my first roadside sobriety test

8/6/2019 My First Roadside Sobriety Test

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My First Roadside Sobriety Test



Well, I suppose, going by the title, you might think this is a story aboutmy misspent youth. But, as it turns out, this all happened in 2011 whenI was, of course, well into middle age.

The reason I was driving back from a bar some 90 miles or so from my

home at 1:30 am on a beautiful Saturday night that Memorial Dayweekend had to do with my concern for my friends' marriage. Well, yousee, one of my very best friends has a husband who is in a band. And ithad seemed to me that he felt hurt that she didn't follow the band asfaithfully as the other band members' women did or even as faithfully asI did.

My friend had not been present for their gig that Friday night eventhough they had played right there in our own town. But she was willingto travel on Saturday if I would go too. The bar in that very small town

was paying for the band members and their women to stay in a motelthat Saturday night. And wow! What an excellent opportunity for aspecial time of marital closeness for them! And I really didn't minddriving back home alone. The night was so clear and beautiful.

I have so very, very much to tell you, but I have no idea what kind of order to put it all in. So I guess I will just try starting at the beginningand then aim for mostly chronological.

A few months before my Memorial Day weekend experience, I was bymyself praying for my very good friend and I said, “God, please get amessage to her somehow that she needs to BE there for her husband'sband performances.”

And God said, “YOU tell her.”

I said, “Me?” And then I said, “Well, of course, me. Yes, I will do it.”

For a week or so, I pondered how to approach my friend with thismessage from God. Then one evening the two of us were sitting on hercouch and her husband had brought us wine. And we drank two glasseseach while watching a documentary on biblical prophecy, which myfriend had said was so interesting and awesome that I had to give it myfull attention. No coloring!

Well, I think it was quite good, but, with the wine and all, I DID fall



asleep. And I woke up feeling relaxed and drifty. And I said, “Hey, I gotthis message from God for you . . .”

She was interested, so I said, “God said you should go to the band'sperformances. It is IMPORTANT to your husband.”

And she said, “I know, but I'm just sooo tired.”

“I know that,” I said, “but it's IMPORTANT.”

So she said she would really try to go more often. And she did, forawhile, but, by that Memorial Day weekend, she had started letting thetiredness keep her home again, most of the time.

Anyway, I was ALMOST tired enough to stay home myself at that point

since I had already been out dancing until after 1:00 am the nightbefore. But I had promised my friend's husband I would get her there.

The bar was small and crowded and the waitresses were very informaland everyone seemed to know each other. There were quite a few bigbiker dudes in leather and tattoos and the women wore jeans and t-shirts and no make-up or fancy hair styles.

My friend's husband made a couple of comments to us referencing their

small town hillbilly ways. Since we ourselves are such high class cityfolks and all. (Although, technically speaking, our town probably fallsshort of “medium-sized” status too.)

Later someone asked my friend and me if we were with the band and Igave my usual answer-- “I'm the designated dancer!”

I used to start out trying to be inconspicuous, dancing in a back corneror something. But now I pretty much just jump right in, right up front,starting with the very first song! The music just gets a hold of me and IHAVE to dance.

Often I spend part of the night as the ONLY dancer; and I don't mindthat. But I like it better when other people dance too. I don't mind itwhen all the other people dancing are in pairs. (Well, maybe I do feel atiny bit of sadness.) But if strangers want to dance WITH me, I preferthat they don't touch me, of course. I don't feel comfortable with men



who want to twirl me around because I'm not used to that kind of dancing and I feel awkward and figure I'm probably doing it wrong.

And I don't feel comfortable with the boys and the girls withquestionable motives who want to touch me. I try to keep my distance

from that sort of thing. I believe humans were designed for intenseintimacy and closeness. Sexual encounters with strangers are just sadand empty substitutes for what we REALLY need.

I sat with my friend off and on between my dancing episodes. And shetold me there was a drunk woman hitting on her and she found it quitedisturbing. I just laughed. “Well, they do that,” I explained, having had abit more recent bar experience than my friend.

Shortly after that conversation, another drunk woman approached me

and told me she was the aunt of a young man and she mentioned hisname as if I would, of course, know the situation. But I didn't, so shetold me he had just recently committed suicide and she was here fromout of town for the funeral. I told her I was very sorry and she walkedaway and didn't talk to me anymore after that.

And there was a funny little man who danced several dances with me. Ididn't find him attractive, but he didn't try to touch me and I feltcomfortable with him. He kept talking about how free he felt after just

getting a divorce.

“Do you know what it's like to finally be free after 32 years of a badmarriage?” he asked.

I laughed and said, “no, I don't. I only stayed in my bad marriage for 20years.”

