Books

I have included a sample chapter from the following books—each written by Jack Watts:

• Hi, My Name Is Jack
• 91 Days to Recovery from Religious Abuse
• In Its Season
• Pushing Jesus.

Hi, My Name Is Jack
This book, which is authentic in every detail, is not for the faint-hearted, but it may be one of the best books you ever read. You don’t take my word for it; Judge for yourself.

CHAPTER 1: I’ve Only Had Three

“Jack, I don’t know how to say this gently; so here goes. If you want us to continue dating, you have to go to AA and stop drinking.”

This ultimatum was delivered to me in the late spring of 1994 at a quaint, little Italian restaurant on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta, right above Underground Atlanta, by my long-standing girlfriend, Eleanor Babcock. I remember we had been talking about Bill Clinton who had just taken office a little over a year before.

There had been no segue. She just blurted it out. When she did, I wasn’t offended; I was surprised—really surprised. I wasn’t an alcoholic! “I’ve only had three beers,” I said much too quickly and way too defensively.

“Tonight you’ve only had three beers, but your drinking has gotten out of hand. I can’t go on like this. It has to stop, or we have to stop. The choice is yours. I’m serious about this,” and I could tell that she was.

Now she had my attention. For me, three beers was nothing. I used to think of three beers as priming the pump before I started on Jack Daniels. I would have anywhere from eight to ten of these and wind up the evening with one or two Grand Marnier. That was a normal evening routine for me when we went to some of the nicest restaurants in Atlanta and all over America.

We had been dating for three years—going on four, and Eleanor had been pressing me hard to marry her. Having been married twice, I was reluctant.

She was a medical doctor, finishing her residency at Emory and about to make substantial money as an emergency room physician. Eleanor was in her early thirties, blond, and had brown, captivating eyes that were warm, alluring, and troubled. She was 5’ 3” and always seemed to wear too much makeup. She wasn’t beautiful—not in the traditional sense; but she was quite striking. She was also very exciting. There was never a dull moment with Eleanor.

At the time, I was doing quite well financially. The prospect of a jet-setting, affluent life with a cute, young doctor was very attractive; but our relationship had its share of problems—and then some. One time, I was taking one of my daughters, Jordan, to the movies; and Eleanor came along to shop while we did. She and Jordan were fooling around in the car, and Eleanor bit Jordan. That’s right. The doctor bit my daughter who was only eight years old at the time. Jordan screamed because it was a hard bite, which both startled and hurt her. It was all I could do to keep the car on the road as Jordan reached over to cling to her daddy. Eleanor apologized, but this was so bizarre that I was forced to re-think the possibility of a lifelong relationship with her.

This aberrant behavior was not an isolated incident. Another time, Eleanor and I planned to go to a bed and breakfast inn for a long weekend in Savannah. One of my older daughters, Brenn, who was twenty-two at the time, asked me if we could drive her there and back. Brenn planned to stay with a girlfriend of hers who just happened to be the hostess at the same B&B where Eleanor and I were registered. Naturally, I said yes. Frankly, I thought nothing of it and looked forward to the long drive down and back with Brenn along for the ride. She was a lot of fun. For this trip, we drove in Eleanor’s car instead of mine which was in the shop.

Although Eleanor readily agreed that it would be wonderful having Brenn, inwardly, she was seething. When we arrived at the B&B, Brenn’s friend, Francis, who was a very attractive young lady, gave me a hug, which was a little too close and a little too long for Eleanor’s comfort. Having known Francis since she was fourteen, I didn’t think a thing about it—nor would anybody else in their right mind. Yet Eleanor, who frequently acted as if she had a borderline personality disorder or worse, was not behaving like she was in her right mind—especially when her insecure, jealous nature was threatened. Although she didn’t say anything then and there, her discomfort and anger quickly turned to rage. When Brenn left to spend the weekend with Francis, Eleanor unleashed a tirade of obscenities that would have made a sailor blush. I was stunned and defended the innocence of “the hug” the best way I could, but there was no appeasing the doctor.

I retreated to the bathroom to take a shower and to avoid further battle. My greatest fear was that every other guest would overhear her shouting, making it impossible to look others in the face at breakfast the next morning. While I was in the shower, Eleanor hurriedly gathered her things, threw them in her car, and left.

I will never forget how I felt when I realized what had happened—like an absolute fool. There I was, a 49-year-old man with his 22-year-old daughter, stranded in Savannah—250 miles away from home. I not only felt like a fool; I looked like one for being in a significant relationship with someone who was that volatile and jealous—a fact that everybody I knew pointed out to me routinely from then on.

