WHITNEY HOUSTON: ANOTHER TRY AT REHAB
J. Grant Swank, Jr.
When driving through our Lakes Region, life can appear quite inviting — pleasant, serene. That’s why many of us enjoy thoroughly calling this "home." However, there are some friends in the area who are crippled with addictions. That then calls on all of us to share the faith if those friends seem at all willing to reach out.
This came to mind when reading recently about Whitney Houston’s addictions history that led her to check into still another rehab. Yet she’s shot off the charts as an entertainer — Grammy awards, star of successful films, but no shining star in day to day living, at least when it comes to "being clean."
What is her drug of choice? That is one of the most deceiving phrases I have ever come upon — "drug of choice." Everything is a choice these days for we have forced ourselves and the public to consider that each human makes his and her own final choices.
After all, no one, not even God, tells us what to do. We have the power. We have the ultimate. We craft the final. We are in charge. We we we. Choice choice choice, even when it comes to shooting up one’s veins. We have a "drug of choice." That evidently means that we have tried the other illicit drugs and come upon a final winner. It’s all so insane.
So it was when I went to work every day. I sat in a modernly equipped office not too far from where I now type this article. The environs were clean and bright with lights. I dressed in a suit, shirt and tie. I clocked in for a day’s work, then went home to my Christian family where there was a Bible on the end table and prayer before dinner.
Yet in front of me in the clinic were addicts. Some had Lakes Region addresses. They waited in the adjacent room until their appointments were called. Then they walked in, took a chair, and started to talk to me. I responded as a substance abuse counselor. Then I typed into the computer the gist of the session. I made a lot of friends that way — a lot of friends.
Most of these friends were heroin addicts, though they had surely had their share of cafeteria choices when it came to drug misuse. Their lives proved it, just as Whitney’s daily scope is proving hers to be in big time trouble. These friends of mine were referred to as "clients." They had numbers linked to their individual names. They paid for the services.
These friends were of all ages — from 18 up. Some families came into the clinic as families! There was mother. There was father. There were their adult offspring. Not what you’d usually think of as a family outing, but that’s the way it was every morning at about 6:00 on.
I could go to the clinic’s front window to see my friends gathered in the parking lot, standing outside their cars, chatting and smoking. Some of them had little children playing around their legs. Others were content with staying inside their vehicles; after all, there were some persons in the lot who were past illicit contacts. Some of those contacts had results in stealing and fighting and arguing. No use opening up old wounds.
Everything told me was to be kept confidential. If anything was spoken outside the counseling room, the client had to signature a form granting such. Otherwise, all that was said within four walls was just between me and the person seated on the chair to the right of my desk, except of course for the typed report that went into the computer and then off to the national headquarters offices.
But there was God listening in. I knew that. Some of the clients — friends, to me — knew that, too. There was one young woman who, when she found out that I believed in God, exclaimed, "Oh, I was praying that I would have a Christian counselor!" Yes, she was a heroine addict. She had nearly taken her life on several occasions.
She was skin and bones. She was also extremely intelligent and talented. Her mother, a Christian with whom she lived, prayed for her every day. Mother would read her the Bible. Mother would seek her out in an alley when she couldn’t make her way home. Mother was interceding on her behalf as she came to my office.
Another Christian had been hooked for years. Then he came to the clinic for help. But he had not envisioned coming to a believing counselor. So when we met we exchanged Scripture passages — hope, faith, love. We prayed together. We promised one another that we would continue to intercede for each other in between appointments. One policy at the clinic was that a counselor could use any means possible — even faith — to help a client. Thank God. For God was The Answer. I knew it. The client who believed knew it.
"I don’t steal any more. I have a few dollars in my pocket and keep a job. I can go home and be decent to my family. I sleep nights. I wake up in the morning ready to start another day. It’s not like in the old days when I was on drugs." How many times did I hear that joyous refrain from clients who were coming into the help, the hope, and the health? And when I had a day like that, I drove home soaring. There was such fulfillment in working with addict friends at the clinic!
So it is I read today about Whitney and thought to myself: "Whitney, we’ve got to find you this time. You’re out there somewhere — the little girl brought up on Jesus, Bible stories, church, hymn singing. Remember in "The Bodyguard" when you sang about Jesus?
You’re out there somewhere, Whitney. God knows it. I know it. And for that, we’ll just keep poking around the bushes with the prayer stick. One of these days, Whitney. . .one of these days. . ."
