MJH

I've put some thought into this the past several weeks, and I think - no, I know - yesterday it finally clicked.

As probably all of you know, I have tattoos, all of which mean a great deal to me. For those of you who aren't familiar with the Olde English lettering (or, as my cousin Joanna - Code Name Razor Apple - call it, "mexican prison gang font") it's just three letters - MJH.

Or, for those of you who don't see it coming, the initials of my late aunt, Martha Jean Hand.

See, when I first started recovery, and for several months afterwards, I often wondered how on earth I could possibly make it through and beat the bondage of the addiction. To me, at least, it seemed impossible. It was one of those times that intellectually you think it might can be done, mostly because you just met a whole bunch of other people that say that they've done it, but you have no real experience with it yourself, and it seems impossible to do, even with God's help. And it's not that you doubt God, but.....well.....you do doubt God. After all, you've only had a few real run-ins with Him your whole life up to that point, so what do you have to go on, ya know?

So, there were countless times when I thought to myself "Yeah - these guys did it, but they're basically strangers to me. I wish I knew somebody real....."

Then, of course, I realized I did. In fact, I'd known this person my entire life.

For those of you who don't know, my Aunt Martha received a liver transplant decades ago, and fought nearly every day of her life. The fought to stay alive before the transplant, she fought after the surgery, and she continued to fight every day until she passed away last year. She was forced to battle against her own body, against the incessant attacks on her spirit, against attacks on her family, and against the everyday troubles that grind us all down. Even as her physical faculties were gradually taken from her, I don't think she ever gave up - until it was time for her to go. There's something to be said for leaving on your own terms, I think.

I can't tell you how many times I reminded myself that if that battered, frail, little old 98 pound lady from the poorest cotton fields of Mississippi could keep fighting, then so could I, and I drew strength and inspiration from her when I needed it the most. To this day, I don't know how that great spirit ever fit into that little old body of hers.

Of course, I did it quietly, as her inspiration to me was I think entirely unbeknownst to her. After several months of recovery, I did manage to tell her how she had impacted me without her ever saying a word; by simply living out her life one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time, sometimes one minute at a time. I told her one this night in front of my parent's house as she sat in her little electric scooter, and to this day I'm glad I told her what she meant to me, and what her impact had been on me without her knowing it. I guess you never know who's watching, huh?

Anyway, as I sat in church on Sunday, I looked down and remembered the words tattooed on my legs - "Forgiven" and "Beloved"; words that I've come to use to remind me of who I really am, and who God is, what He's done for me, and what He continues to do for me every day. It helps me to remember how far I've come, and all of the people who have helped me get to where I am today.

And I can't help but think that Martha Jean Hand deserves a little credit, and no letters have ever represented - and inspired - such a fighter as those.

Mom, Coral, Joanna, Uncle J (and anybody else) - if you guys want to come with me, I'd love to have you with me when I do it. No pressure - just something to think about. I think Martha would be cool with it.



Day 117.