Chapter two:
A very strange turn of events.
I had fled to Cornwall, and now sat drinking in the Newquay Arms. I didn’t have a plan, but I did have several thousand pounds, and a room booked in a local B&B. I remember as I sat there staring through the window at passers-by, a bizarre thought came into my mind. It wasn’t the kind of thought I would ever have – it was intrusive….somehow, it just didn’t belong in my head. It seemed to me that it was more of a directive than a random idea, and it made me feel slightly uncomfortable. It was simply this: “You have to phone Plymouth Christian Centre”.
Now, I didn’t know if there was such a thing as a Christian centre, much less, if there happened to be one in Plymouth. Nor could I think of any possible reason to phone it, even if it existed. I dismissed this weird notion, but a few moments later the thought returned. It kept returning.
At some point in the night’s drinking, the crystal ball grew cloudy – but I did make it back to the B&B. My first thought on waking was to get a drink from my bag. My second thought – alarmingly – was “You have to phone Plymouth Christian Centre”. I lay in bed swilling gin, and considered this experience. I concluded that perhaps I was having something of a breakdown due to stress, and it was manifesting in this recurring thought.
Over the next few days I drank, and made friends with a local taxi driver – who would ferry me around the various pubs in the area. We got on well. He’d not long started his business, and I’d put his card behind the bar at each pub I visited. But that nagging, insistent thought never stayed away for more than a few minutes.
One day, I was walking aimlessly through the streets of Newquay. I spotted a telephone box, and my curiosity was aroused. Is there such a thing as a Christian Centre? Would there be one in Plymouth – and would it be in the directory? Newquay isn’t that close to Plymouth, and – in any event – a phone booth with an intact directory was as rare as rocking-horse dung, but I thought I’d look anyway.
And there it was! There was a book, and it was in the book. So I thought I’d get rid of this disturbing thought by phoning the number. It was answered by a well-spoken lady. The problem, though, was that she wanted to know how she could help. I didn’t have a clue, so I blurted out, “Well, you can pray for me, because that’s what you (expletives deleted) do!”
I stomped out of the phone box. But I hadn’t laid the ghost – the thought was back, though it had changed slightly. “You must go to Plymouth Christian Centre”. I’d had enough of this nonsense, and right there I promised myself that I would never, ever set foot in Plymouth, much less the Centre.
That night, Pete the taxi driver picked me up and drove me to a pub out in the sticks. I ordered a pint and a double and gave the landlord Pete’s card to put on his board. I sat there deep in thought, until I noticed a couple of girls in the corner. They kept looking over to me, and talking to each other in hushed tones. I thought my luck was changing, but they presently got up and left. Realising my evening wasn’t going to have a happy ending after all, I called Pete to take me back to town. I arranged to meet him at 7 in the Newquay Arms the following night.
I was bang on time the next evening. As I walked through the pub door I could see Pete up at the bar. He was in animated conversation with three well-dressed guys, who I instinctively knew were policemen. One immediately got behind me to prevent a hasty withdrawal, and Pete started apologising.
This is what had happened. The girls in the pub the night before had believed they recognised me from a photofit in the local newspaper. They had actually left to call the police. When they arrived I had already gone, but the landlord remembered I had given him Pete’s card. Pete was contacted, and reluctantly became part of their ambush strategy. The photofit was of a man wanted in connection to the murder of a Penzance landlady. The police realised immediately I wasn’t their man. He was 10 years younger than me, blonde and spoke with a Liverpool accent. I was dark-haired and spoke Essex.
Nonetheless, they wanted my details….which was problematic, as I was wanted for something else. It’s easy enough to lie about one’s name, but a little trickier to make up an address which will be plausible, when you don’t know the area and the police do. So I gave a false name, and the address of the B&B – intending to pull out that night. But one drink led to another, and I staggered back to the boarding house to sleep it off.
Waking the next morning, I was shocked. For the first time in years, I didn’t have to drink heavily before being able to get up. There were no withdrawals – not even a hangover. I felt good!
I thought I’d go the newsagent and have a leisurely morning. As I left my room, the landlady was coming upstairs. I bade her a cheery ‘good morning’. She returned the pleasantry. Then she said, “You’ve got some visitors arriving shortly”. I asked who that might be, and she replied, “The CID. But don’t let them know I told you – they said not to say anything”.
I grabbed my bag and my wallet, and ran out of the building in blind panic. I managed to flag down a taxi, and told the driver to head for Truro just as fast as he could. I said I was late for a train. He seemed to have a healthy disregard for speed limits, and we screeched to a stop at the station. I ran inside. There was only one train due, with only one stop. It was going to Plymouth.
About a week after arriving in town, I found myself at the Plymouth Christian Centre. I didn’t want to be there, I was confused and angry – but I wanted some answers. Most particularly, I wanted to know how they were messing with my mind – and why.
I recall sitting in the pastor’s chair, with my boots on his desk. He was watching me nervously, as I puffed on a cigar and drank from a bottle. He was failing to account for the repetitive thoughts, and my patience – always slim, and often undernourished – was getting decidedly thinner. I was becoming irritated, which was not good.
