Who has woe?
Who has sorrow?
Who has strife?
Who has complaints?
Who has needless bruises?
Who has bloodshot eyes?
Those who stay long at the wine;
those who go to seek out mixed wine.
Don’t look at the wine when it is red,
when it sparkles in the cup,
when it goes down smoothly.
In the end, it bites like a snake,
and poisons like a viper.
Your eyes will see strange things,
and your mind will imagine confusing things.
Yes, you will be as he who lies down in the middle of the sea,
or as he who lies on top of the rigging:
“They hit me, and I was not hurt!
They beat me, and I don’t feel it!
When will I wake up?
I can do it again.
I can find another.”
The familiar words convicted and comforted at the same time. Convicting because here she was again, on the losing side of sin. Comforting because she was not alone in this fight. People had been battling alcohol since the writing of Proverbs at least, probably long before. Her drinking made her feel so alone, but these verses reminded her that she wasn’t.
She read them again, trying to let them overpower the gnawing nausea in her stomach and the desire for a glass of wine that was rumbling deep in her bones. Who has woe? Who has sorrow? This girl, this one right here. If ever she knew words that were true, it was these. She had stayed long at the wine, at the whiskey, at the vodka, and it had bitten her and stung her like a snake, over and over again. That’s what it was. A snake disguised as a refuge. Why was she so tempted by it? She didn’t know. Why couldn’t she let an all-powerful God make her victorious? She didn’t know.
She lay back and laid the open Bible across her chest, letting her tears slide out each eye, wetting the fresh pillowcase on either side of her face. She hated crying, hated feeling so weak, but there was no use trying to hide anything from God.
“I’m so sorry, God,” she whispered. She wanted to say more, but she paused there, resting in that thought. She’d told him she was sorry so many times before. She hoped he was still listening, that he hadn’t gotten sick of it and given up on her. She did mean it when she said it. She’d never faked her repentance.
But then the minutes of her life would tick by, and her resolve would weaken, and that snake would slither right back into place.
She lay like that for hours, praying without language, focusing on God without using actual words. When her back got sore from that position, she rolled onto her side, clutching the open Bible to her chest.
Sleep was not going to come. She was going to lie like this until morning.
There was wine on the sideboard.