There is even a time to untie apron strings ... and some of us know how difficult that can be. I have four children ... now all grown and living such beautiful lives. In looking back I don't know why I agonized so when they began to leave the nest one by one ... but I did. I clung to them almost by the ankles as they passed from babyhood to toddlers to teen-agers to adulthood. When the last one walked out the door to college, I literally felt my job was over. Little did I know that my life had really just begun.

For the Recovery Group, there is a new season. It began this past winter when I began to slowly untie the apron strings with the able help of a man named John who became the Administrator of this beloved child I began raising when God gave me the gift of the idea. I began to see things I had been neglecting simply because I was so busy with other aspects of the group. I began to wonder why my Journey to Recovery writing had fallen from one each day to one each week to one each month and now hardly any at all. But winter turned into spring and John and I began to talk more and more about the future of the fellowship so many of us love. And then we looked around and saw the devotion of so many others. It hit me right in the face ... "time to every purpose under the heaven." Thank you, Ecclesiastes. Thank you, God.

Beginning January 1, 2001, this miracle in cyberspace will be under the direction of a Board of Trustees who will work with our Intergroup of almost 100 Trusted Servants who dedicate themselves daily to providing a recovery home for compulsive eaters, many of whom come to us as the last train out of the depot. The forerunner of the Board of Trustees is a temporary committee approved by a Group Conscience followed by an affirmation of our Trusted Servants. Prior to that, the Recovery Guidelines led the way in a polled group conscience followed by a unanimous affirmation of 100% of our Trusted Servants.

As the seasons before us unfold, those who work daily with so much dedication will structure this community so that by the time the autumn of our group arrives, we who love Recovery will untie our apron strings for the last time. By winter and without reservation we will let go and let God ... we will then be guided into the new millennium by those to whom we have turned over a fresh, new and beautiful apron. One with very long strings.

Today I read a post from a woman who spoke of her childhood years of sexual, verbal and emotional abuse and my heart cried out to her to be free of all this. It has nothing to do with who or what you are, but it does, doesn't it, and we know that.

I'm prompted to relate to you, my chosen family, what few recollections I have of my life up to the day I walked, or waddled, into my first OA meeting. I am the youngest of the male members born to the families of both parents. Mom's folks were a combo of Irish American and English (Grandma was Catholic, Grandpa was Jewish), so now you know where my humor comes from. We lived on the west side of Manhattan where my dad, along with my uncles and cousins, made their living by hijacking, burgling, armed robbery and assorted mayhem. Dad changed his life style and moved us to the country (another part of the city), somewhat removed from the family business. However, many nights were interrupted by assorted relatives hiding out with us for brief periods. I just kind of bumbled along, moving from one apartment to another, going to four grade schools in one year, until we moved and I was sent to a Catholic school, "Our Lady of Perpetual Barbed Wire." Hate it as I may, the good sisters beat one good foundation for learning into me, and I thank them for that.

Somewhere along the line I was sexually assaulted by an older male relative, and he disappeared, never to be seen again, who knows, who cares. I grew up as the dirty fat boy of the block but never wanted for friends, some of whom are with me fifty five years later, some dead, some just gone. I am the last of the male members of my family, many of whom died in prison or by violent means. Twice I watched as my dad was carted off to jail for refusing to inform on relatives. This I do not, can not judge, he was my dad and could do no wrong in my eyes then or now. I remember long hot do-nothing summers, going to the ocean or sneaking into Ebbets Field, the Polo Grounds or Yankee Stadium to watch the Dodgers, Giants or Yankees play. The city museums were a favorite (air cooled), and the local streets made up most of our play time.

My tenth year produced the first of several real brushes with the angel of death, and my left lung, kidney and spleen were removed. Seven major surgical procedures and three months in an oxygen tent gave me special privileges for twenty seconds after thirteen months in hospital. My folks came to visit once a week, who knew it should have been more. Maybe that's why I visit nursing homes? My brother told me that mom and dad would go bar hopping and leave us from Friday night until the wee hours on Sunday. We were hauled out of our apartment by the fire department one Saturday afternoon, guess we were neglected and abandoned. Maybe that's why I am so protective towards my babies?

We all have our crosses in this world, it is how we carry them that makes us who we are. Take what you like and leave the rest.

Danny

The OA program covers all bases for those of us looking for a home run. First base is emotional havoc. We step on first base to ease the emotional pain our resentment has caused. Second base is our physical side. We step on second base with abstinence for our physical nature to heal. Third base, our spiritual side, needs to be touched to bring peace and healing to the rest of our life. Rounding third and heading for home, to the cheers of our fellowhip, is a joyous occasion when we celebrate our road to recovery.

Today we hit a home run. Tomorrow we must again stand at the plate of life and swing our bats, hoping we will touch all the bases. Sometimes we strike out, but we are not taken out. We are given another try. We face the same perils, and we make connections and step on the bases. Once in a while we are given first base. We accept the challenge and keep trying to round third and head for home.

And here is yet another beautiful endeavor to carry the message. Thank you for all the work and love that goes into this publication. You make it look easy. All the loose ends are tied, and we are left with only the greatest of details . . . pieces of each other's hearts. You serve us well, dear friends. And, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are sooo loved.

Love, Shirley G