He said there was someone he’d like me to see, and called to a guy outside. Not being entirely conversant with how churches operated, I assumed this would be the bouncer. I took my feet off the desk and grasped the bottle firmly – in expectation of the inevitable fight.
I can only describe the events that followed as shocking. A man came in, but at that moment something else happened. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction that God was real. Not only that, but that he was deeply displeased with me. And the reason he was so angry, was not so much what I had done with my life – not the debauchery, the violence and the rest of the wickedness – but that somehow, I had deliberately rejected him from my life.
I was completely mortified. And I was frightened – very, very frightened. Later, that verse about it being ‘a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God’ would resonate with me, when I remembered that day. I didn’t scare easily, but I had the sense that I had wilfully antagonised the omnipotent being, and would not live long enough to regret it. I felt utterly helpless.
In my terror, I hadn’t given another thought to the ‘bouncer’. But now I noticed he was speaking. He was telling me about Jesus. When I understood about Christ’s sacrifice for me, my fear was swept away by an inexpressible joy….and not a little relief.
He prayed for me – and with me.
So what do you do as a brand-new Christian? Well, in my case – you go to jail. You hand yourself in, and go to jail. I didn’t much care for the idea, but the past needed sorting out.
Unsurprisingly, I was remanded in custody. But pretty soon, an idea came to me: my new-found heavenly friend could easily get them to drop the charges. So I prayed along those lines, and the results were almost instantaneous. The very next day, I was summoned to an office. There were two policemen there, and I assumed (in addition to my release) I would be getting an apology. But in point of fact, they charged me with four further offences, and I was returned to my cell. So much for my heavenly friend’s intervention.
The thought of spending years in jail really depressed me. After a couple of months waiting for trial, I thought I’d risk bringing up the subject with God again. Perhaps he’d misunderstood my previous prayer? Perhaps common sense would prevail and he would get me out of there. After all, he did that for Peter, didn’t he?
Two days later, I had an answer. I was given a copy of my psychology report, which would be delivered to the court. It basically said if they ever let me out, it would be a bad day for society. I also got a card from my Christian mentor – formally known as the bouncer. I opened the envelope. On the front of the card it said, God always answers prayer. On the inside, it said, “Sometimes, the answer is “No”. Hmmm.
By now, I was wary of bringing the matter to God’s attention. I didn’t want the situation to deteriorate even further – not that it could get much worse. But after another 3 months and with the court date rapidly approaching, I thought I’d give God one more chance to do the decent thing. I poured out all my anxiety to him, and pleaded for intervention. It came the next day. My barrister visited me. He said, “There’s no easy way to tell you this Tom, but you’ve drawn the hanging judge.” The only man in town with a reputation for being even more unreasonable than me, and he was going to decide my fate. My heart sank.
But then a thought occurred. A strange thought, perhaps even stranger than the one that had railroaded me to Plymouth. And it was this: If I have a relationship with the living God, it doesn’t matter if I’m in jail for years – I’ll still be free. He’ll be with me, he’ll somehow make my life worthwhile, and tolerable. A feeling washed over me – a warm, comfortable, safe feeling. I later identified this as the peace that passes understanding – it was truly beautiful.
And it lasted. I have never been more at peace than I was in the days preceding my hearing. I’ve never slept better than I did on those nights.
The day arrived, and I was transported to crown court. I pleaded guilty to all six charges. I could only remember four of the incidents, but the others sounded like me when I’d been drinking.
There was a short adjournment after the pleas were entered. My friend from Plymouth had travelled up, and he approached me in the dock. “God says you’ll get 9 months, and walk out on time served on remand”. This seemed so implausible, I actually laughed. “Well, I hope he’s told the judge that”, I replied.
The court was reconvened, and the judge spent twenty minutes basically telling me I was a wart on the lower regions of society. He concluded with this. “I therefore have no alternative but to send you to prison for nine months”. You could hear the sharp intake of breath in the courtroom. But I like to think the most surprised person in the room was the judge himself.
I had to wait in the cells while the prison officers retrieved my belongings from the jail – it simply hadn’t occurred to them I would be leaving them that day. And so, the first lesson I learned was this: The most important aspect of any circumstances is not found in the circumstances themselves – it is how we relate to God from within that situation. Or, life is about God, it is not about us. In some respects, that time on remand was the most important and productive period of my life. I really had discovered the meaning of life, this time: the meaning of life is God – everything else is just details.
Chapter three.
Plymouth Ho!
I moved to Plymouth. I still had a huge drink problem, and little idea of how to deal with it. But I was willing, and I was also trying to sort the rest of my life out. I went on a course for the terminally unemployable, but had small prospect of finding a job. In truth, though – I was more interested in exploring prayer and the word of God. The only other thing which held my interest, was getting a wife. Obviously, I was no great catch, but I thought that God might help me out. So I prayed. I didn’t try to spiritualize it. I didn’t dress it up as needing a partner for whatever ministry he might require me to do. I told it like it was – and he told me I’d meet her two weeks from Saturday.
That sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I told my mentor I’d be meeting my wife in a fortnight, and anyone at the church who would listen. I dread to think what they made of that at the time, but I genuinely believed I had heard from God.
On the appointed day, I put on a suit. I even ironed the bit of my shirt which showed – and I headed in to town at 7a.m. I wanted to make myself freely available for “God’s Lucky Contestant”. By early evening, I was thoroughly demoralised, and rather angry with God. I went back to my bedsit, turned the key and kicked the door open. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground. It was a handwritten note. It said, “Tom – do you fancy meeting up for a Crimbo drink? And there was a phone number. It was signed “Paula”.
I didn’t even stop to think “who on earth is Paula?” I phoned up my friend, and said, “The wife’s turned up – she wants to meet!” He said, “Right. Tell her you’re a Christian, don’t drink – and don’t go to bed with her”. This left me wondering what the point of going on a date was, if I wasn’t going to do those things, but I just agreed.
I phoned the mystery lady. It turned out she’d been the tutor on the course for the terminally unemployable. I arranged to meet her at a gospel presentation in town, a little later. It may not be the most romantic venue, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else I could buy chicken and chips for two quid a head.
We sat opposite each other. As I’d promised my friend, I leant over and said, “I’ve got something to tell you”. I found out later she was relieved when I told her I was a Christian: she thought I was going to say that I was gay.
I had the impression that I should wait for her to become a Christian before getting married. But I wanted her to be a real Christian, and not just a nominal one. I didn’t like the idea she might just notionally come to Christ for the sake of our relationship. So I spoke little about my faith. Instead, I kept praying for her – looking to God to speak into her life.
Paula came to faith one day while driving – I wasn’t even with her. I was overjoyed, but not hugely surprised. It wasn’t the first time someone had a conversion on the road.
We were married December 23rd 1989. We picked that date so there would be plenty of food left over from the reception for the seniors’ Christmas party the next day. What mostly sticks in mind is the pastor’s message: he preached on the evils of divorce, which didn’t seem wholly appropriate for a wedding service. I wondered if he didn’t rate our chances, or even if it was payback for smoking a cigar in his office.
Our honeymoon consisted of one night in the local Holiday Inn – it was all we could afford. But I was enjoying a honeymoon period with God. It seemed so many prayers were being answered – often, instantaneously. There was a sense of real intimacy with my creator. But there was also a dark. Immovable shadow over my life – alcohol addiction. I pleaded with God to take it away, and nothing changed. I sat there for hours, staring at an unopened bottle of gin, begging God to save me from myself….but I would always drink it in the end. This sorry state of affairs seemed to go on forever.
I would characterize the earlier part of our marriage as ‘tempestuous’. Aside from the drink. I had a lot of unresolved problems from my past. I had been traumatized as a child, there were deep rejection issues and pain simmering under the surface. I still had a volcanic temper. Before I got sober, Paula felt obliged to have me arrested on suspicion of murder, after a houseguest who’d stolen £40 from her purse went missing. I couldn’t blame her. I’d ‘suggested’ he should phone her at work to apologize, and when she got home I’d been drinking and there was a trail of blood in the hall. When she asked where he was, I couldn’t account for his whereabouts, and rather unfortunately replied, “Have you tried looking in the lake?” The police located him the following morning – still alive, if a little battered. But he was in better shape physically than I was spiritually.
One day, I came across I Corinthians 10:13 – “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it. “ I threw my bible at the wall in a fit of rage. My temptation was anything but common, it was beyond what I could bear – and God never provided a way out.
A while later, I read something else in the bible – Job 31:1. “‘I made a covenant with my eyes not to look lustfully at a young woman”. Now, that might not appear to be relevant to alcoholism, at first glance – but it changed my life.
I understood that Job had a weakness, or at least, a potential problem. Yet he wasn’t going to wait until temptation was upon him – he was going to rule it out in advance. He made a “covenant with his eyes” – he wasn’t going to look, he wasn’t even going to consider it for a moment. And it occurred to me that perhaps I could make a similar covenant, but with God – that I wouldn’t even think about drinking. After all, you can only be tempted to do something if you consider it an option. I pondered a covenant for some time. My thought-life was dominated by two things: the procurement of alcohol, and the consumption of it. Could I really just stop thinking about it?
In the end, I bit the bullet and made a binding covenant with God, that I wouldn’t give a moment’s thought to drinking ever again. I had absolutely no idea how this could possibly work. It’s still working. What’s impossible for man is possible for God. It’s the old equation: our willingness and application – plus his divine power – can change anything.
Now, of course, I understand the truth of 1 Corinthians 10:13. My temptation was common enough – it was what I did with it which made it too powerful for me. I nurtured those thoughts, I dwelt upon them – and, inevitably, I was overcome by them. I had already lost the fight when I bought that bottle of gin. And yes, God did provide a way out, didn’t he?
The second lesson of my Christian walk was this: “The power of temptation increases in direct proportion to one’s willingness to entertain it.” Temptation doesn’t need to be struggled with – it needs to be strangled at birth. Better still, it should be ruled out in advance.