This is about visiting a church on New Year’s Eve.

Except it’s really about why visiting this church turned out to be a good idea.

That was an eventful year. Our warm harmonious group house broke up, with roommates going separate ways. A good job was ending. My first new boyfriend in many years broke off with me right away because his nerves were bothered by my everyday habits. (The last straw was my embarrassing him on a public sidewalk by singing and dancing my rendition of “Pure” by the Lightning Seeds.)

Losing all that at once left me downcast for days. Then, I went out looking for my very first own apartment. Competition for studio rooms was fierce. I rented a studio sight unseen, because the management company was loth to show me a unit so trashed out by the former tenants, whose absconding had been discovered only an hour before. Securing the unit was a great stroke of fortune. While faxes poured in with inquiries and the phone rang off the hook for that very unit, I secured it by complimenting the realtor on his surname, handed down by Byzantine royalty. (He knew his royal lineage already, but had waited a lifetime for someone else to recognize it too.) The realtor showed me a map model of the unit, and promised to have it whistle-clean by the move-in date. I signed the lease, wrote checks for first and last and security deposit, and immediately went to the furnace area to track down Frank the Building Engineer. I introduced myself, thanked him for his hard work maintaining the premises, and pledged to be as little trouble to him as possible.

My friend Bill drove over a carload of my pots and pans and keepsakes. These included a pair of icon copies of Jesus and Mary; Mr. Snakey, a large remarkably lifelike inflatable boa constrictor from the science museum; and a wool fleece skin hand-tanned by friends from Australia from their pet sheep George. As Bill and I arrived, the wind rose in sudden premature twilight, bearing ominous particles of sleet. Bill rushed my boxes in to the building lobby, and then headed home through the storm. He planned to return soon to take me shopping for all of the comforts of home. 

I moved all the boxes to the unit, and unlocked the door. At first breath it was clear that my new friend Frank had outdone himself to surprise me with a freshly-prepped unit. Frank cleaned the place from top to bottom. Then to fend off the bitter cold and wind, and to keep the pipes from freezing and bursting, he cranked up the oil radiators to a constant blast of steam. He spray-bombed to fumigate the cockroaches out of the woodwork. He varnished the wood floors with layers of polyurethane. He scraped old paint off the walls, leaving a layer of crunchy paint chips underfoot. He painted the whole interior, sealing the windows shut and sealing the radiator valves on at full blast. He left a friendly note that he would come back in a day or so to adjust the radiator valves and to crack the windows open again.

Rent included oil heat and gas for cooking, but there was no electricity or telephone yet; I’d have to arrange new accounts with the utility companies. In the dark I plugged in my silent landline phone. I groped to the kitchenette and turned on the tap for a drink, but the water tasted like melted mothballs. Instead I unearthed a grapefruit from my boxes and ate that. Then I suited up and struggled through a whiteout snowstorm to the 7-11 store around the corner. The coolers and shelves were empty. There was a long queue of men who had braved the storm to snap up sports drinks, ice cream, chewing tobacco, beef jerky, and magazines kept under the counter in plain brown wrappers. I was very lucky to find one tub of chive hummus left, with some rice cakes, a bag of oranges, a jumbo bag of green split peas, and two gallons of distilled water.

Fighting my way back in the snow, I hung my clothes over the scalding radiators. Groping to the kitchenette in the dark I turned on the gas stove long enough to boil water with grapefruit and orange rinds to moisturize the air and distract my senses from the pesticides and polyurethane. Then I turned off the gas and set a cookie tray on the stove top in hopes of containing the fumes from the pilot light. I bathed in the tub, and put my instant-dry clothes back on. My bare feet were uncomfortable walking on the layer of old paint chips from when Frank scraped the walls. So I tore off a box lid, and used it to sweep the floor clean a few inches at a time. I tipped a handful of paint chips into a garbage bag, and by the yellow stalag-style floodlight in the courtyard discovered that they were not chips at all but a carpet of cockroaches, upended with tiny legs folded in defeat. I swept out the whole unit in stages, sealed up the garbage bags, and washed up. For cool fresh air and light I opened the door to the hall, and sat on the hallway floor reading my Bible until it got too cold. Then I locked up for the night, opened and flattened some boxes to sleep on, spread out Mr. Snakey and George for company, set up my icons, said a rosary, and fell asleep.

