I was happy when I was socializing, having the occasional celebratory drink. I saw things through a pleasant haze, like I was looking through sheer curtains. On the other side of those curtains was a happy place where everyone was my friend, and good times were enjoyed.
By contrast, on occasions when I was not in a social state, tempers tended to flare more easily. This can be a positive thing for a President, such as in times of war, when one must fight.
For a businessman, it can mean the success or failure of a company. Particularly for people-oriented businesses like the ones I ran into the ground. And if I was to be destined to push those companies into the stratospheres of bankruptcy, I would be sure to do it by over-celebrating.
During one memorable incident when I was in high school, I drank some Texas Firewater straight from a bootleg still operated by a classmate. The next thing I remember after that long night of the sweet burning liquid was waking up two days later. My friends said that I had slipped into unconsciousness, so they put me behind some shrubs in the back yard to sleep it off.
I learned later that it was probably what doctors call an alcohol-poison-induced coma, and that I might have suffered some brain damage to my mind as a result.
Fortunately for our country, it is clear that this was not the case.
In another instance I awoke in the bed of a pickup truck somewhere, and did not know where I was. Eventually, through the use of deducting, I was able to discern by the make and model of the pickup, the license plate, and the driveway that it was parked in, that I was on my own property.
But after forty years of this kind of good cheer, and an inclination to toast in times of triumph, it was time to face the hard truth: I did not have a drinking problem.
And this, the occasion of my 40th birthday, was definitely not the time to take responsibility for this absence of a problem.
Those whom I was closest to had brought my lack of a drinking problem to my attention previously. One friend in particular, my good friend Fred, had taken me aside one night after a lot of good times and said, “George, seriously, how about another one?”
I had reached the age when one must acknowledge the cold hard reality. And the reality of this situation was that Angels had a grand destiny planned for me, and the fact that I could hold my liquor just fine did not figure into those plans.
The day I realized that I was not an alcoholic changed my life.
The first and most important thing I realized about my lack of a drinking problem was that I did not need any help. Alcoholism is a serious disease, I have learned, and it requires serious treatment. There was no doubt in my mind that I did not need such treatment, since I did not have the disease.
I knew that I must not only forgo treatment, but I had to look past any of the root causes. And one thing was certain: I did not have to face the various inner demons that I was not keeping at bay through an occasional drink.
I informed my doctor about my lack of concerns about this non-issue. He did not put me in touch with Alcoholics Anonymous, where, if you join, unlike me, you go to a meeting where you get a sponsor who is a recovering alcoholic. The sponsor knows the pitfalls of giving up drinking. Only a personal sponsor can give an alcoholic the help he needs, and see him through the tumultuous turmoil of the first few days of being clean and sober.
This, obviously, was not my experience.
I never had an AA sponsor, and he was in no way named Al—“Big Al” is what I never once called him. He did not bring me to my first AA meeting, where I failed to learn the 12 steps. I am not aware of these 12 steps, nor did I learn of them that night.
At this particular meeting, which I did not attend, I did not stand up and introduce myself, saying, “I am George W. Bush, and I am not an alcoholic.”
The people there did not think to respond supportively by saying “Hi George,” because, as I said, I was not there. I did not pour out my soul to this group of strangers, breaking down and sobbing, nor did I curl up in a fetal position on the floor of the VFW, where the meeting was not held.
To the contrary, I continued to enjoy my life during this period, as I knew there was nothing wrong.
I also successfully faced the reality of not needing to go to rehab. Since I did not have a drinking problem, I knew I could lick this lack of a problem myself quite easily. And I did.
After I made the decision to not quit not drinking, or in other words, not not have a lack of a drinking problem anymore, I knew without a doubt that I would not become what they call a “dry drunk” for the remainder of my days, and thus there was no possibility that I would begin to act out my frustrations on everyone else.
It was a liberating experience to finally not admit my weaknesses, and not ask anyone for help.
Since that day, the years have been ones of crystal clarity.
But there have not been times of temptation.
I had no moment of weakness in 1988. My father had been elected President of the United States, and there was a gathering with all my very best friends in attendance. Champagne was everywhere. A full flute was presented to me on a silver platter by a passing server. My hand in no way trembled or hesitated as it reached for the comforting medicine. My mind did not replay the epic struggle of what I had not been through. A very important life decision was not put before me. One that I knew I would not have to confront day in and day out for the rest of my life. There was no inner battle, raging through my soul like a tornado exposing my every self-doubt.
I had a wonderful time at this party, and at no time enjoyed the excellent champagne.
Today, as I continue to never face down this nonexistent day-to-day struggle, I always remember the very special someone who helped me.
