Changing my thinking, behaving differently, or becoming an instrument of love and peace—none of that was on my radar when I stumbled through the doors of twelve-step recovery. I came to stop drinking and avoid more consequences. That’s it.
Miserable on the inside and desperate to stay sober, I became willing to take actions contrary to what I believed—including the direction to start praying.
Each morning, I’d shut my eyes and say, “God, please keep me sober today. Thy will, not mine, be done.” I didn’t mean the last part—not really—but I hoped that if I kept saying it, eventually I might feel it.
After a few weeks of this routine, it seemed like I should probably add something more. I’d heard about the St. Francis Prayer and decided to try it. Reading it for the first time, I was confused by its paradoxes: better to comfort than to be comforted, to understand than to be understood, to love than to be loved.
Was it better? I didn’t think so.
I wanted to be comforted. I wanted to be understood. I wanted to be loved.
Still, I kept reciting it. The words sounded a little ridiculous and weak—but they also sounded incredibly peaceful.
Driving to a meeting one afternoon, my phone rang. It was my divorce attorney—with infuriating news. I was seething by the time I reached the clubhouse. I sat down next to an older gentleman named Dave and unloaded everything.
“You should pray for him,” he said gently.
Had he heard what I said? I stared at him in disbelief.
“Pray for him? You’ve got a better shot of being hit by lightning.”
He didn’t flinch. He nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Well, then, do you think you could pray to some day have the willingness to be able to pray for him?”
It took me a minute to wrap my head around what he was asking.
“Probably not. Maybe. Maybe at some point I could pray for the willingness to pray for him. But not now.”
For the next few weeks, I didn’t give it much thought. But the seed had been planted. And one night, as I was saying my prayers, I could hear Dave’s voice. With a sigh and an eye roll, I muttered, “And may I someday have the willingness to pray for him.”
I was aghast. Did those words just come out of my mouth?
Nearly two years later, my phone rang again. This time, it was my son—calling in tears to tell me his father’s engagement had ended.
The next day, as I heard my ex-husband’s truck in the driveway, I felt a pull to go outside.
He looked terrible—His once confident posture was deflated, he was pale, gaunt, sickly—like the air had been taken from him. Though I had never seen him look this way, I recognized the pain. It was the same reflection I’d seen in my own mirror when he left me.
We had slowly moved past the bitterness, but standing there in that moment, it struck me how different things had become. We weren’t enemies anymore, just two people who had once loved each other and shared a life.
“How are you doing?” I asked softly.
“Not great,” he replied.
“I’m really sorry you’re going through this.
We stood there for a moment in silence before he lifted his head and said, “If I ever made you feel this way, I’m really sorry. Really.”
“You did,” I replied gently. “But I forgave you a while ago. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary—for both of us. When I found out what happened last night, I prayed for you. I prayed that you would find love and peace and happiness.”
His head had been hanging low. At my comment, he slowly lifted his gaze until our eyes met. In that moment, I saw disbelief married with a sense of peace. I could see the question he was asking himself in his eyes: How could this woman possibly be offering me such kindness?
“Thank you,” he murmured.
I knew what he didn’t. It wasn’t of me.
“And while we’re at it,” I added, “I’m sorry for the mistakes I made in our marriage. I know I wasn’t always the best wife.”
As if struck by lightning, I found myself doing the previously unimaginable. Reaching out, I hugged him.
“It’s gonna be alright,” I said. “I just can’t tell you when.”
Forgiveness had opened the door to the peace that comes from letting go.
Jaime Hrobar