Within an hour, I rented a car for Brenn and me to drive back to Atlanta, cutting the trip short by two days. While on the road, I left a message for Eleanor, telling her it was over and I never wanted to see her again. That was the normal, healthy, appropriate thing to do.

But I wasn’t normal. Although I had not come to realize it at the time, I was an alcoholic. Therefore, I reconciled with her two weeks later when she came to see me—remorseful and in tears. That is what alcoholics do; it’s who we are. Even when there is no alcohol in our system, we still think like alcoholics, and it costs us. I was a rescuer, and my alcoholism clouded my judgment regularly and repeatedly.

It’s funny because Eleanor thought all of our “issues” were based upon my drinking and not hers, but that wasn’t true. You see, she had problems with alcohol too; and like nearly every problem drinker, she was in complete denial of it. During our last Thanksgiving together, my entire family came to eat at my house in Buckhead. Being the host for all four of my daughters and their families, I didn’t have anything to drink. I was much too busy. By the way, this is also one reason I denied having a drinking problem for so long. I didn’t have to drink on every social occasion. There were many times when I never touched it; but in truth, these times of abstinence were becoming less frequent.

Before the meal, everyone was talking and mixing very well when Eleanor, who was feeling no pain, spilled her red wine on my beautiful, new white Burberry rug in front of everybody. I said, “Eleanor, get a sponge and clean that up right away; or the stain will never come out.”

“Let the maid do it when she comes next week,” she said with a dismissive, haughty laugh.

Immediately, I got a sponge and started cleaning it myself. Victoria, my second daughter, who was twenty-four, marched up and said, “Dad, why are you cleaning that and not her!”

Eleanor heard this, and the battle was on. They went into another room and let it rip. It was awful, and it seemed like it went on for hours. Every once in a while, Eleanor would come out and refill her glass to keep her throat moist for the next round. By the time the doctor left to go on duty at the emergency room, there was nothing left to be thankful for. The holiday was ruined.

She called from the hospital in the early evening after everyone had left and said, “It wasn’t that bad.” She added, “The first two cases I saw today were Thanksgiving gunshot wounds.”

“So I should be grateful that we didn’t have gun play?” I said, still infuriated that the holiday had been destroyed.

There were dozens of other examples I could describe, but anybody can see this relationship was unhealthy—that is, anybody but me. I met Eleanor at a Bible study, and we were attracted to each other at first sight. She was a petite beauty and obviously quite intelligent. She hid her dysfunction masterfully, and I was deep into the relationship before any inappropriate behavior began. Inwardly, I kept hoping things would turn around. Since she had a way of blaming me for everything, I thought most of it was my fault anyway.

So, when she gave me the ultimatum to go to AA, I went. I found a noon meeting at the Triangle Club which was right behind a huge liquor store that I frequented often. When I went there for the first time, I was surprised to see so many sharp people and virtually no street people. At the end of the meeting, I went forward and picked up a white chip which signaled my acknowledgment of being an alcoholic and my willingness to surrender my problem with alcohol to God.

My relief was instantaneous. I felt a burden come off my back, and I was certain I was in the right place. By the time I was in high school, when I first started drinking excessively, I knew I was different. I didn’t fit in—not really. At AA, I was finally with people who were like me—people who thought like me. It’s definitely where I belonged.

On the outside—the side I allowed people to see—I looked fine. In fact, I looked better than fine. I looked good. On the inside, however, I was a mess, and I knew it. In the second step of AA’s 12-Step program, it says that God can restore an alcoholic to sanity. At first, this seemed a little extreme, but I soon came to realize how crazy I really was. Take my anger, for example. I would sit in a meeting and, if a guy looked at me in a way I didn’t like, I would say to myself, I can take him. If he even looks at me again, I’ll beat the shit out of him.

I always thought like this and was surprised to find that most people don’t. Even people who have a problem with anger aren’t that angry. My anger seemed normal to me, which is a pretty good definition of insanity. By the way, if a girl looked at me, I thought, She wants me. Sadly, I still think that way, which is pretty typical for a guy—even an older one.