I told my friend about him and she said it was sad that a marriage of 32years would end. But I thought it was sad that a person would staymarried for 32 years feeling like a trapped animal, wanting to escape sobad they were practically ready to chew their own arm off!

The funny little man seemed absolutely delighted with his freedom.

“I haven't drank in 32 years,” he said, “and I was going to have only oneand a half glasses of wine, but, what the hell, I told 'em to just go ahead



and fill the second glass to the top!”

I thought he was a good dancer and I told him so. He seemed to havequite a lot of energy, though he kept referring to himself as “old”. Iwondered how old he actually was.

“I can't believe I'm really here,” he said, “dancing with a young chick Idon't even know!”

And I wondered how old (young?) he thought I was. Eventually he put anumber to his oldness, which was something like 56. Silly little man, 56can't be old, because it is not many years past my age, which, if I wasgoing to put a number to it, would be 52.

Oldness is such a relative thing, really. I thought about a time when I

was talking with a group of women, the youngest being 50 and theoldest being a very active 72 year old who loves going out polka dancingwith her friends.

I was saying something about the adjustments we have to face as weage. Then the 72 year old began to speak and I was assuming shethought of herself as someone who was dealing with the adjustments of aging so I assumed she was going to say something about herself. But,instead, she began talking about her 94 year old friend.

“She talks too much and she's kind of annoying,” the woman said,“seems like she should find friends her own age.”

I laughed and said, “well, I suppose that might be difficult.”

“Yes, I know,” the woman agreed, “so we really don't mind includingher.”

Well, who knows? I thought. Maybe a lively 94 year old could find a peergroup on the Internet. You can picture it, right? Polka loving 90-somethings in your area are looking for YOU!

Ok, so now she has to find people her age who are not only stillbreathing AND still dancing, but can also use the Internet! (Oops, sorry.I have drifted into ageist stereotyping.)



I don't actually know what polka dancing is. I'm assuming it is not asstrenuous as dancing to “classic rock” like we “young chicks” like to do.But, who knows?

And if I ever get to meet that 94 year old lady, I will say, “You go, girl.

Keep on dancing! And never let any 72 year old young whippersnapperscramp your style!!”

Anyway, getting back to the funny little man at the bar. He asked mewhere I lived and I gave him the name of my town. He said that was along ways away and if I was too tired to drive that far, maybe I could justspend the night at his place.

“And that's as close as you're gonna get to a proposition from me,” headded.

Funny little man, I thought, so full of life and delight, don't squanderyour freedom. Don't make the bar scene your lifestyle. It isn't a place of happiness. Not really. It just looks that way from a distance.

But when you get right up close, you see so many people who are sovery, very sad. So sad that, when you hear about a suicide, you don'twonder why; you wonder – why not? You wonder why more desperatelyunhappy people don't just get it over with instead of killing themselves

slowly and painfully with their addictions and lonely, empty lifestyles.

But then again, even though life is so desperately unhappy for everyoneat times, when you look at the big picture, it's like a patchwork quilt,with the happy patches mixed in with the sad patches. And overall, thewhole thing is just so darn beautiful!

You can see it so clearly in those power point videos that people puttogether these days from old family pictures and then set them to music.Even if I don't know the family, it is so beautiful that it makes me cry.

On Father's Day, I watched one that my aunt had made. There werepictures with Christmas trees and beautiful beaches and mountainscenes and babies with their proud grandparents, and childhoodpictures of my sisters and me and my cousins, including the one whowas a victim of suicide many years ago when he was in his 20's.



In the pictures, he looks just like all the other smiling children who gotto grow up and visit more wonderful places and sit beside moreChristmas trees and take pictures with their own grandbabies and watchmore years pass through the sad and happy patches of life . . .

There is so much incredible beauty in that patchwork quilt of life. Butwhen tragedies and painful losses happen, it's like a huge hole getsripped in your quilt. And you are just so angry, knowing it will never bethe same.

And people keep handing you a needle and thread, and you toss it aside,wondering why they keep doing that when you don't even know how tosew and would just make things worse if you tried.

But years pass and eventually you find yourself sitting there working on

the quilt in a big old fashioned sewing circle. God is there and all thepeople who love you are there, sewing along with you because, of course, it is their quilt too, even though you had forgotten that, whenyou felt so completely alone.

The new sadness patch begins to take shape. And you can see you wereright – the quilt is not going to look the same. And yet, somehow, it isstill a thing of great beauty!

I stayed a little longer at the bar in the tiny town far from my home andthe drunk woman who had been disturbing my friend got even morerowdy and tripped over a guitar case and hung all over everyone andpunched one of the big biker dudes a couple of times.

