NOTES I LIVE BY

After an anxious three months, I stood helpless in the courtroom awaiting my fate. The judge took in a deep breath: "Mr. Westbury, I am sentencing you to a 28-day drug treatment facility. There will be a bed available for you in three days, at which time you will report back to the courthouse. Your probation officer will be waiting to give you a ride. Reluctantly, I am allowing you to go home today. I wish you the best of luck." I called my oldest brother. He and his wife and son were living in the house we grew up in. He agreed to let me stay for the three days.

During my three-month stay in jail, I had been attending church and reading the Bible, seeking answers. I have known for some time that addiction is primarily a spiritual disease, so I sought help through the power that enabled my mom to overcome alcoholism. God gave her the strength to put down the bottle and the courage to face cancer. She died peacefully at home a few months before my incarceration. Something about reading the scripture moved me, touched me in a way that drugs could not. For the first time in my life, I felt hope.

At my brother's, the days seemed long and restless. My new freedom beckoned me. I was tempted to call old friends, visit familiar street corners and mourn my chemical companion with one last party. I was weak. I felt scared and alone. I had to find something to do, so I decided to pack. I made my way up into the attic to look for some old sweaters. I found myself lost in a world of cardboard boxes. I crawled through the shadows and opened the first box that caught my eye. Inside there were some old clothes of my mom's —mostly dresses and coats that Dad couldn't bring himself to throw away. But something seemed out of place.

There was an old red leather notebook with gold metal trim hiding in a corner. I sat down and began reading. It was filled with notes from a Bible Study class, most on the Sermon on the Mount, but in back was a section titled, "daily prayers."

I started reading my mother's deepest and most private thoughts, cries from her heart to God. As I turned through each page, I saw my name on every one. The pages were dated at a time in my life when I was at my lowest. In every single prayer, my name was lifted. I wept. At some point, a great peace came over me, and I felt the spirit of God enter into my heart. For the first time in my life, I had faith.

I'm not sure how long I stayed in the attic, but when I came downstairs, I knew two things: I never had to be alone again, and I never had to use again. God had sent an angel and her notes to live by.

— Adam Westbury (James River Correctional Institute, State Farm, VA)

Courtesy of The Church of the Good Shepherd United Methodist