In those first few months, AA was my life. People seemed genuine and more willing to be transparent than I had ever seen before. At Triangle, there was a guy who led quite a few meetings. He was kind, accepting, insightful, and had an obvious desire to help others. He was humble—genuinely humble which came from deep within him. He was also gay and had AIDS. Despite this, it was clear to me that he had a better relationship with God than I had. Before I went to AA, I thought AIDS was God’s punishment for being a fag, but not after I saw God’s love come from this man—unconditional love. He spent his final days on earth in service to others—constantly giving and never bemoaning his fate.

He died soon thereafter. I can’t even remember his name, but I’ll never forget the character qualities he possessed—qualities I coveted. As a result of being in meetings he led, I started to realize God’s love was greater than the box to which I had tried to confine Him. I knew I didn’t love people the way the gay guy did—not even close. I needed help with more than my drinking. I needed my character transformed as well. I wanted this kind of love to come from me—not the anger.

I also started to realize just how destructive my life with Eleanor had become. When I became deeply involved with AA, Eleanor’s behavior became worse—much worse; but I also began to see I wasn’t responsible for fixing her. I had enough problems of my own. One evening, six weeks into the program—after an evening where she was particularly petulant and peevish, I had had enough. I broke up with her and never looked back. I was free and loved it. I had only been sober for a short time; but I knew I didn’t need to spend the rest of my life battling her vitriolic, jealous rages.

As part of my AA program, I began to take a complete—painstakingly honest—inventory of my life. In so doing, I asked myself exactly when I became an alcoholic. Surprisingly, I believe it was in 1933—eleven years before I was born.

Who Will Benefit from 91 Days to Recovery from Religious Abuse?

If you’re looking at 91 Days to Recovery from Religious Abuse for the first time, you may wonder whether this book is something worthwhile or not—something that could benefit you. Obviously, that’s a good question.

Your score on the self-assessment questionnaire will help you determine how much abuse you’ve suffered but, in your heart, you probably already know how deep the pain is. You can feel it. If your life has changed from what it once was, as a result of a negative religious experience—from what you thought it would be, 91 Days may be able to help you. If this negative experience has filled you with self-pity, if you experience little fulfillment, if you are grinding out your days in mediocrity—with little love, meaning, or joy, 91 Days can help you regain what you’ve lost. If you know deep inside you’re not living the quality of life you’re meant to live, 91 Days is definitely for you.

This devotional, which focuses on recovery, has been created for people like you—for people who once had a meaningful belief in God but have allowed it to slip. Perhaps you have tried to push God out of your consciousness completely. You may have drifted so far you even question whether or not He exists. More likely, God has simply ceased to be a meaningful part of your life like He once was. If you scored in triple digits the answers to the questionnaire, 91 Days can help you—perhaps significantly.

As you look at the material, you may wonder why 91 days were chosen? It’s exactly one quarter of a year—one season. If it were 30 days, it wouldn’t be enough time to do the work necessary, and one year would be too much—too self-focused. By making it one season, you can spend one week on each of the 11 STEPS with a beginning and concluding week. That’s thirteen weeks, seven days a week. If you spend at least ten-to-twenty minutes a day, which is a small investment for a significant reward, your life should transform. You may choose to do two or three devotions a week, which would extend the time required to finish, but that’s OK. It’s the end result that’s important—your complete recovery. When you finish, you may experience more peace and purpose than ever before.

91 Days has been created for disenfranchised Christians, lapsed Catholics, and those in recovery groups like Alcoholics Anonymous, ALANON, Overeaters Anonymous, and Sex & Love Addiction—those who long for a deeper walk with God than the pantheistic “Higher Power,” which is universally promoted at meetings. 91 Days is for wounded, hurting people who want more from life; it’s for those who want fulfillment.

Based on “11 STEPS to Recovery from Religious Abuse,” this simple program can help a person recover from any type of abuse, including spousal abuse; but it’s specifically targeted for those who have experienced religious abuse. Believe it or not, millions have been abused spiritually. It’s a massive problem, which religious leaders have historically refused to acknowledge—let alone address. It’s rare for church leaders to give more than lip service to religious abuse. Most routinely dismiss it as a minor issue.

They’re mistaken. It’s a substantial problem, adversely affecting multiplied millions. If you’re one of the walking wounded, you’ve felt the pain, experienced the shame, and tasted the betrayal. You understand the significance of the problem. Once you have, you never forget it. The pain eventually diminishes; but the scars never completely heal, leaving you unable to interact spontaneously as you once did. Your sense of wholeness—of spiritual wellness—has deserted you, and you’ve probably come to believe it will never return.

