Sister Maurice is a Catholic religious sister, an RN (which she jokes means "real none"), a first-grade teacher from the Bronx, and a convention speaker celebrating 33 years of continuous sobriety. She opens with the warm humor that will carry the whole talk — the Bronx and the Vatican being the only two places with "the" in front, first-graders garbling prayers into "fruit of the Loom," and the time she belted the lady next to her with "jumbo shrimp." Underneath the laughter is the bedrock of her day: before she even opens her buried eye in the morning, she announces before Higher Power that she is an alcoholic, then prays the Lord's Prayer and emphasizes "daily bread" as her ration of help.
The drinking itself began late, in the convent, and moved fast. The 5 a.m. bell required a drink from the bedside before she could get out of bed. By 10 a.m. teaching first grade she would hand her class off to the teacher next door, run across the convent yard for another drink, and tell herself it would be her last until day's end. She kept praying through all of it — prayed enough, she says, for the whole room. The wreckage came in specific scenes: belting her own sister in a hospital hallway while their mother lay recovering from a hip operation, the two habits on the floor, a pint of Christian Brothers brandy in the purse she called "holy water"; smashing her car into a parked U.S. mail truck on Wall Street at 12:05 on a clear workday; waking up in a strange convent bed with half her clothes on; and, most chillingly, threatening across a restaurant table to run Sister Rose over with a car if Rose told their mother about the accident.
The bottom came in a bedroom one night — prayer beads on the floor, a bottle pulled out of the hiding spot, and Sister Maurice beating the floor, doubting the existence of Higher Power. Her superior eventually showed up unannounced and sent her, via American Airlines, to Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, Illinois, for 28 days. She played therapist until day 27½, when she broke down crying and laughing and told her Lutheran minister counselor, "I'm really an alcoholic." He danced around the room and wrote her a prescription for AA. She has not drunk since April 17, 1971.
Her teaching turns on the "why me" she asks Higher Power now: not why am I an alcoholic, but why was I chosen for the gift when so many were not. She walks through the three conversions AA gave her — intellectual, moral, and spiritual — and insists sobriety is given, not gotten. "If I fail to be grateful, I may lose the gift." "Please don't call me a victim. Call me a volunteer." She closes with "Amazing Grace" and a reading of the Big Book's "Here was power" paragraph.
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