Love has not Failed Me (an Alcoholic Celebrates 24 Years Drink-Free)

By: JANA GREENE

Every year, I am apt to say “well, that was a hard year to stay sober!” Some years I’d say it almost flippantly, because drinking didn’t seriously enter my mind.

Most times, I meant it though, because life is effing hard. Battling chronic pain and illness – all of it really difficult to raw-dog. But raw dog it I did and got to pick up a shiny token for my labors at the end of each year. Wheeee!

This year, staying sober has felt like having your bratty cousin hold your arm behind your back until you scream “UNCLE!” Now obviously, God is not a bratty cousin. But there have been days I’d have sworn he was just as bad.

How else to explain adding a cancer diagnosis to my already ridiculous list of health woes? How else to explain allowing the election results to carry consequences of harm to the most vulnerable among us? How else to explain THIS (*gestures wildly*.)

Even the” good” days felt like wearing wet socks with the seam all wonky, (emotionally.) Something was so off, all year.

On some of the bad days, I felt like drinking. And I thought about it way more than the usual amount, which is none.

“Humph,” said my internal narration.”Who in the heckin’ world would even blame me, if I were to pick up?”

“Nobody! Nobody would blame me! “I concluded, fist raised to the sky. “It’s TOO MUCH!”

I imagined people saying, “Bless her, it was the cancer that was the final straw.” Or “No wonder she fell off the wagon.” Or “At least it’s not hard drugs.” Or some such self-pitified bullshittery.

And then I laughed because silly alcoholic; mind games are for addicts! Of course, I recognized that voice from days of yore! It’s the one that kept me sick.

I’ve decided – for the sake of argument and a slightly fragmented faith – that God is not a fraud.

He is only love, and love has not failed me this year.

Love has shown up, hat-in-hand, smiling gently.

Love was with me during the bone biopsy, while they punctured my hip and sucked out the marrow, and hot, sad tears ran down my face, alone.

Love was with me when the biopsy confirmed that I have a form of leukemia, by lending me a calming essence not organic to my own understanding for comfort.

Love sat and listened to me primal scream in my car, when I’ve had unbearably painful days from Ehlers Danlos syndrome. When I couldn’t walk without agony or stay awake due to fatigue.

Love rocked out with me when I listened to purging metal music at full volume by myself, as if the genre could wick the anger out of me. (Thanks, AC/DC.)

Love was with me, rifling through my recovery toolbox, passing me whichever tool was the right one for the job. And I – much like the father in A Christmas Story trying to change a tire – cussing the whole way. “Again?!! Aw, blast it! Poop flirt rattletrap camel flirt! YOU BLONKER! Rattle feet sturcklefrat!” (Only not quite that wholesome. FUUUUDDDGGGGE.)

Love was with me when darkness enveloped me and hope was a little wisp in the ethers, so faint it barely had form.

Love manifested through my friends and family, who doggedly refuse to give up on me.

Love peeled off my wet, wonky socks, and then proceeded to wash my feet.

Love did all of those things, in the form of a God most compassionate.

My Higher Power provided everything alcohol would have withheld from me.

So this year, as I order a 24 Year sobriety chip, I say UNCLE, UNCLE, UNCLE!

I still say it’s TOO MUCH.

But I also say thank you, thank you, thank you. Because after the shitshow that was 2024, I will treasure that shiny 24 year chip. I earned it this year, homies. It was hard to stay sober.

But not impossible, you see. Because who in the heckin’ world would I be able to help, should I fall back into the drink? Surely not my family. Surely not myself. Surely not Love.

Bloodied and bruised, wild-minded and obstinate, and leaning into the Divine Love, I will pick up that shiny 24 Year chip and dance around with it on Friday.

And Love will dance with me too.

December 30, 2024 4

For the Love of Loose-Cannon Jesus

By: JANA GREENE

This election has proven we are as far from compassion as the East is from the West. And as for the trite moral question, “What would Jesus do?”

I’m pretty sure Jesus would go straight to the Temple (the church, or ‘body of Christ’) and throw out everyone who had set up shop, buying and selling. Matter of fact, maybe he’d kick over the tables of loan sharks and the stalls of dover merchants and declare “My house was designated a house of prayer; You have made it a hangout for thieves!” (Matthew 21:12-13)

That’s actually in the oft-touted Bible that gets trotted out by politicians every election year. But the rest of the verse – from The Message translation – is followed by this zinger: ” Now there was room for the blind and crippled to get in. They came to Jesus, and he healed them.”

Table-tipping Jesus is kind of my spirit animal right now. I’ve never related to him more. All my Christian life, I did not understand that verse. Because my black-and-white thinking could not relegate sweet white American Jesus, hands folded in prayer, eyes heavenward, to this renegade loose-cannon Jesus.

But LOOSE CANNON JESUS? I SEE YOU NOW.

I’m not going to turn this piece into an opportunist sermon. I’m all sermoned out, plus, since distancing myself from the church proper, I have no intention of evangelizing. It’s too late for that (but it’s never too late for God! you say? Bold claim for people who voted God off the island in his own name.) It’s too late for the next four years anyway.

But don’t expect to be considered the temple when you host thieves in your heart and elect criminals to run the free world. The thing about having a temple full of snakes and liars, is that there is no room for the blind and crippled, not even standing room. We are not getting our healing because we have made a rummage sale out of our freedoms, and a discount house of our blessings. We have done it in the name of a God who has been denied entrance at all, hawking our shiny, empty wares, and calling them holy. The only thing in short supply is love, which is supposed to be the Greatest of These, but has instead been relegated to the scratch n’ dent bin.

“You don’t want THAT,” say the merchants. “You want THIS!” And shown the whole world (this could all be yours!) we have settled.