That blizzard, the first of three blizzards that week, shut down the entire city. For days there were no buses or trains or cars running, no grocery stores, no electrical power for many neighborhoods. A few enterprising souls tried shoveling out from under. That created a labyrinth of snow tunnel walls higher than my head snaking through the streets for rare unhappy pedestrians and their unhappier dogs. 

Before moving I’d mailed a deposit check to the telephone company, and after a few days the landline phone surprised me with a cheery cricket-chirp ringing. I called the electric company. But a stern representative by the name of Mrs. Washington informed me that I’d already scammed their company thousands of dollars of free power, by cleverly using false identities at several addresses. While I explained that this was my first electric account ever, she hung up. During my second phone call, stern Mrs. Madison told me I would need to show up at their offices with a copy of my lease and my driver’s license as proof of identity; then she hung up. On the next call, stern Mrs. Lincoln wanted me to fax and mail my deposit check, with a notarized note from my bank, before making an appointment at their office. When I explained that I had no way to get to a fax machine or their office, she hung up. Over the next few days, stern Mrs. Johnson, stern Mrs. Jefferson, and stern Mrs. Cleveland insisted that only an electric company supervisor could approve my account. But all supervisors were busy, and I would just have to call back. Finally overtly angry Mrs. Nixon chewed me out for tying up their phone line and wasting their time. “Do you understand, Miss, that there is a snow emergency? There are people in this city who do not have any power!” Then she hung up. Then no one at the electric company answered the phone for days. Instead, a recording announced that my call was important, and played elegant classical Muzak before disconnecting the call.

After a few days I got sick, coughing and sneezing with a fever. Day and night in half-hour cycles I lay on flattened boxes with the hallway door open, then locked the door and took off my clothes, with dips in a bathtub of water and fitful naps until the heat woke me up again.   

As an attitude uplift I named my dark room The Beje (B + J, short for the Dutch street name  Barteljoristraat), the family home described by Corrie ten Boom in her book The Hiding Place.  Beje USA became my personal retreat devoted to prayer and meditation.

In time, the new phone began to ring as friends returned my messages. We caught up with good long talks. Several said “Talking to you is so refreshing. What makes you such a great listener?” I said “You have all my attention. You have reached a sick person living in darkness, wearing a towel loincloth, living on split peas and sleeping on a sheepskin with an inflatable boa constrictor for company.”

Between cold baths and naps in the hallway and inhaling orange-peel steam for my cough, I kept calling in hopes of reaching Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. McKinley, Mrs. Adams, and their supervisors. Late at night, the electric company Muzak became a soothing link to the world. I dialed the recording again and again, singing along with the uplifting melody. 

The flu cleared up. Frank, working round the clock to fix burst pipes and shovel snow off the roof, found time to stop by and jimmy open one window for air. In my boxes I found some seasoned salt at the bottom of an empty taco chip bag; that really livened up the daily supper of split peas. I made it out to 7-11 to buy bananas and raisins and a box of oatmeal. On New Year’s Eve at dusk it was a thrill to feel the clean air, to sit wrapped in a towel looking outside at all the windows in the courtyard, enjoying taco-flavored pea soup and raisin oats.

The meal and fresh air raised my spirits so much that I called Mrs. Roosevelt and said “Hi! I don’t have electricity at the moment because the supervisors are out on emergency service and can’t be reached to turn on my account, so I want to wish them a safe night and to thank you for answering the phone for your customers. Happy New Year!!” Mrs. Roosevelt stammered “Hold the line. Putting you through to Mrs. Kennedy.” I held the line, hummed through the uplifting melody, and heard a voice say “Mrs. Kennedy here. Address?” I gave her the address, and said “Mrs. Kennedy, God bless you and all of your team for your fine work. And by the way, I just love your Muzak. What’s the tune?” There was a short silence. “I have no idea what song you’re talking about. And… thanks. What unit number?” I gave it to her. The call disconnected. 