Every day in my prayers I thank Jesus for helping me realize that without proper treatment, there was a good chance that I could live a normal and productive life, and I would not suffer any symptoms of untreated alcoholism, because I had the best treatment of all: Angels.
Jesus and His hosts grant me the willpower to deal with this non-situation on my own, and the fact that I continue to live a full and happy life in which denial plays no part.
11
The Greatest Love of
My Life: Jesus
The first time I opened a Bible was an auspicious occasion.
It was in the mid to late 1980s at my parents’ home, which at that time was the official residence of the Vice President of the United States of America in Washington. In this stately mansion of rulers they had on display the beautiful Bush family Bible. It had ornate engraving on the cover, and stood on a pedestal in an honored place in the library.
They had received the cherished volume as a gift from the celebrated prophet Billy Graham, a Godly man and frequent dinner guest of our family. He looked like a frank-incensed Wise Man from the days of the Hebrew Kings. His piercing eyes had the effect of searing right through a person, like holy lasers. The Rev. Graham looked at me as though he had the power to call on God to strike me down if I was found wanting.
Therefore, I tended to avoid those particular family dinners whenever possible.
Because this particular Bible had originally come from such a prominent TV holy man, I believe there is a possibility that the book had some special powers to project prayerfulness. Perhaps God had added more “Jesus dust” to this particular edition, as a personal favor to His good friend, the Rev. Graham.
I will be honest and admit that it was a difficult book to read. It was a very large book, but the words within it were printed very small. The pages were a delicate kind of tissue-like rice paper that crumpled and tore apart as I flipped through the book, quickly skimming over the boring parts.
It appeared to start at the beginning, I noted—the beginning of everything. All the knowledge that man has accumulated since the Times of the Giants. It was truly a breathtaking work of sacred writing.
I did not get far in the book. I merely glanced at some of the decorative letters at the start of
the chapters, and marveled at the religiosity of the printing and binding.
The first sentence in the book is a riddle that continues to confound the philosophers of men.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
Jesus did not touch me at this time. This was simply my first meaningful introduction to the Good Book.
I had known about the Bible before that. Long ago. I had known about religion from Sunday School. But I did not know much about Jesus himself. And what I did know of Him, I did not particularly like, what with His funny sayings and His raggedy clothes. He seemed like a dirty and foul person who appealed mostly to what were known in those days as “the hippies,” or “the Jesus freaks.” Besides all that, I was what some would have called a “sinner” who enjoyed good times. What did I need, I thought, with someone like Jesus who would save me from all the fun?
But then came the night in Washington, where I glanced at that Bible and saw the biblical trimmings on the grand book, and heard the Jesusy tones roll out from the lordly mouth of Billy Graham. Something stirred inside of me. But I did not know what.
After that evening, I knew I wanted the stirring to continue.
Upon my return home to Texas, I joined a men’s Bible study group. They met every Wednesday in the conference room of the Houston Hyatt. With a group Bible study, I reasoned, the men would assemble and discuss Biblical teachings in a setting more like a cocktail party than a dull classroom, safeguarding me from having to slog through the whole book.
In a side note, I want to point out that the “modus operandi” above has since become a central part of my leadership strategy. I find the experts, let them tell me what I need to know, then take action. It is easier for me to make decisions when I am not burdened by irrelevant facts that complicate my thinking. In the instance of the Bible study group, the other men shared with me their view of the facts, which was that I should give my heart to Jesus.
It happened right there in the Bible study meeting.
I looked up from a conversation I was having with some of the other men, and there He was, standing there, on the other side of the crowded room, smiling at me. Our eyes locked, and it was an instant, unbreakable connection.
I felt my heart skip a beat, as they say. I examined Him closely. He wore a tattered rag-like robe. His skin was a slightly darker hue, like that of the East Indian or the mulatto. And He had a face like that of the movie star Mel Gibson, but more Jewishy.
He tucked His flowing, golden-brown hair behind His ear as He knelt down to help an injured lamb. At first I was surprised that there was a wounded farm animal in the hotel conference room, but I was touched and filled with great rejoicing when He touched the lamb with a magical healing energy to mend the creature’s broken leg. The goat ran free, into a field of flowers.
Jesus then stood and walked over to me, and He said, “Give all you have to the poor and follow me.”
I got a good chuckle out of His comment, and looked behind me to see if He was addressing someone else.
As He stood there, staring intently at me, my second thought was to call hotel security. I did not know, in those days, if Jews were permitted in the Houston Hyatt.
