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| [Image by TattoedJJ] |
As soon as he heard the bad news Dr. Bartholomew Cruz hit rock bottom. He fished for his car keys in his pocket, but they weren't there.
Think, Think, Think. Come on Bart, where are the darn keys?
He searched the length and width of the parlor but the keys were not in sight. Maybe they were on the dining room table. He looked and they weren't there. He rushed in and out of the bedroom, kitchen, laundry room, guest bedroom, basement, and veranda, not stopping to take in a single breath. It was as though the keys decided to disappear into the murky somber thin air.
Wherever he dropped them when he got back home at 4.00a.m eluded his memory. Frustration was pulling at his sleeves with rapid strokes. With all the strength he could garner he kicked the wall four times and cursed out loud.
"Then I will walk, damn it!" He muttered. "I will walk to Bar 67. If I can't find my keys I have my legs!"
He threw open the French doors in front of the house and stepped out into the moonlight. The force of the wind caused the doors to slam shut behind him and he started walking towards the east of Ferdinand street.
As he walked he thought about Lucy, the seven-year old girl who had leukemia. She was his patient. Last night he and the other pediatricians on call had transferred her to the PICU after a successful surgery turned sour. He had double-checked her IV, medication, and most recent medical records to make sure she was stabilized before he left the hospital at 3:30am. He drove back home to take a nap, knowing he would need to get some more energy for Lucy the next day. But immediately he stepped into the house he got the phone call that Lucy had passed away just a few minutes after he left.
The tears now flowed freely down his face, but he quickly brushed them off with the back of his left hand. He couldn't save everyone, could he? But more than that, he couldn't save himself. He was in front of Bar 67 now. He walked in and sat in his usual spot.
"A glass of Hangar One Fraser River please."
One glass became two glasses. Then three, four, and five. Slowly his spirit man became obscure and he faded into a world where his subconscious intermingled with high spirits. He ordered one more shot of Vodka, just one more. As he drank it, his head floated lower and lower, almost hitting the bar top. Eventually, he was asked to go back home but he didn't know whether to walk towards the east or west. He stumbled on in a stupor and couldn't retrace his steps. Finally he just sat there on Ferdinand street, too drunk to even move.
[This is a work of Fiction]
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To be drunk is to loose your spirit man. To be drunk is to loose your state of consciousness. It invokes a sudden loss of your humanity and purpose. To be drunk is to make a mockery of the person God created you to be, because in those moments of drunkenness you don't act like yourself.
- Rather than being drunk with wine, be drunk with the Holy Spirit. Oh, it might sound so cliché but I promise you that it isn't just another clichéd message. It is something that I've experienced.
- Rather than making you slip into a subconscious state, an experience with the Holy Spirit will make you more conscious of who you are.
- Rather than loosing your direction or momentum, a day with God will help you find your way again.
- Rather than the emotions evoked by sorrowful drunkenness, a moment with Jesus will give you indescribable joy.
There's no joy to be found in getting drunk with vodka or any alcoholic beverages because when morning comes the sorrows will only resurface. The only One who can truly comfort you is God. He's the one who hides you in a secret place and drowns you in His love.
Question for the Day: Have you ever tried to drown your sadness in something else other than God?
