If I Die Before I Wake (21 page)

Grampa's gentleness, his ability to tame a wild animal like our pet raccoon, Susie, or the squirrel who would eat out of his hand, amazed me. He would go off hunting sometimes, but never killed anything we weren't going to eat. I suppose we were poor, if you counted money, but I didn't know it until we lived in town, I started school, and other kids made fun of me. We always had plenty to eat, a warm place to sleep, a world of interesting things to do, and the Thompson Mill covered
bridge that stretched across the river and gave rise to many of my childhood fantasies.

My favorite spot was a creaky old porch swing tied between two trees with ropes. It was heaven to lie in the shade, look at the bridge, hear the soft ripple of the river flowing over the rock dam that Grampa, my dad, and his brothers built, and daydream. At times, between the movement of the swing to and fro and the squeak of the ropes, I'd drift off into wonderful, fanciful dreams.

Often, after I got older and life bore down on me, I'd imagine returning to the river, where I would build a cabin and find the peace I'd long ago lost. I traveled there from time to time. It was never the same. The cabin and outhouse had been torn down, the swing was gone, the cornfields that had been my perfect hiding place from Grandma Alma, who'd never liked me much, barren and sad. Besides, the property was bought by my dad's brother, the stepfather who disliked me intensely. He'd remarried after Mom died, and finally had the family he wanted—not a couple of worthless brats like my brother and me.

The last time I traveled to the river, the State of Illinois had constructed a concrete bridge parallel to the covered bridge, which was being conserved for its historical value. I stood at the foot of the new bridge, right where our cabin used to sit, watched the cars zip across the arched concrete monstrosity, and knew I'd never go back again.

Today, sitting here on the front deck of our oddly shaped house that wanders up the side of the mountain amongst the boulders and scrub oaks, I understand it's not the river I missed,
but how I felt there that I'd been trying to recapture all my life: the quiet; my childhood innocence; freedom; no worry about how others saw me, what they thought of me; but most of all, the simple life.

Now, I have it. Like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
, one of my all-time favorite movies, the solution had been with me all along. But like Dorothy, I had to overcome a lot of obstacles to find my way home. My personal yellow brick road began the day I walked into my first 12-step meeting.

In early sobriety I lived in forced simplicity. There were homeless people, people who lived in cars, that had more possessions than I did. And they probably had friends. Through my addictions and behavior, I'd lost everything, and everyone. At age 35, alone and sick in more ways than one, I resented having to start over yet again with no buffer between me and a cruel world. Today, I know it was an essential part of my journey.

Last night at the meeting in Congress, a small town at the foot of the mountains, I picked up my 26-year sobriety chip, blew out the candles on the cake, and shared part of my story. I laughed when I said, “I think God looked at me, shook his head, and thought there was nothing left to do but take me down to nothing and start over,” but somewhere deep inside, I believed it. It wasn't until I discovered how little I knew that I could open myself to the possibilities of my life.

By the time Tom and I married twenty-three years ago, I'd learned what it meant to carry the river in my heart wherever I went, through whatever I was doing, with whomever was with me. Since then, I've become that little girl again: the
one who loves completely, knows trust, awakens each morning ready to explore a new and exciting day, and finds joy in the smallest things. She'd been struggling to get out all my life, and the twelve steps gave me the tools needed to mend my ravaged mind and heart. My body didn't fare quite so well, but I'm impressed that it's still up and walking around, considering what I've put in it and done to it. I'm officially twice as old as I, or anyone who knew me back then, ever thought I'd be.

——

Tom is coming up the road, our two new dogs on long leashes, darting here and there. My heart beats a little faster, swells with a warm, comfortable love that reminds me of the day I first fell into the embrace of a God of my understanding. I always get maudlin this time of year as I reflect on my life. Sometimes, I feel like great streams of light rainbows and bubbles will burst forth from my body because I can no longer contain my joy.

Kahlil Gibran said, “The deeper sorrow carves into your soul, the more joy you can contain.” His words flash through my mind as Tom joins me on the deck, hands me a cup of coffee, and leans against the railing to gaze out at the landscape. He says, “How in the world did we ever end up here?”

“Maybe it was a God thing,” I respond.

“You think?” he says, and laughs. “I know it wasn't my idea.” He'd always said that when he retired, we'd move to the country outside his hometown in St. Elmo, Illinois, build a cabin, raise hounds, and do some quail hunting. That was the plan.

I, on the other hand, never figured I'd live long enough to retire—and on the off chance that I did, I imagined myself working until I dropped dead. I certainly wasn't planning on doing that in Arizona, where so many bad things happened in my life. There was a better chance that I'd see my picture on a post office bulletin board than that I'd end up here, writing books on recovery, happy and reasonably healthy, having a real life. God must have had a big belly laugh while we were making plans.

When Tom goes into the house to get a piece of cake I brought home from last night's meeting, I can hold back no longer. Overwhelmed with gratitude, silent tears roll down my cheeks. Raising my face to the cloudless turquoise sky, I whisper, “Thank you for everything.” And I mean everything. I know it has taken every moment, all my experiences, good and seemingly bad, and every individual who passed through my life to bring me to this moment in time, to the person I am today. I've come full circle, back to the little girl on the porch swing full of hopes and dreams, who at the end of the day knelt by her bed, hands pressed together, whispering, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

Barb Rogers learned most of her life lessons through great pain and tragedy. After surviving abuse, the death of her children, addiction, and life-threatening illness, she succeeded in finding a new way of life. She became a professional costume designer and founded Broadway Bazaar Costumes. When an illness forced her to give up costume designing, Barb turned to writing. She is the author of three costuming books and several titles on recovery, alcoholism and addiction, and well-being, including:
Twenty-Five Words, Keep It Simple and Sane
, and
Clutter-Junkie No More
. Barb lives in Arizona with her husband and their two dogs.

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