Finishing my oats, I began to dream of attending a church, anybody’s church anywhere, that might have some nice holiday event. Right up the street there was a large, historically important Episcopal church. One time they’d hosted a large event for Overeaters Anonymous (I get to say that; this blog is anonymous too). Maybe some of them were meeting there this very night? In eager hope I set out, scrambling over snowdrifts, full of eagerness. And there to my delight, outside the church there was a discreet business card tacked to a tree, saying “Share-a-thon.” Yesss!

Inside there was the wonderful fragrance of Christmas greens and spiced cider, the colorful lights (hey! electricity!), and smiling faces. I stepped into an upstairs church hall. Immediately several people greeted me. “Thank goodness! Are you our speaker? Can you lead the meeting?” Sure! I’d led many of these meetings, and was happy to feel included.

I took the binder. The large crowd, well over 100 people, fell silent. I glanced up at them with a welcoming smile. It should have dawned on me that OA is populated almost always by women, while in this group almost every member was a man. But in that moment of focus on the task at hand I only invited everyone to join for a moment of silence followed by the Serenity Prayer. Then I opened the binder and read out the opening words “We welcome you to this meeting of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous…”

Uh.

I looked up at the crowd. On the holiday these people came through cold and snow to hear my experience, strength and hope in overcoming my sex addiction.

This felt like one of those dreams where we show up for a dissertation defense wearing lederhosen and flippers. With no other recourse, I tried honesty. “Hello, it’s a great honor to be here. My name is Mary –” (‘Hullo Mary!’ they all shouted out at once) “and I’ve never actually had sex, but –“

The men laughed. They kept laughing. Hollers of laughter poured through the room. Men were wiping tears away and flinging their hands skyward in surrender, which in fact is a pretty good stance for someone in recovery.

Fortunately, with the help of our Higher Power, an idea came along on what to say.  “We may come to these rooms by very different paths, but weren’t we all seeking the same thing? Don’t we all want to feel safe and comfortable, and still be close to someone else? Well, our programs can help us to work that out with each other by working around whatever addiction is getting in our way.”

At the end everyone gave me a roaring round of applause. Then the sharing marathon began. It was just wonderful, to come in out of the cold to the wisdom in that room. For most of that night, people told their stories of humbling revelations, and their rigorous programs of honesty and boundaries and service to others. Their insights and Program talk gave me a fresh positive perspective to take home with my cup of spiced cider and popcorn ball through a fresh fall of snow.

Back at Little Beje I threw open the window, changed into my towel loincloth, and danced around the room. Right at the stroke of midnight, the lights came on. All the lights, in front of the whole bank of windows, visible to tenants on six floors right across our little courtyard. Wait, where were the off switches for the lights? I’d never used them before! Aaaaaaah! I hit the floor flat to crawl into the bathroom for my clothes.

Well, this called for a celebration. How about a song in honor of Mrs. Kennedy and all the presidents’ wives? I picked up the phone, dialed my favorite Muzak, and… say! I hung up, took out a music tape and my cassette recorder, plugged it in to the outlet, pressed Play, and sang along with “Pure” by the Lightning Seeds, for a better new year.

“But what about the Muzak?” everyone will wonder. For years, when meeting people who knew classical music, I would hum the melody and ask them what it was. Some knew, but couldn’t place the name. Finally I asked Dave, my friend who plays jazz piano. “‘Intermezzo,'” he said. “Cavelleria Rusticana.” The Prague City Symphony City Orchestra has a nice version. I’m listening to it right now in honor of Mrs. Kennedy, and all the presidents’ wives, and to Byzantine realtor royalty, and to Bill who moved me to the new apartment, and to Frank who made it livable, and to the wise old-timers at SLAA, who were so hospitable to a lost stranger and found some humor in it all.