay, okay I digress. But I prayed. And today, on this good, good Monday, I have gone 57 days without a drink. But it’s not just that.

In the past week, I have held a bottle of rum in my hand, in circumstances where I could have taken drinks with nobody knowing. I didn’t. In the past week, I have been around people who were drinking. I could see the rum. I could smell the rum. I could hear the ice crackling when the rum was poured over it. And it wasn’t a matter of me wanting it but being strong enough to resist. Actually that way sounds better, now that I think about it from a writer’s perspective. I could wax poetic on my soul’s struggle to resist the siren’s call, as thunder roared and the heavens split. Damn I’m good. But no. I just had no urge to drink.

None. And if you know me, and where I have been, that is nothing short of a miracle. Call the folks at the Vatican. It is a miracle.

Let me be absolutely real here, for the benefit of my eleven readers. That’s right, eleven. Tek dat. I told you I was famous! The thing is, I am scared. I don’t want to be the person I was. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to my family anymore. I don’t want people’s scorn or pity or condemnation anymore. I know there are some people who still don’t get it. But if I take another drink, I am done. Everything I achieved in these past two months will be gone, just like that.

People will say just brush yourself off and go for it again, Mike. But they will lose their faith in me. And I will lose all my faith in myself. This isn’t about me doing so well and falling and getting back up again. I need this to be it, the end, no more drinking. I know I sounded all big and bad just now when I wrote about the ice crackling and rum pouring, but I was frightened. I had no clue how I would react. I could have gotten up and poured a drink.

Nobody in that group I was in would have scolded me. And I’m too old to be spanked, except in certain circumstances. Anyway, the moral of the story is that I was not tempted.

To each his own. I believe that. I hit rock bottom many times, and I never stopped drinking. Even today, when people ask what happened to make me stop, I see the disbelief when I tell them absolutely nothing out of the drunken ordinary. I wasn’t held down and raped by a bunch of angry, well-endowed men in clown costumes (I am afraid of clowns, by the way – damn you Stephen King). I just reached a place where I needed to be, and to give me just that extra nudge, somebody who owns a significant portion of my heat told me, in cold, sober language, that I would never change. That I was a failure. And that was it. Because while I have failed all my life, in various things, I am not a failure. You hear me? I am not a failure.

God is good. You better believe that. But while God does His work, you need to do yours. Reach out. You may get tired of me writing this, but I am here if you need to talk.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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