If so, there’s hope for you; you can experience a quality of life you thought was gone forever. Take some time each day for three months—just 91 days. Reconnect with God in a rich, healing way—a way that will restore purpose and meaning to your life. You will smile at the future once again, knowing God will lead you each step of the way.

This program isn’t pie-in-the-sky dreaming nor is there a financial reward at the end of it. It’s not easy. It’s work—hard work, requiring soul-searching honesty. If you’re diligent, however, you’ll regain your vision and purpose. Although abusiveness may have robbed you of your joy, God wants to restore all that has been lost, enriching your life in the process. Remember, it isn’t God who abused you. The abuse came from misguided people who used God’s Name in vain.

Jesus was abused by religious leaders—badly abused. He knows how you feel. He knows how to care for you, and He has the power to restore you to wholeness.

Are you ready for a change? Are you tired of living in fear—apprehensive of the future? Are you weary of spinning your wheels—alienated from God, discouraged, and devoid of vision? Do you want the richness you once possessed reinstated to you? Would you like your self-worth and your self-confidence restored as well?

If the answer to these questions is yes, isn’t it time to come home—time to rekindle the relationship you’ve put on the back burner for so long? If your heart yearns to be everything God ever intended you to be, then 91 Days is definitely for you.

What you regain will make the time you invest well worth the effort. You know you believe in God; but if you’re completely honest, you’ll admit you no longer have the same sense of purpose you once treasured.

Every once in a while, something may happen, which stirs the old embers, and you nostalgically remember when life was filled with hope—filled with promise. Yet those thoughts quickly fade into obscurity amid the daily hassle of life in America.

Something happened in your past—maybe long ago—that shouldn’t have. Your hope and your joy were dashed by someone you trusted—someone who should have been trustworthy but wasn’t. Your soul was violated; perhaps your body was violated as well. Whatever it was, you were wronged.

Perhaps you were hurt by more than one person. It may have been by a church or a religious organization. You may have been abused, and then discarded—as if your life had no value. All that was important was the organization; and when you got in the way, you were cast aside and treated contemptuously. Because you were totally committed to the cause, you believed the leaders were equally committed to you. From their perspective, you were wrong; they weren’t.

Maybe you were abused financially or your character was attacked by a vicious, backbiting gossip. Whatever the incident may have been, the conflict was a stinging slap in the face, an affront that caused you to turn your back on Christian people and on your faith in God as well. You were so offended you’ve never experienced the same level of commitment. Your ability to trust has been shattered, and you doubt you will ever trust again.

Perhaps you stayed in your church despite everything but without the same enthusiasm. You just go through the motions, putting on a happy face and a disingenuous smile. Underneath this pretentious veneer, no one knows how hurt and wounded you really are—you won’t allow it. You won’t permit anyone to get that close—you can’t. It’s too risky, and nobody would understand—not really. You experience pain and a deep sense of loss—or worse than that, you may not feel anything at all.

Does this sound familiar? Does this describe you or someone you know? Millions feel like this.

If you take a minute to think about how many people you know who have had such a negative religious experience, how large would that number be? Do you know ten, twenty, or even 100 people? If so, then 91 Days to Recovery from Religious Abuse can help each of them—no question about it. It was created for them.

IN ITS SEASON

CHAPTER 43: A Lifestyle of Intense Drama

The year following Marilyn’s divorce was difficult by any standard. It is for everybody. Even a bad marriage is hard to leave. For those going through it, there is such a sense of finality—such a sense of failure and defeat. In some ways, it seems surreal, especially for women like Marilyn—for those who have been married just once and for a substantial period. As the divorce process invariably takes its emotional toll upon everybody involved, husbands and wives are constantly busy, bickering back and forth about everything under the sun, regardless of whether it’s significance or not. It produces a lifestyle of intense drama. The process is destructive for everyone other than the lawyers. They seem to thrive on the bloodletting, as they leech their clients into poverty, smiling throughout the process, charging exorbitant tolls as the gatekeepers, guiding their clients to freedom.

When the divorce decree is signed and the process is finalized, however, it’s a different story. As the frenzied state of activity comes to a screeching halt, the estranged combatants begin to feel a keen sense of loss. No longer man and wife, with nothing left to resolve, each party is left to nurse their heartache alone. For some, the solitude is maddening. The future looks scary, as each stares into the abyss of the future, experiencing a keen sense of isolation and abandonment. It’s no wonder so many make such poor choices to fill the void, as they add an additional layer of destruction to their once stable lives.