I had planned to leave earlier, but the next thing I knew, it was nearlyone o'clock, time for the band to be done playing. So I started my carand headed for home. I turned on the radio to some gospel music and Ifelt really happy.

So many thoughts were spinning through my head. I thought abouthow, besides the bars, another major hang-out for desperately unhappypeople is our churches. And actually, when you look closely, the reasonis the same. People are trying to live their lives trapped in cages, someof their own making and others imposed on them.

The cages, the traps, are about being out of harmony with our own



unique design. God designed us to live in freedom!

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do notlet yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. Galatians 5:1

But we make cages out of rules and judgmentalism and addictions andabusing rather than valuing each other and participating in emptyunsatisfying sexual behavior and so many, many other cage makingmaterials.

God made us competent to make good choices for ourselves, like one of my favorite Bible passages tells us:

Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves,but our competence comes from God. He has made us competent as

ministers of a new covenant – not of the letter but of the Spirit; for theletter kills, but the Spirit gives life. 2Corinthians 3:5-6

So, if we CAN make good choices, why don't we do it? Why don't peopleknow things like – if we really want to get ourselves feeling good,exercise is so very much better than alcohol and other harmful things.

And why don't we know how very, very joyful it can be to spend time inconversation with God ? A REAL conversation, I mean, where we listen to

Him instead of just telling Him what to do. If we have conversations withGod, He will tell us about life and how to make the most of it. Andmaybe once in awhile He will even give us a message for someone else.Maybe there are messages in this story. Maybe you will find one that isespecially for you. Or maybe, the message will find you. Sometimelater. When you are ready . . .

I know there are plenty of good people who don't think God approves of dancing in bars or drinking even a very small amount of alcohol. But Ithink we are capable of being honest with ourselves about whether wecan handle the moderation thing or whether we are someone who needsto stay a bit further from temptation in order to protect ourselves fromfalling into big trouble and major despair.

God treats us like responsible adults. And, even if we aren't, well wehave to make our own choices anyway because God isn't going to do itfor us. And all those people who think they could do a much better job



of running our lives than we are doing, well they can't make our choicesfor us either, much as they would like to.

Still, if we do mess it all up, God is there for us, waiting to help us pickup the pieces (or that needle and thread) and start again. All we have to

do is ask.

I believe God expects us to treat our fellow humans the same way, not judging or condemning, not building cages, not neglecting or belittling,not jealously trying to control someone and keep them trapped.

If we love someone, why would we want to make them feel like a cagedanimal when we could choose instead to encourage them to soar like abird far above the clouds, living in freedom above the foolishness anddespair.

We can encourage our loved ones by showing them how much they arevalued. And whatever passion our loved one has, whatever God-giventalent or interest brings the sparkle to their eye, don't quench that Spirit!Nurture it, fan that spark into a mighty flame! That's how to keep love inyour life, not by trying to trap it! Because, even if that trapped personwe “love” stays with us for 32 years or “till death do us part”, that is notsuccess and it is NOT love.

Those were the kinds of thoughts I was pondering as I traveled on downthe highway, feeling good, listening to gospel music, driving the speedlimit.

I was maybe 20 miles past the town where I had been dancing when Isaw a police car behind me with lights flashing! I pulled over and thevery nice, courteous young officer asked if I knew I had a headlight out.I told him I didn't, but that I had noticed the lights seemed a bit moredim than they should be. He went to his car and did the stuff they doand came back with a warning ticket and told me to get it fixed as soonas I could.

I was on my way again and managed to get to within five miles or so of my home town when I saw another set of flashing police lights. So Ipulled over again and met another very courteous young officer. He toldme about the headlight too and I explained that I had already beenstopped for that and I would get it fixed as quickly as I could.



“Aww, no,” I answered, “He was just a kid.”

“Well, then, maybe he needed the experience,” she suggested.

“Maybe so,” I said. Which was fine with me really. It was kind of fun andI was in no hurry.

And anyway, I swear this is true – I actually got stopped a THIRD timebefore I managed to get all the way home. This time it was a femaleofficer and she was already laughing herself and she asked, “is this thesecond time you've been stopped for that headlight?”

“No, the third,” I answered, “and I am actually only two blocks away frommy house now . . .”

So she laughed again and explained that she was hearing something onthe scanner about a car like mine; that was why she figured I had alreadybeen stopped. She said I should go on home and get the headlight fixedASAP.

And I just have one more thing to say and that is this: If you ever findyourself traveling the prairies of the great Midwest, you can rest assuredour highways are well protected from young chicks or old biddies

driving, sober or otherwise, with one burned out headlight!

RoseDQ July 2011

my first roadside sobriety test

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