My Spirituality is Important, But It’s Not My Cure

When my grandmother died in the summer of 2013, my family gathered in Nashua, New Hampshire, to celebrate her life and lay her to rest. On the first evening we all arrived in town, I sat at my grandparents’ kitchen table late that night with my dad. The lights were out in the house, including the kitchen, and we discussed the importance of spirituality. My dad shook his head, and remarked that he didn’t know how non-believers managed life when tragedy struck. His mom had just died, and he was leaning hard on his faith that she was with God in Heaven, and that the rest of us would mourn and remember and love and keep moving forward.

I was moved by how well encapsulated the power of spirituality was at that moment. It was clearly a potent experience, just me, my dad and God sitting there in the dark, because I’ve written about it multiple times in the past. Here’s the part of that story that I’ve never before shared.

I had only a slight buzz that night. I’d recently had an extremely embarrassing incident that drew the attention of my parents. I don’t honestly recall which one it was. I have a tendency to compartmentalize my flaming alcoholic disasters. Let’s assume I got raging drunk, argued well into the middle of the night with my wife, and in a fit of desperation, she called my parents for support and help. That happened a couple…