My mom, my daughters, and I were taking a trip to see the sights. As we traveled along the highway toward Chicago, we couldn't see the tops of the skyscrapers through the fog. We cruised around for a while before stopping to look at Lake Michigan. The May Day sun was beginning to win the battle between moisture and blue sky as we parked the car. I remembered learning that thick fog often loses the battle to a beautiful day, but it always seems so hopeless in the beginning.

The temperature began to rise as we walked on a concrete dock along the shore. The building tops disrobed revealing their true height. The beach was almost empty, except for an occasional jogger and a few die-hard volleyball players. I kicked off my shoes and walked across the cool sand. The others followed. I knew the water would be cold, even though I had seen tulips beginning to bloom. Spring in Chicago was weeks behind our spring back home. Undaunted, I had to put my feet in the lake. It was as cold as a glacier!

Jagged knives dug into my skin and begged me to get out of the water. My ankles froze and my feet went numb, but I went in deeper. My knees were begging for mercy. Only when I moved did I feel anything, as if the moving itself caused the pain, so I remained still. My senses dulled to the threat around them—a wondrous coping mechanism, I thought.

For a moment I stood there contemplating my surroundings. Mom called to me, challenging me to come out of the cold blue lake. I surrendered. Each step out of the water and across the sand produced a new experience in pain—the air on my wet skin, coarse sand on my feet, blood fighting to raise my body temperature to 98.6. Such was life.

I thought about the Serenity Prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." Trying to change an alcoholic was like trying to warm Lake Michigan with my body heat!

In my case, going into the relationship with the alcoholic was appealing. It was a challenge for sure, but I chose it. As I went in deeper, I lost some of my senses. Still, I continued trying to affect change, but all I felt when I moved was pain, so I stood still, waiting for the lake to get warm. Maybe it would happen if I waited just a little longer.

It was only when someone encouraged me to save myself that I chose to do something different: "Courage to change the things I can." Change brought on more pain! Surrender my will to the will of a loving Higher Power? I chose this! Wasn't I supposed to see the relationship through to the end?

Leaving the water was only a response to a greater call, and it did not make me a failure. If the lake's temperature was going to rise, it needed a Power greater than mine. I don't need to have all the answers.

The Al-Anon program has given me tools to survive the pain: "And wisdom to know the difference." I won’t escape the pain, but I can survive it. The program calls me to take care of myself by giving my life to a Power greater than myself. Nothing is bigger than my God. He can burn away the fog and bring the infinite sky into full view.

By Suzanne M., Missouri
The Forum, May 2005

© Al-Anon Family Group Headquarters, Inc. 2005. All Rights Reserved.