Dear Happy Asses,
I was recently afforded the opportunity to meet, via Google Meet, a precious soul. I won’t use his name just yet, as I haven’t asked permission, but I will share what rose in my heart during our conversation.
First of all, and probably most important, this kind human has been given the gift of sobriety. And even more than that — above all things worthy, holy, and good — he is sharing that gift with others.
During our wholehearted conversation, he said something that stopped me in my tracks. I had to write it down immediately:
“Why would we keep hope a secret?”
In the AA steps, there is the concept of anonymity, and I understand it. I respect the intention behind it. You don’t want people attaching their faith to a person, because people are human, and when they stumble, others might think, “See, it doesn’t work.” There is also the need for safety — for people to walk into a room, be honest, and know their story will be protected. That mattered deeply, especially in earlier years when people feared losing jobs, relationships, or reputation.
My husband never cared much for his own anonymity, but he was always deeply respectful of others’. He was a gentle and quiet man, but incredibly impactful. He simply wanted to make sure that hope was shared with as many people as possible. He believed that his sobriety and his spiritual condition were directly tied to giving away what had been so freely given to him. It became the essence of his life. Once he found it, he wanted to pass it on.
We shared the belief that the only way to keep what is most precious is to give it away.
The truth is, the very places where we once felt shame often become the places where we can be of the most service. We help others not from perfection, but from the places where we have struggled, fallen, and found our way back. Sometimes the point of our greatest pain becomes the very avenue for healing — not only for ourselves, but for others walking a similar road.
So I ask myself again…Why would I keep hope a secret?
As a child of an alcoholic, and part of a long lineage of alcoholism and addiction, I have developed ways of living. Some have served my growth. Others have been restrictive, even crippling at times. And I am learning — slowly and imperfectly — to let go of what no longer serves me, and to hold on to what brings life.
If there is anything I know for sure, it is this:
I don’t want to keep Hope a Secret!!!
Abundantly and hopefully grateful,
Karen Key Smith
