I thought I was being a good parent.
When I was little, my mom spread out a map and threw a dart at it. Buffalo, Missouri. She packed up my brother, my sister, my grandma, and me. That’s how I ended up starting kindergarten in Missouri.
We were always moving. Chasing family, chasing whatever came next. When she married my stepdad, we followed him and the Air Force to New Mexico. That’s where I really grew up.
I’m the youngest of five. I wanted to do all of it. So in high school I stacked college classes on top of a full course load, plus a job. There was never enough time.
A friend’s brother knew a guy with cocaine. He gave me some one night. Suddenly there was enough time.
I could stay up. I could hang out with my friends. I could get my work done. I graduated with honors. A 4.0. One test away from an associate’s degree. And a cocaine habit nobody saw.
After graduation, I didn’t just stick to cocaine anymore. I started college, moved into the dorms, and found out I was pregnant. I stopped everything.
A college dorm is no place for a baby, so I moved out. I had a miscarriage the next day. After that, I quit going to classes altogether.
I got back together with the man who had first introduced me to cocaine. I got pregnant again, and this time I didn’t stop using. Six months pregnant, I got pulled over on a suspended license. My mom sent me to live with my dad for a while. That’s where my son was born.
We moved back to New Mexico a few months later. That’s where I found my son’s father using meth. I didn’t leave. I started using it too.
Around then, my son’s grandmother started talking to me about God. She was so calm and peaceful that I wanted to understand how. She told me once I was saved, things would make more sense.
That made me mad. I told her, “I do know.”
I didn’t know.
She shared God with me, and I accepted Christ. But I was still an addict. I went to church sometimes. Sometimes I was sober. Sometimes I wasn’t. I tried reading the Bible, but it felt like I needed to already be perfect. I wasn’t. I couldn’t understand it, so I stopped trying.
I had rules. I wouldn’t use if I had my son in my custody. I wouldn’t take him into trap houses. I would find somewhere safe for him to go, and then I’d go do those things. I thought I was being a good parent.
One day I called my mom and asked her to come get him. She came without a car seat. She didn’t want the diaper bag. She didn’t argue with me. She just took him.
I never asked for him back.
For about four months, my mom kept my son. Sometimes I went over there. Sometimes I didn’t.
Around the same time, I started stealing from her. I got one of her checkbooks and figured out how to use her checks to buy things I could return for cash. I stole from stores too. The money went to drugs. Eventually I was charged with 48 felony counts.
My mom asked me if I would go to rehab.
I told her I needed to.
Then I told her I didn’t.
A few days later, they came for me. I ran out the back of the house and up the road. They caught me with no shoes on.
I went to jail high on a Friday. By Monday, I had come down and was already trying to figure out what I needed to say to get out. I had a black eye from taking a foul ball while playing softball, so I told the judge I was being beaten up.
My mom told him I was faking it.
Then she went to the jail and found out what I was allowed to have. She put money on my books. She made sure I had a public defender. She made sure my son was safe.
And she scheduled a visit.
There was glass between us. No touching. My son tried to break the window. He tried to get under it, over it, around it. He just wanted to get to me.
When my mom first took him, I had felt the Lord telling me, I’ve given you a gift. What are you doing?
I ignored it.
On the other side of that glass, I heard it again.
For a long time, I said I bargained with God. Let me out, and I would face whatever consequences came as long as I didn’t have to go to prison and I could raise my son.
It was the start of a surrender.
I got out about a month later. I went back to church with my son’s grandmother and got baptized. I’d made a promise to God. Now I had to do my part.
My clean date is April 26, 2013. I haven’t used since.
I went through treatment court. People say you have to want to stop, and that’s true. But sometimes you’re not in a mental state to make that decision. I wasn’t.
For a long time, I was sober, but I wasn’t in recovery. I thought recovery meant not using drugs. It took me a while to understand that recovery is a mindset and a lifestyle change. Even now, God will bring something to my attention and I’ll realize that’s not a thought I want to pursue.
About a year after my arrest, my mom moved to Lebanon. I came to visit and loved it. I loved Missouri. I loved the green. I loved the freedom I felt here.
I was still on probation, and my mom was the victim in my case, so I couldn’t just follow her. It took three tries to get my probation transferred to Missouri. By the time it finally went through, I’d been clean for more than a year.
In New Mexico, treatment court had required me to go to Celebrate Recovery. I went because I needed a paper signed every week.
When my mom moved to Lebanon, she found the Celebrate Recovery program at LifePoint Church.
I moved here on a Saturday. Church on Sunday. Celebrate Recovery on Wednesday.
I kept going.
Eventually I went through a step study. I became a leader. I led a chemical dependency small group for years. Later, I apprenticed under the leaders who were preparing to step away.
Now I help lead Celebrate Recovery at LifePoint. It takes a whole team. Some Wednesday nights, there are 90 to 120 adults there, plus kids.
Some people walk in because they’re ready. Some walk in because somebody told them they have to.
I know what that looks like.
I used to sit in those chairs because I needed somebody to sign my paper. I’m sure people were saying the same kinds of things to me that I say now. I wasn’t listening.
There’s a woman who brought her children to church for years without ever coming inside herself. She would drop them off and come back later to pick them up.
Eventually, she walked in too.
Last week, a young woman came to Celebrate Recovery. Someone shared his testimony. There was an altar call.
She got saved.
People may not always be hearing me. But they’re seeing me. They’re seeing the stability. They’re seeing us show up week after week for them. They’re seeing the love.
When they’re ready, here we are.
Sarah George
Celebrate Recovery leader at LifePoint Lebanon
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