For more: http://conservativeposts.us/ <http://conservativeposts.us/>
When driving through our Lakes Region, life can appear quite inviting — pleasant, serene. That’s why many of us enjoy thoroughly calling this "home." However, there are some friends in the area who are crippled with addictions. That then calls on all of us to share the faith if those friends seem at all willing to reach out.
This came to mind when reading recently about Whitney Houston’s addictions history that led her to check into still another rehab. Yet she’s shot off the charts as an entertainer — Grammy awards, star of successful films, but no shining star in day to day living, at least when it comes to "being clean."
What is her drug of choice? That is one of the most deceiving phrases I have ever come upon — "drug of choice." Everything is a choice these days for we have forced ourselves and the public to consider that each human makes his and her own final choices.
After all, no one, not even God, tells us what to do. We have the power. We have the ultimate. We craft the final. We are in charge. We we we. Choice choice choice, even when it comes to shooting up one’s veins. We have a "drug of choice." That evidently means that we have tried the other illicit drugs and come upon a final winner. It’s all so insane.
So it was when I went to work every day. I sat in a modernly equipped office not too far from where I now type this article. The environs were clean and bright with lights. I dressed in a suit, shirt and tie. I clocked in for a day’s work, then went home to my Christian family where there was a Bible on the end table and prayer before dinner.
Yet in front of me in the clinic were addicts. Some had Lakes Region addresses. They waited in the adjacent room until their appointments were called. Then they walked in, took a chair, and started to talk to me. I responded as a substance abuse counselor. Then I typed into the computer the gist of the session. I made a lot of friends that way — a lot of friends.
Most of these friends were heroin addicts, though they had surely had their share of cafeteria choices when it came to drug misuse. Their lives proved it, just as Whitney’s daily scope is proving hers to be in big time trouble. These friends of mine were referred to as "clients." They had numbers linked to their individual names. They paid for the services.
These friends were of all ages — from 18 up. Some families came into the clinic as families! There was mother. There was father. There were their adult offspring. Not what you’d usually think of as a family outing, but that’s the way it was every morning at about 6:00 on.
I could go to the clinic’s front window to see my friends gathered in the parking lot, standing outside their cars, chatting and smoking. Some of them had little children playing around their legs. Others were content with staying inside their vehicles; after all, there were some persons in the lot who were past illicit contacts. Some of those contacts had results in stealing and fighting and arguing. No use opening up old wounds.
Everything told me was to be kept confidential. If anything was spoken outside the counseling room, the client had to signature a form granting such. Otherwise, all that was said within four walls was just between me and the person seated on the chair to the right of my desk, except of course for the typed report that went into the computer and then off to the national headquarters offices.
But there was God listening in. I knew that. Some of the clients — friends, to me — knew that, too. There was one young woman who, when she found out that I believed in God, exclaimed, "Oh, I was praying that I would have a Christian counselor!" Yes, she was a heroine addict. She had nearly taken her life on several occasions.
She was skin and bones. She was also extremely intelligent and talented. Her mother, a Christian with whom she lived, prayed for her every day. Mother would read her the Bible. Mother would seek her out in an alley when she couldn’t make her way home. Mother was interceding on her behalf as she came to my office.
Another Christian had been hooked for years. Then he came to the clinic for help. But he had not envisioned coming to a believing counselor. So when we met we exchanged Scripture passages — hope, faith, love. We prayed together. We promised one another that we would continue to intercede for each other in between appointments. One policy at the clinic was that a counselor could use any means possible — even faith — to help a client. Thank God. For God was The Answer. I knew it. The client who believed knew it.
"I don’t steal any more. I have a few dollars in my pocket and keep a job. I can go home and be decent to my family. I sleep nights. I wake up in the morning ready to start another day. It’s not like in the old days when I was on drugs." How many times did I hear that joyous refrain from clients who were coming into the help, the hope, and the health? And when I had a day like that, I drove home soaring. There was such fulfillment in working with addict friends at the clinic!
So it is I read today about Whitney and thought to myself: "Whitney, we’ve got to find you this time. You’re out there somewhere — the little girl brought up on Jesus, Bible stories, church, hymn singing. Remember in "The Bodyguard" when you sang about Jesus?
You’re out there somewhere, Whitney. God knows it. I know it. And for that, we’ll just keep poking around the bushes with the prayer stick. One of these days, Whitney. . .one of these days. . ."
For more: http://conservativeposts.us/ <http://conservativeposts.us/>
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