This is what divorce is like that for everybody, especially at the beginning. Along with the decree, which terminates the union, comes a sense of shame, emptiness, and worthlessness. It’s inevitable. No measure of denial, heartfelt prayer, or quality of positive thinking can make life feel better—not for a long time, anyway.

It’s like a death, only worse because death is a natural part of marriage. Death is always sad, but it’s the normal end of a commitment, which has been fulfilled. With death, the person you loved has departed, but their love for you still remains. It’s not like that after a divorce. The love is gone, replaced by feelings of low self-esteem from having failed, which are as inevitable as the lawyer’s bill. These feelings come from a sense of having botched the most important relationship in life. It’s always part of the equation, and it certainly was part of Doug’s experience—Marilyn’s, too.

Without Marilyn hovering over him, constantly trying to monitor his philandering and consumption of alcohol, Doug was free to drink and carouse as much as he pleased, whenever he pleased. Using alcohol to numb his pain, Doug drank more than ever, suffering the consequences which alcoholism inevitably produces. Several years after the divorce became final—after his tryst with the Muslim woman, Doug was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, cutting his years in half and making those that remained a nightmare of pain and diminished physical capacity. Always tall, strong, and handsome, Doug had become a shadow of his former self, as he paid the full price for the penalty of his years of error.

The pain of the divorce affected Marilyn as much as it did Doug, but she chose a different path—one, which led to emotional health, fruitfulness, and fulfillment. Although her life had a hefty dose of post-marital dysfunction, she chose to face her problems rather than medicate her acute pain.

Because alcoholism is a family disease, which affects everybody—young and old, Marilyn and her children were all required to pay a heavy price. Like Murphy’s Law, there was no way to avoid it. As tough as the divorce was, it was just one of several difficult situations. Each had negative repercussions, which seem to follow divorce as surely as night follows day.

Having been an active member of her church for nearly forty years, Marilyn was always comforted by knowing she could count on the unwavering support of her church. Throughout her adult life, they always had her back. As soon as she became “one of them,” however, a divorcee, her church cast her aside as if she was a leper, choosing instead to support her abusive, alcoholic ex-husband. This rejection, which she never thought would happen, came as a surprise and caused her to feel a deep sense of betrayal. In some ways, it was harder to accept than the divorce itself. She felt used, abused, maligned, mistreated, and discarded.

During this same period, Marilyn’s mother Lucille died, which was another crushing blow, adding to her sense of loneliness. Having lived on the same farm—but in different houses—for so long, Marilyn had come to depend on her mother for many things over the years, including emotional support and friendship. She had become Marilyn’s best friend—a friend she needed badly, especially during this dark period. But now, that had also been taken away from her as well. Marilyn felt the loss acutely. Due to the Alzheimers Disease, Marilyn knew Lucille’s time was short but, when she was gone, a part of Marilyn seemed to die as well.

Additionally, Bobby was back at it, wreaking havoc with Marilyn’s life routinely. He never quit. Determined to gain control of the family fortune by hook or by crook, Bobby’s harassment was constant—a relentless evil, which was not only infuriating but exasperating, too. Marilyn stopped replacing the floodlights around her home because Bobby routinely used them for target practice, and Marilyn was afraid that a ricocheted bullet might strike one of her children.

Bobby never let up—never. No matter what the situation was, he allowed Marilyn no peace. Harassing her provided him with enjoyment. It was entertainment he came to relish—excitement that provided twisted delight to his devious existence. If he had been as committed to work as he was to obtaining his family fortune fraudulently, Bobby probably would have been a successful businessman, but that wasn’t his way. Conning people and being a bully was much more his style, and he was good at it. For Marilyn, it was another issue, which she had to deal with constantly and repeatedly.

Her children also started giving her trouble. Throughout their adolescence, Marilyn’s kids had always been exemplary, excelling socially, academically, and athletically. They were great kids and had never given either of their parents any trouble. Predictably, that also changed after the divorce. Each, in his or her own way, began acting out as a result of the pain and confusion they were experiencing from the divorce. They were angry with both of their parents, but they expressed their anger toward their mother much more than toward their dad. For whatever reason, kids always seem to blame the stronger adult, while extending mercy and compassion to the weaker one. This was definitely the case with Marilyn’s daughter and son. Because she was the sober one, they held her accountable for everything, while routinely giving Doug a pass—even for his alcoholism.

