It was mostly a blur – a cloudy half-memory of a sink being pulled off the wall, water spraying all over the place, and the sound of the jingle of the police officer’s keys as he unlocked the door to what was affectionately called the drunk tank. Twenty minutes later, still half drunk from the night before, I found myself in front of a Justice of the Peace signing myself out so I could go home to sleep it off.

It wasn’t the last time I ended up in a jail because of my drinking. Another time, I got to spend an entire weekend in the local detention centre simply because of a fine I neglected to pay for having an open case of beer in a public place. But even a visit to the detention centre was more of an encouragement than a deterrent to my drinking. Once I got inside the facility that weekend, I hooked up with the guys that had the booze hidden in the ceilings and such. So I spent the weekend incarcerated, yet still intoxicated. It really didn’t seem to matter where I went, alcohol always found me. And when alcohol found me, trouble wasn’t far behind.

By far, one of the worst situations I got into was a high-speed chase that started downtown and ended on a main street quite a few kilometers later.  In an alcoholic blackout, neither my friend, who was driving, nor I had any idea what was going on, even when we found ourselves surrounded by speeding police cars trying to run us off the road. Driving at speeds of up to 100kms an hour, we hit a roadblock at about 70kms an hour. We were both so drunk and dazed from the crash that we didn’t know what was happening. A dozen or more policemen pulled us from the van, handcuffed us, and beat us.

The next morning we both had to stand in front of a judge and show cause to be released. There had been no time to get cleaned up, or sobered up. I remember what I looked like, and what I felt like. It was an open court room, packed with people. I was brought out into the prisoner’s box in handcuffs, still reeking of alcohol. My clothes were torn. Every visible piece of skin on my body was covered with cuts and bruises from either the car crash or the beating.

It wasn’t my last drink, but it certainly got my attention, and I began to get the uneasy idea that just maybe I might have a problem.

A lot of 24 hours have passed since that day. In fact, it’s been over 15 years since my last drink. I’m grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful to be alive. And I’m grateful that God has seen fit to provide me with the opportunity to talk about my experiences in the volunteer work that I do. A few years back, someone asked me if I would take over the job of coordinating meetings for the local detention centre. I did what I always do… I said yes.

It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it; and there are rewards for me in the service I do when I go to my monthly commitment in the detention centre, and I share my experience, strength and hope with the inmates. While leaving the jail, as each steel door closes behind me, and I walk out of there a free man, I really feel what gratitude means to me, and I am humbled by this second chance at life.