"I Haven't Been Sober for Christmas Dinner in 10 Years"

I want to share a brief story with you.  I think it is worth sharing for this reason:  we're human, and we should be humane.  We should be interested in what other people are experiencing--their triumphs and their failures.  This brief story contains both.

As a part-time staff member for an inpatient drug rehab center in Kentucky, I was invited to attend the annual Christmas dinner.  Although everyone else on staff had been knowingly and anxiously looking forward to the event, this was my first time.  I didn't know what to expect.  Our administrator assured me that family members were welcome, so I decided to bring my baby boy.

That decision--to take my son--might seem strange to some people or even irresponsible.  Before rushing to judgment, consider this fact about the clients in a drug rehab program:  yes, they have done bad things; yes, they have made bad choices; but the vast majority of them truly desire to get better.  That's why they are in treatment.  In the treatment center, addictive substances are obviously banned and the environment is closely supervised.  In other words, the clients aren't high; the clients aren't engaged in the illegal and dangerous pursuit of drugs; and the vast majority of the clients are there because they want to do better.  They're people, and they're trying.  I want to raise my son to have an authentic sense of two things (1) that people are responsible for the bad choices they make, and (2) everyone makes mistakes and everyone deserves compassion.

But back to the Christmas dinner...

When my son and I entered the facility, my heart was genuinely warmed.  The clients and staff had worked together to transform our treatment center into something like a Charles Dickens novel.  There were multiple decorated Christmas trees.  There were candles and lights.  There were wreaths and garland.  There was a banquet-worthy feast stretching down the lengths of several long tables covered with white table cloths.

And there were gifts under the biggest tree.

People took our coats and paid attention to us like we were guests of honor.  Then I noticed that everyone was treating one another that way.  It was nice.  People had genuinely bought into the evening.  They were participating in the generosity of spirit that is Christmas.  While I'm sure it isn't what the clients had planned to be doing on a cold night in December, I didn't detect a whiff of self pity in the rooms.

There was a lot of laughter.

I could continue to paint this picture, but I want to focus on two crucial details.  One was something I saw.  The other was something I heard.

1. Staff members and clients all had something to open.  Caring members of our staff had made sure that no one would be left out.  Not to be trite, but that was really cool.  Think about it for a moment.  That was unnecessary, unexpected grace, and it was a good thing.  There wasn't a hard distinction between addicts and drug rehab staff.  There were just people doing Christmas together.  And everyone had a little surprise and a reason to smile.

2. What I heard was the man next to me, fork in hand, taking another bite of turkey.  He said, "I haven't been sober for Christmas dinner in 10 years."  There wasn't a lot of inflection in his voice.  It was just a statement of fact.  I didn't sense that he was on the brink of an emotional reckoning for all of his misspent years.  I didn't sense that he was full of jubilation over the fact that he was sober for this Christmas dinner.  He was just stating the fact, "I haven't been sober for Christmas dinner in 10 years."

A member of our treatment team was sitting across the table from him.  As I looked at her eyes sparkling with pride and understanding, I realized that he was looking at her.  He was sharing this truth with her.  It was a simple admission.  Profoundly simple.  But I knew then and I know now that it was highly significant.

In that moment, I was so glad that the atmosphere had been made so meticulously and wonderfully human.  I was glad that the conversations were unpretentious.  I was glad that the tone of the evening wasn't sad.  I was glad that people were doing Christmas and feeling sort of normal... maybe for the first time in a long time... maybe for the first time ever.

I was glad that this man was comfortable enough to take another step in his recovery journey.  I was glad to witness it.  To some degree, I'm a more compassionate and understanding person for hearing that sentence.  I can be a better dad for experiencing that dinner.  I can help my son be more empathetic.  I can also explain to him the supreme value of making good choices in life... and the painful consequences of bad choices.

As I reflect on that man's simple observation, it occurs to me that it's a big, big thing for someone to simply come to terms with the facts of his addiction.  "I haven't been sober for Christmas Dinner in 10 years."  He identified this fact.  The fact mattered to him.  He was on his way.  And I have confidence that it won't be the last Christmas dinner he spends sober.