I hold a deep and abiding love for the Step 11 passage in the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book—beginning on page 85, with the words, “It is easy to let up on the spiritual program of action and rest on our laurels” to the end of the chapter. That section has become a daily companion on my journey through sobriety. I’ve read it, listened to it, and sat with its truth almost every single day since my recovery began. It took root in my heart after I made the life-changing decision to fully surrender my will to a power greater than myself—to my God, the one I have come to understand and trust.
This passage didn’t just arrive in my life by chance; it was a gift—freely given through the sacred space of the Sunrise Meeting fellowship. What began as a gathering of unfamiliar faces on a Zoom screen has grown into something far more profound. These people are no longer just fellow attendees; they are my spiritual family. I love them deeply, and I carry them in my heart with a gratitude words often struggle to contain.
Each morning, as I open my eyes, there’s a quiet joy that stirs within me. A sense of gratitude, of anticipation, of peace. I know that the day will begin with shared connection, with fellowship, with voices that recognise me—truly see me—and welcome me as I am. That’s no small thing in a world where so many feel unseen and unheard.
My love for this particular passage runs so deep that it has even inspired me creatively—I’ve written several poems drawn from its spirit. I genuinely believe that whoever wrote those 16 paragraphs was touched by grace, given a sacred message from their God. And through the miracle of this program, that same message was passed to me—freely, abundantly—even when I felt I was the last person to deserve such a gift.
In those early days, when shame still clung to me and hope felt like a stranger, I couldn’t have imagined the peace I feel now. But this reading, this fellowship, and this step continue to be a wellspring of healing and connection—a daily reminder that I am not alone, and that I am loved.
A Daily Reprieve
The spirit is like water:
when still, it reflects heaven;
when stirred, it loses all form.
To rest upon yesterday’s light
is to walk backwards in the dark.
The foe is not loud—it whispers.
It waits for the forgetting.
We are not cured.
We are kept.
Each dawn is a gift,
but only if unwrapped in reverence.
The Way is not finished;
it begins again,
with every breath,
every thought that bends toward service,
every step that yields to a will not our own.
Let the will be like the wind,
not a storm of self,
but a breeze guided by the Eternal.
Do not force.
Do not resist.
In stillness, ask:
“What is Thy will for me?”
Let this question be the thread,
we carry through the hours.
When the mind clouds,
pause.
When the path splits,
listen.
When the heart swells with self,
bow.
At night, close the day gently.
Ask not for perfection,
but for truth.
Did I love?
Did I serve?
Did I walk humbly?
Do not drown in remorse.
Instead, return to the current.
Let the flow carry you onward.
Upon waking, ask again.
Not for gain,
not for ease,
but for clear eyes,
for motives untainted,
for thoughts aligned with the Great Order.
We are given minds—use them.
But root them in prayer.
We are given strength—use it.
But empty it of pride.
In confusion, do not grasp.
In silence, receive.
The answer will come,
but only to the one,
who has ceased to demand.
The spark of God grows,
not with noise,
but with practice.
Faith becomes sight.
Inspiration becomes rhythm.
The sixth sense awakens.
Join with others.
Be quick to learn.
Do not shun the wise,
because they wear different robes.
Truth speaks in many tongues.
Throughout the day, return,
to the breath,
to the pause,
to the prayer that frees the will from its cage:
“Thy will, not mine, be done.”
In this surrender,
there is strength.
In this discipline,
there is freedom.
This is the path.
Not a path of arrival,
but of walking.
Not of grasping,
but of offering.
And it works.
It really does.