We are the Temple, my friends. Us. And I will never take the spiritual inventory of another human, except for maybe the guy with his own translation of the Bible (a bold move! I thought for sure everyone would awaken to the audacity when that happened. But, no.) Maybe except for the man half of us elected to run the free(ish) world. We should have all at least peeked at the inventory, and not signed off on it en masse.

Maybe instead of basing our votes on the “economy” (the moneychanger’s specialty!) we should have had a pow-wow with Jesus about what he prioritized – the sick, who will lose insurance benefits. The hungry, which will manifest in children going lunch-less. The poor, who will only get poorer. And the rich, richer. God ain’t worried about the economy, he never has been. That’s our schtick. He’s worried about our hearts.

Make room for the crippled, the sick, and the hurting, so that they might be healed with the resources our creator has made us stewards of.

No wonder Jesus kicked tables over.

We should, too.

November 14, 2024 0

The Sisterhood of the Hornet’s Nest

By: JANA GREENE

Who else wakes up and for a few precious seconds, thinks you must have had the most terrible nightmare, only to realize no, it’s not a horrible dream. It’s happening. And you simply cannot believe with your own brain cells that it’s actually happening, but here we are? I am using every tool in my mental health coping skills. I’m digging through my rusty 12 step recovery toolbox, flinging tools hither and yon, saying no, THAT won’t fix this….dammit this won’t either! Tools flying everywhere, all of them sort of useless but also not. It feels like needing a certain screwdriver but not having it and needing a hammer and not having that either. So, you just use the handle of the wrong screwdriver to hammer that nail in the wall to hang a picture, which isn’t even what you set out to do, but oh well! It’s a tool that did a job! It’s like that.
If you got anxiety problems, I feel bad for you, son. We got 99 problems and the president-elect is definitely one.
I don’t know what to do with my mind, my face, my hands. I am either doom-scrolling whilst sobbing or disassociating with cat videos – tinny laughter hanging in the air like an insult to The Cause. Disassociating with dumb TikToks of people dancing. Comedian schtick. But it’s the only way, Obi Wan. I’m throwing everything at this – faith, videos of kittens, the seeking out of comraderie with my fellow sisters. Absolute outrage. Profound sadness. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then faith again, which I always seem to land on, which pisses me off, really. How dare I have hope at a time like this? The nerve of me!
But I cannot fathom that this waking nightmare has no purpose. Maybe it’s the catalyst for the groundswell that needs to happen. It needs to happen. But did it have to happen this way? See, that’s what I don’t understand. But maybe it’s bigger than our lil’ supposedly puny girl-minds can fathom.
Maybe it’s too big for us to understand just yet.
And If you’re reading these brain droppings here on my blog, you are probably in an unfathomable place too. If you follow me for recovery content, or homespun stories of faith, or because I am a proponent for plant medicine, or write about mental health (or lack thereof.) We may never get back to our regularly scheduled programming. This has opened chasm, fundamentally changing all of us. And it needs to. It should. We wake, and shake, and think this simulation totally sucks! But it’s not one, of course. So welcome to the resistance, which sounds melodramatic but sadly is really not. It’s just regular reality now. The Sisterhood of the Hornet’s Nest, kicking at the hive of patriarchy, since it’s been laid at our feet. You done did it now. We are all in a kerfuffle! Women all across the world are rallying behind us – a testament to the sisterhood. Blessed be, friends. May the odds be ever in our favor.

November 8, 2024 0

We the (Other) People – a Bleeding Heart Poem

Dear Voter,

I’m just another liberal bleeding-heart soul,

but a bleeding heart is a biblical role,

it’s the blood of Jesus set us free,

but Jesus weeps today, you see.

All your vote has managed to do

is take from those less lucky than you.

To strip the rights away from some,

while you look out for “number one.”

But “We the People” is not just you,

it’s the half of America you just screwed,

protecting your own rights and wealth,

while some lose funding for care of health.

While the ticker tape still rains from above,

have you forgotten the commandment to love?

To feed the children, their resources cut,

to embrace the immigrant who has suffered much.

Instead, you set women’s rights back fifty years,

to control “the people” through mongering fears.

Taking “your” country back you see,

takes this country back from me,

And half of this country has a problem with that.

The poor get poorer, the rich get fat.

We the People with hearts that bleed,

will hemorrhage on all until we see

America become free again,

and I can promise you, my friend,

the haughty, arrogant man you’ve elected,

the golden calf that’s been erected,

has forgotten that God shed his grace

on all of us, the human race.

And We the People – the Other Ones –

will fight for justice until it’s done.

We will legislate, push back, and duel,

until women again are persons in full.

We will gather, protest, rally, and roar,

until every child knows hunger no more.

The marginalized citizens that you show no grace,

are the people your Jesus would most embrace.

So, this bleeding heart that beats in my chest,

and prays for this unholy mess,

knows what we’re sowing, we will reap,

but in the meantime,

Jesus weeps.

November 7, 2024 2

Liberty Fails. And Jesus Weeps.

By: JANA GREENE

This morning, before the sun even rises, I am proper grieving for my daughters and granddaughter.

The election is over. The political ads will stop. Obnoxious snake oil salesmen will cease screaming at us through our television screens.. The mass mailings, like so much kindling for fire, will cease to stuff our mailboxes.

And we should be glad for that, at least. But we aren’t afforded that pleasure. There is no pleasure to be had at the feet of bullies and liars.

Old white men triumph, which should surprise none of us. We should be able to take a breath now, but instead we are gasping for air.

Tyranny has won. Hatred has its day.

I seem to remember reading in the very same ancient texts he used to pander to the people that evil will ultimately prosper on this plane of existence.

And so it is, as according to prophets and sages.

And Jesus wept.

November 6, 2024 0