It had been a while since I heard the song “From A Distance” on the radio. After hearing it last week, I can’t get the tune out of my mind!

Even more than the music, I’ve been pondering the lyrics, “God is watching us…from a distance.” It’s basically an optimistic song of harmony, hope, love, and peace. But I think it has special meaning for those of us in recovery. Let me illustrate.

When my daughter was six or seven, she got upset and declared she was “running away from home.” I watched her closely until she struck out up the road toward the school a couple blocks away. It was late afternoon, and I was able to follow her discreetly. She never looked back, even when she got to the playground. Putting down the armful of stuff she was carrying (a doll, etc.), she began playing at the sandbox, the slide, and the swing set, apparently feeling free from the tyranny of her parents. I hid behind some bushes and watched her—from a distance.

How like me when I first ran away from myself and found the wonderful world of addiction. What fun I had as I went from one “object” to another in search of the perfect plaything. No one, not even God, to stop me; I had found my own God.

At first my daughter seemed to be enjoying her newfound independence. She occasionally glanced toward home, just to see if anyone was coming. A little later, she walked over to get a good look down the street, seeming disappointed that no one was concerned enough to search for her. By this time it was getting on toward dusk, and I wondered what would happen as the light faded. I didn’t have long to wait.

In the past, I too took an occasional glance at reality, hoping I might see something more satisfactory for my life. At times I actually stopped and peered across the street that separated me from sanity. Disappointingly, I never saw anything appealing enough to make me leave my isolated playground, so I played on pretending it was what I really enjoyed.

After attempting to play a little more, my daughter stood looking longingly all the way down to our house. I was tempted to come out of hiding and “rescue” her, especially when I saw her tears—but I waited. Finally she picked up her belongings and started making her way slowly down the road, walking right past my hideout without seeing me.

Like my daughter, I went from plaything to plaything hoping to find a satisfactory connection. Eventually I got tired of the whole playground thing; it just wasn’t much fun by myself, especially when my world was getting darker and darker. The more I allowed myself to look toward “home,” the less I wanted to stay where I was. But I never managed to take the first step, to cross the street that separated me from where I belonged. On January 3, 2004, the darkness overwhelmed me, and I reluctantly began the slow journey down the “road of happy destiny.”

I don’t remember what happened after my daughter reached home. Probably I told her at some point that I had followed her. I’m sure I let her know she was never alone. To my knowledge she never tried to run away again.

The lesson for my life of addiction and recovery? It’s a no-brainer. While I frolicked in my playground of addiction, my God was watching over me, waiting patiently for me to decide to “come home.” He was not anxious to punish or shame me, but to protect me from myself. In my insanity, I kept Him at a distance, but I could not remove myself from His loving care. He was watching—from a distance—until I decided to come home again. When I took that First Step, He welcomed me back into the human family, and I am still His “child” today.

No more running; I am home!