On my third try—after a long lay-off—I got marriage right. Charlie and I have been together for fifteen years, and I don’t hesitate to say we are happy.

The two of us own land in the middle of a logging forest in Amherst County, and this year our tax assessment jumped an alarming 250%. Charlie got up at five this morning to drive down, meet with the county tax assessor and politely ask why. Then he’s going to chainsaw some downed trees into firewood. He plans to be home about dark.

Here’s the deal: with happiness comes the possibility of the loss of happiness. I’ve felt fear of such a loss hovering in the back of my psyche ever since Mr. Charles drove off this morning, giving me thumbs-up out his truck’s driver-side window. So, it’s going to take some work, but to honor my faith in both HP and my sober state, I will spend this day trusting that Charlie will be just fine.

Fear, I’ve long thought, is the devil’s voice. There are lots of really healthy things that cannot live in the same heart with it, and one of those is sobriety! So, Mr. Fear, Kapow!!@##!!! Take that!! I will live today in a state of trust.

And I’ll make sure the candles in the window are lit before the sun goes down.

A couple of months ago, I was having a rare, terrible day at work. I was annoyed at everyone, overwhelmed with everything I had to get done, and in general in full-blown eek mode.

I also had to get in my car and drive somewhere. My thoughts, of course, ran something like this: I’m never going back to that stinking rat hole of a public radio station again! Never!!!!!

I was not in the mood for my current book-on-tape, so I turned on the radio and pushed the scan button. The numbers flipped upward and then, all of a sudden, Johnny Paycheck was singing “Take This Job and Shove It!” God Bless America, but was that glorious a sing-along-moment or what?

I didn’t sing along along, however; I bellowed along.

The song ended. There was a short pause and then . . .

Johnny Paycheck relaunched into “Take This Job and Shove It!” And he did it again and again and again. Whatever automation system that radio station was using had gotten stuck!

Naturally, I was shortly again re-delighted with life. Problems? What problems?

I don’t really believe that God does specific things for people. But if God did mess directly in people’s lives, I have to believe one of the things the Almighty might do is help us keep our sense of humor when we’re mad at the world. It doesn’t hurt to have a little divine assistance when it comes to taking ourselves less seriously.

I hate cold weather. Hate it! Hate it! Hate it! Always have; always will. So, naturally, I was outraged yesterday when it snowed. And, of course, since I live in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, the wind whistled and roared, as well.

I started shivering yesterday as soon as I got out of bed. It only got worse when I got to work as my office sits at about 63 degrees. So, I spent the morning trying to concentrate on editing a story while wearing two sweaters and a scarf, and, naturally, feeling grumpier and grumpier. I simply could not get warm!

Outside my window, the snow continued to fall. The wind continued to howl. Obviously, the weather was not going to take a turn toward my liking.

So. . .

For lunch, I motored over to my favorite slice joint to warm up with mozzarella and marinara, supported by a perfectly-baked pizza crust of just the proper thickness. Next, to ensure that my newfound warmth would last a while, I took myself off to the gym for a good 30-minute session on the elliptical and another 30 minutes of lifting weights.

To me, sobriety has been a lot about a willingness to let my life get better. The truth is, that if I were still drinking and using, I probably would have just stayed cold and grumpy.

Last night I was at a wonderful party held upstairs at my favorite restaurant in Charlottesville, Virginia, a town in which I used to live when I was still drinking and using. The restaurant has still got the same understatedly elegant ambiance, the food is still just as creatively respectful of its high-quality ingredients as I remembered, and I’m sure the wine that went around was still just as carefully and knowledgeably chosen as ever.

I wore my black floaty pants (which I love and never get to wear) and a pair of new black, open-toed heels (a real rarity in my closet), let my hair fly loose, and, in general, felt as though I were looking good for an old broad.

The dinner was for public radio people from all over the state of Virginia, so the conversation was wide-ranging—so wide-ranging that for a little while it settled on God. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before. I’m working hard on a new book on how to partner with God (or H.P. or Allah or Alice) without allowing language and social custom to limit the power of that partnership in our lives. Thinking about H.P. so intensively has made me realize that all I, myself, really know about the God is that God is. And I know this, not through thought, reason, or teaching, but because somewhere in my muddled trudge through the Twelve Steps, I became a person of faith.

I talked about all this last night. People were interested, asked questions, offered their own thoughts and experiences with faith. It was a nice conversation that eventually moved on to other topics; yet, all evening, I felt the blessings of my partnership with God (aka, for me, Alice) as I sat eating, talking, listening, enjoying myself—not as an out-of-control wild-woman, but as a regular person having an uncomplicated, nice time at a holiday gathering.

Who knew? When I was growing up, I never dreamed my greatest satisfaction in life at age 60 would be to have partnered with a Higher Power in becoming a regular person.

Well, that and looking good in black floaty pants.