Although Annalisa routinely said she was glad for the divorce and thrilled to be free from all of the familial strife, there was a part of her that was crushed her family had been torn apart. Cute, witty, and vivacious, Annalisa was President of her class in school and definitely accepted the Christian values of her parents. After the divorce, however, that all changed. In her anger and resentment, she became very rebellious, acting out in defiance of everything she once believed.

She was intimate with a young man and became pregnant. Like so many decisions in life, her choice—made in a moment of passion—had lifetime consequences. When she began to suspect that she was pregnant, Annalisa’s world came crashing down upon her, and each day was filled with pathos and drama, adding to the distress within the family. To her credit, once she pulled it all together, she accepted the responsibility of motherhood, had her child out of wedlock, and became a wonderful mother to a beautiful, healthy little girl. As was to be expected, however, this episode, when added to everything else, complicated life and enervated the healing process for everybody.

Like his sister, Robbie also got into trouble for the first time. An excellent student, he had been involved in the student leadership at his church and his school for years, never giving anybody a moment of trouble. He was smart, personable, articulate, and friendly to everyone. Once again, that all changed shortly after the divorce.

One weekend, he and two of his friends found a way to buy some beer. Not having any experience with alcohol, they drank far too much, significantly impairing their judgment. Inebriated and frisky, they decided to go down to their school, which was part of a large church complex, and have a little fun. At the time, it seemed to them like a good idea to paint something on the tall church steeple, which was adjacent to the school. Although the alcohol affected their thinking, it didn’t affect their ability to climb a ladder and paint a giant penis on the steeple of the church. One of the kids had some artistic talent, so there could be no mistake about what greeted the Sunday morning worshipers the following morning. The congregants were aghast and furious, but the pastor’s bitter reaction superceded even the most sanctimonious parishioner. He felt nothing but hatred in his heart for the scoundrels who defaced his beautiful church.

When Robbie sobered up the following day, he was mortified by what he had done. Genuinely remorseful, his conscience gave him no rest. Accepting the responsibility for his actions like a man, he went to the police station, confessed his involvement, refusing to defend his actions in any way. How could he? There was no defense.

The police took his statement and then arrested him. His mug shot was taken, and he was fingerprinted. After that, they put him behind bars—just like any other criminal, adding to his sense of humiliation and despair. The entire experience was mortifying, but he didn’t name his two friends as accomplices. He took the brunt of the punishment on himself. The other two kids laid low and never came forward, as they should have.

A few days later, still feeling remorseful about what he had done, Robbie wrote a humble, contrite letter of apology to the church, addressing it to the pastor. When he was finished, Marilyn hand-carried the letter to the church and personally gave it to the pastor for her son, apologizing for his actions as she handed the man Robbie’s letter, which contained an offer to paint the steeple as an act of amends.

The pastor took the letter from Marilyn, turned, and walked off without responding in any way. It was an excellent opportunity for him and the rest of the church to reach out to a penitent young man, but that’s not what happened. The pastor dismissed the apology—never even acknowledging that it was given. Embracing sanctimony over reconciliation, he self-righteously looked down his nose at Robbie from then on, never forgiving him—never freeing him from the contemptuous disdain of his pastor. Crushed, just like his sister, Robbie retreated from Christianity and has had trouble connecting ever since. Sadly, throughout the entire incident, the pastor acted precisely like the image the boys painted on the steeple. The only difference was that the boys painted a smile on the penis, which had no likeness to the pastor’s sour countenance.

∑ ∑ ∑

Drama, drama, and more drama—this is what Marilyn’s life was like during the year after her divorce. Whatever could go wrong went wrong, one thing after the other—an avalanche of problems. In addition to the difficult situations, she experienced debilitating emotional pain after the divorce, which was coupled with a sense of relief that it was finally over. Sadly, however, she even felt guilty for feeling relieved. Everything seemed to keep her down. In her pain and despair, she cried out to God—just like she always did. Beseeching Him, she said, “Remember me, Lord, forgive me for all of my waywardness, and show me your tender mercies. Please show me what to do. Show me what You want from me, and give me the power to carry out Your will.”

It was at this point that Marilyn began her long journey back to wholeness—back to the person she had been created to be. Marilyn, now unwelcome at the church she had been a member of for nearly four decades, decided to go to a small church in Nashville. She needed a safe place to heal—a place where she could be herself. The church she chose was filled with warm, loving people—people who were neither judgmental nor condemning. There was more freedom at this small church than at any place she had ever attended, which was precisely what she wanted and needed to heal. As the music soothed her soul, she was free to mend the emotional damage that had plagued her since childhood.

