superhuman levels. We knew we couldnât maintain that lifestyle, but we were crazy. We did it anyway, because . . . well, I donât fully know why we did it. I still donât. We shouldâve stopped. We shouldâve known it could only be the road to ruin. Maybe we were blinded by the pleasure of it all, in love with the dark magic of our existence. Maybe we were just young, high, and stupid.
I remember looking at myself in the long, cracked mirror that weâd propped against the wall of the basement of the dingy two-flat in South Shore where we were living . . . and it was like God touched me. Like, he physically touched me. He said, âIâm going to take these bad things from you and make it right. Itâs going to happen right now.â
I flushed my pills and cocaine down the toiletâtrying not to think about how much money they had costâand left my apartment. I started walking with no destination in mind. I walked down to the decrepit shopping strip on Jeffery Boulevard, not knowing what was happening or what to do next. I was just walking.
Then God tested me.
I suddenly started thinking about how I would never take another pill in my lifeânever feel that warm rush that made everything okay, that let you relax about things, that made sex feel like the greatest thing ever (even if it was with some hoochie you didnât really care for). I started thinking about how Iâd driven away my family and all my childhood friends. I had no real job or prospects. What would come next? What could?
A horrible panic seized me. My chest felt like it was going to explode. I had this strange tension running down of the backs of my legs, like a cramp that wouldnât go away. My heart was beating fast. (I had this new awareness of my heart, too. I was afraid it would wear out, and I had no idea how to make it slow down.)
Then I thought to myself: So . . . this is probably death. Iâve never died before, so I canât say for sure, but this feels about right.
I stopped right there on Jeffery Boulevard, clutching at my chest with everyone looking at me like I was crazy. I started looking around, turning in circles. I could have gone to a hospital. I could have called for a policeman or an ambulance. But thenâ looming above the other buildingsâI saw the steeple of The Church of Heavenâs God in Christ Lord Jesus.
Go there, my brain said to me.
So I stopped spinning, and I walked over to that church. It wasnât the biggest or best church in South Shore. It had a small congregation for its size. The pastor was nobody I had heard of, certainly nobody powerful in the community. The building was an old synagogue that had been converted to a Christian church in the 1940s when the last of the Jews in the neighborhood gave up and moved away. The addition of a cross and steeple left it looking not quite right, like a lizard that has scurried underneath a cast-off shell and insists itâs now a turtle.
These shortcomings didnât matter at that moment. To me, it looked absolutely perfect.
When I reached the church, I was too scared to go inside. I didnât know a soul there. Also, I thought that if I stopped movingâ like in a pew to prayâmy heart would explode and kill me. Instead of going in, I walked circles around that church, peering up at the dark lead glass windows and the steeple that didnât match the roof. After a few minutes, I began to feel calmer. I still felt like I might die, but I felt like if I died, that it would be all right. It was up to God now, and not up to me.
And you know what? God let me live.
After about half an hour or so, a man came out of the church (I later learned he was a deacon named Reynolds) and looked at me. I must have been quite a sightâtroublemaker in a thugâs coat with the rolling eyes of a maniac. He probably thought I was casing the joint to rob it. He didnât say anything. He didnât
I remember looking at myself in the long, cracked mirror that weâd propped against the wall of the basement of the dingy two-flat in South Shore where we were living . . . and it was like God touched me. Like, he physically touched me. He said, âIâm going to take these bad things from you and make it right. Itâs going to happen right now.â
I flushed my pills and cocaine down the toiletâtrying not to think about how much money they had costâand left my apartment. I started walking with no destination in mind. I walked down to the decrepit shopping strip on Jeffery Boulevard, not knowing what was happening or what to do next. I was just walking.
Then God tested me.
I suddenly started thinking about how I would never take another pill in my lifeânever feel that warm rush that made everything okay, that let you relax about things, that made sex feel like the greatest thing ever (even if it was with some hoochie you didnât really care for). I started thinking about how Iâd driven away my family and all my childhood friends. I had no real job or prospects. What would come next? What could?
A horrible panic seized me. My chest felt like it was going to explode. I had this strange tension running down of the backs of my legs, like a cramp that wouldnât go away. My heart was beating fast. (I had this new awareness of my heart, too. I was afraid it would wear out, and I had no idea how to make it slow down.)
Then I thought to myself: So . . . this is probably death. Iâve never died before, so I canât say for sure, but this feels about right.
I stopped right there on Jeffery Boulevard, clutching at my chest with everyone looking at me like I was crazy. I started looking around, turning in circles. I could have gone to a hospital. I could have called for a policeman or an ambulance. But thenâ looming above the other buildingsâI saw the steeple of The Church of Heavenâs God in Christ Lord Jesus.
Go there, my brain said to me.
So I stopped spinning, and I walked over to that church. It wasnât the biggest or best church in South Shore. It had a small congregation for its size. The pastor was nobody I had heard of, certainly nobody powerful in the community. The building was an old synagogue that had been converted to a Christian church in the 1940s when the last of the Jews in the neighborhood gave up and moved away. The addition of a cross and steeple left it looking not quite right, like a lizard that has scurried underneath a cast-off shell and insists itâs now a turtle.
These shortcomings didnât matter at that moment. To me, it looked absolutely perfect.
When I reached the church, I was too scared to go inside. I didnât know a soul there. Also, I thought that if I stopped movingâ like in a pew to prayâmy heart would explode and kill me. Instead of going in, I walked circles around that church, peering up at the dark lead glass windows and the steeple that didnât match the roof. After a few minutes, I began to feel calmer. I still felt like I might die, but I felt like if I died, that it would be all right. It was up to God now, and not up to me.
And you know what? God let me live.
After about half an hour or so, a man came out of the church (I later learned he was a deacon named Reynolds) and looked at me. I must have been quite a sightâtroublemaker in a thugâs coat with the rolling eyes of a maniac. He probably thought I was casing the joint to rob it. He didnât say anything. He didnât
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