Having spent years in ALANON, Marilyn knew that her recovery from being married to an alcoholic would be an arduous process, but she was determined to be everything God ever intended for her to be. She knew it would be difficult to regain her footing, but by being painstaking about the process, it would be possible. She went to a conference where she learned to write about her situation every day. This was important but daily journaling was just the first part of the process. When she finished her daily narrative, she wrote about how she felt about each event—what was bothering her about it. Then, she wrote about what she was feeling. From each feeling, she tried to determine what was the stronghold that was holding her back. What was keeping her trapped in a life of emotional bondage? Her goal was to determine what was keeping her from becoming what God intended her to be.

At first, it was a very painful process, but she stuck to it, knowing that perseverance was necessary for fulfillment to be achieved. Some people couldn’t do it, but Marilyn, whose tenacity had always been one of her strengths, embraced it as a way of life—doggedly doing the work one day at a time. Over time, it helped her achieve the wholeness she desired. The entire process required a year of soul-searching that brought her all the way back to her childhood hurts. As each stronghold became clear, she would ask God to forgive her for harboring resentment. Forgiving all who had wounded her, she asked God to clean her heart and provide her with a renewed mind. It was a prayer God answered.

She went through this process nearly every day for a year, healing each day as she did. At the end of the year, she was ready for a new beginning—for a new adventure. She wasn’t sure where it would lead, but she knew she was ready. The church was so satisfied by her progress and by her missionary experience that they commissioned her to lobby for all the missionary needs of the Kurds in Nashville.

Thrilled by her new ministry, Marilyn met with Congressmen and business leaders and proved to be a worthy voice for the disposed Kurds. Traveling to the nation’s capitol routinely, Marilyn felt a sense of purpose that she had not experienced in years. Now substantially healed, she thought she had found her life’s work and forgot about the idea of ever marrying again. At last, she was happy and felt a sense of fulfillment daily.

∑ ∑ ∑

One weekend, at the end of her yearlong recovery process, she went to the wedding of one of her close friends. It was a small, intimate affair, with just a few people in attendance, including ten-to-twelve single people. At the dinner following the ceremony, the groom stood and said, “I’m sure what I’m about to say is true.”

As soon as he said this, everyone became instantly silent.

Continuing, he added, “In the next year, several of you are going to get married. It’s going to happen. I know it.”

When he said this, Marilyn wasn’t thrilled at the prospect; she was furious. After spending so much time recovering from her divorce, the last thing she wanted was another husband. As she drove home, his words kept ringing in her ears, and each time, she became more furious about it.

PUSHING JESUS

CHAPTER 1: Our Only Outlet

It was a magnificent, warm evening in New York City as I left the Hilton on the Avenues of the Americas in late June 1993—the kind pictured on brochures to show the city’s charm. Although nearly midnight, the streets were bustling with thousands who came and went amid a cacophony of laughter, shouts, engines, and distant sirens.

My name is Jack Reagan; and I was reared in Waltham, Massachusetts. As my name would suggest, I’m Irish and proud of it. I’m the middle boy with one sister and the only one who moved away from the Boston area. Although I left nearly five decades ago, I still root for the Red Sox, Celtics, and Patriots—in that order. I’ve given up on the Bruins. If you’re from New England, you understand. If not—well, that’s another story.

For the most part, I’ve lost my accent—except for when I’m driving. If someone cuts me off, I tell them what I think of them in my native tongue—Bostonian—and let them know they’re number one with the middle finger. Some things never change. My mom, who we called Murph, taught me well. She was a master at telling people they were number one.

When I went to New York back in ’93, I was with my best friend Pete Poncetrain, a Cajun from the Bayou Bijoux in the Mississippi Delta—not far from Napoleonville, Louisiana. His parish was mostly swamp, and the folks there liked to joke that the population of gators and snakes exceeded that of humans. The high school football team was nicknamed the Moccasins, but they were more commonly referred to as the Mosquitoes because of their swarming defense. The first time Pete mentioned the Mosquitoes, I thought the nickname was humorously appropriate—a fitting tribute to what life must be like on the Bayou.

Like many from “The Swamp,” Pete could spin a mesmerizing tale. I loved to listen to him, never tiring of the way he talked—mostly English garnished with a little Cajun, which some just called pigeon-French. He always cussed in Cajun—much to my delight. Pete was a short, dark-complexioned man who could talk about football for hours, especially his alma mater, LSU—“Geaux Tigers!”

Having become a born-again Christian less than ten years earlier, Pete was serious about his Christianity, making a determined effort to practice what he preached. Earlier in life, he had been a hard-drinking young man—a guy you never wanted to cross after he had more than three. As a college student, he sold drugs to pay for his schooling—with little care about the devastating impact his product had upon the recipients. That all changed the day he invited Christ to come into his life. His transformation was dramatic and lasting—much to the relief of his mother and girlfriend, who worried about him constantly.

By the time Pete and I met, he was a first-rate human being, bearing little resemblance to who he had been a decade earlier. He worked on one bad habit after the other in his endless quest to improve his character. He was successful in most areas, but one made virtually no progress at all—his cussing. He tried valiantly to curtail his profanity but with virtually no success. One reason was largely responsible for Pete’s vice: his boss, Alvin Dettler Prince.

Prince was the Senior Vice President for Ministry Services at Loring Randolph Publishers in Atlanta, one of the largest producers of Christian books and Bibles in America. Dett, which is pronounced like being in debt, was what everybody called him; and he loved it, thinking it provided him a negotiating advantage. He hated his first name, Alvin, which was what Pete and I called him—especially when he wasn’t around.

Dett was the same age as Pete and ten years my junior. Although Dett had no formal education beyond his high school diploma, it wasn’t his lack of schooling that made him so difficult to tolerate. It was his character—or should I say, lack of character. Although charming and engaging on the outside, Dett was not as he appeared. His seeming warmth and compassion were nothing but a facade to mask his true purpose: using his clients and subordinates to further his personal and business ambitions.

Dett was handsome and charming—the kind of guy you loved to trust. A little over six feet, he was trim and well groomed with bright, dark eyes that could penetrate your soul effortlessly. His cheeks were a little pudgy, and when he had food in his mouth, he had a slight resemblance to a chipmunk. He possessed a winning smile and had superior listening skills. Unlike Pete and me, Dett was never profane—not even close. Instead, he loved to pray with everyone who came into his office.

His entire demeanor encouraged you to pour out your heart to him, making you eager to reveal your deepest secrets. When you did, you felt relieved—as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from your shoulders. When people left their seemingly sacred meeting with Dett, they felt better about themselves and about what had been troubling them. As they would drive away from their meeting, however, they were blissfully unaware that they had just taken a huge bite from a forbidden fruit—a delicacy that would, in time, be destructive. They would come to regret their candor—big time.

For many, life can be stressful and difficult, grinding people down and robbing them of all their joy, leaving them drained and defeated—with a feeling of overwhelming despair. When this happens, even the strongest, most confident person may become tentative and fearful, exposing insecurities in subtle or not-so-subtle ways. Dett’s special gift was discerning insecurities and weaknesses in others, and no camouflage or defense was effective when Dett was on his game.

Once he discovered a flaw or a secret, Dett would encourage the person to disclose everything troubling him or her. When the person exposed his soul, he was confident it was to a trustworthy, compassionate man. Dett would say he had been through something similar—regardless of what it was. You just knew he understood. While he promised confidentiality with his lips, in his cunning heart, he was already planning how to make use of what he had learned to further his goals—at the expense of the unsuspecting confidant.

For Dett, penetrating the weakened boundaries of a person’s soul was recreational sport—like jogging. And like most joggers, he did it as often as he could, destroying many in the process. Outwardly, his supportiveness was so complete that it bordered on being obsequious. Inwardly, he was a coiled serpent, planning to strike a vulnerable spot.

For those of us who were around Dett routinely, who witnessed his emotional rape of others but who were powerless to prevent it, we chose profanity as our way to vent our indignation. It was a childish act of defiance; but it was also a cathartic release, which made it deeply satisfying. When we saw people leave Dett’s office, we could always tell when he had hit his mark. His smile was different—a little too syrupy, with a hint of condescension.

As we watched, either Pete or I would say, “Dett has that ‘F.F. look’ about him, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, he sure does,” the other would answer. With that, we would both laugh disdainfully. By the way, an “F.F. look” is a “Freshly Fucked look”; and when Dett had it, he was never the person on the bottom—the fuckee.

Coming Soon
- 91 Days to Recovery from Religious Abuse

Keeping It In Your Sneaker
- Pushing Jesus
- See You Next Tuesday
- The I.V. Dogs