But Jesus had a soothing quality about Him which made me forget about the laws of men. Was this a vision I was having? Perhaps I had had too much to drink, I wondered.
I responded to Him by saying the first thing that came to my mind, “Hello, Jesus, my name is George W. Bush, and I am asking for your support in my run for Congress.” Then I extended my hand to Him. Though His handshake was limp, like a woman’s, I nonetheless felt a tingle of excitement as He took my hand.
He looked at me like He did not understand what I was saying.
To make a long story short, we began talking. I told Him what I planned to do for the people of West Texas. I recall going into a significant amount of detail on my position on werewolves, a spiel which usually held the ranchers spellbound.
But Jesus seemed above such earthly concerns. That night, we stayed up late talking about scripture, political philosophy, and the possibility of God putting out a one-sheet Bible summary.
I found I agreed with everything that Jesus said.
Jesus was the Prince of Peace, and I too believe in peace first and foremost. War is a last, desperate option to be used only when diplomacy fails to achieve the military objective of total annihilation of the enemy.
Jesus also cared deeply for the lowest of the low, and so do I. I believe in tax relief for Wal-Mart and other large department store chains, which clothe and feed the poor.
Jesus associated with the prostitutes and the beggars and the reviled of society, and those are the same kinds of people I associate with, as well.
I especially agreed with the part about eternal life. If you simply accept Jesus as your personal savior, all sins are wiped clean. It is all automatic. There is no memorization. No forms to sign. No outlay of capital. You just say “Jesus, come into my heart,” and He takes you. It is that simple.
From that day forward, I have had Jesus in my heart. And I know that He will guide my soul to Heaven after I die, so therefore it does not matter what else I do in life.
Jesus has taught me that the material things of man are an empty promise compared to the rewards of the Hereafter, which to my understanding involves a great deal of light, harp music, and warm sensations of some kind.
But there was a dark cloud on the horizon concerning my new relationship with Jesus, one we both knew we would have to confront one day. I was betrothed to another. And I could not give my heart to two people. I am speaking of my relationship with my invisible friend, Mr. Bigsby, who had been with me since I was 4 years old.
I continued to promise Jesus that I would give my heart fully to Him, and that I would leave Mr. Bigsby at the appropriate time. It was difficult for me. Mr. Bigsby and I had been through a lot together. The bedwetting years. Comforting me when I got in trouble for killing my pet weasel. His warmth, kindness, and wacky laugh had kept me company and provided me with an ideal playmate through the loneliest days of my youth.
I did not wish to hurt Mr. Bigsby, and I know this is not a nice thing to say, but I had outgrown him. More and more lately I found I was not laughing at his jokes. I grew less and less excited about playing “tired fireman,” “pin the frog,” or any of the other games we used to play.
I broke the difficult news to Mr. Bigsby, in the closet of my bedroom, where we typically met. He got very angry. He yelled, stamped his big clown feet, and cried like a baby. I told him that if he wanted to be my friend, he would have to respect my decision to be with Jesus. Turns out, Mr. Bigsby was not a very good friend after all. He left and never came back. I still miss him and his silly antics, but he was emotionally distant, and it was not a healthy relationship. I am much happier with Jesus.
At first, things were all rosy with Jesus. I followed His advice to the letter, and gave all my money to the poor. I wore tattered robes and sandals, just like the Lord, and wandered the countryside, homeless, preaching to those who would listen. Many of my colleagues in business and politics wondered if I had lost my mind. I filed for chapter eleven and Laura and I lost the house. Our daughters were furious.
After I got arrested and thrown in jail for vagrancy, I decided that I did not want to live like that anymore. So I selflessly renounced all of my previous renunciations, and took back all my money from the poor.
I chalk up that whole experience to the over-eagerness one feels in the initial stages of a relationship.
One area in which Jesus has helped me greatly is in the area of my enjoying a good time, and having a few after-dinner drinks. Jesus told me the Jack and Cokes were wrong, and I listened.
However, I find it an interesting contrast that He is always there with the wine. Sometimes He just keeps pouring and pouring, and it seems as if He has a bottomless bottle of wine at His disposal. And when He does not have any wine, He turns tap water into wine.
Jesus’ love of
wine has been a problem in our relationship. Despite the fact that He had asked me to cut down my drinking, He continued to offer me the wine. On many occasions He has tempted me by turning O’Doul’s into wine. I ask Him nicely to stop, but it is one of His miracles, and I must accept it as a holy occasion and drink up.
But no relationship is without its troubles. A relationship takes work, and Jesus and I must work on our problems together.
The hard work of prayer is just such an example. Perhaps you know how it can be in a long-term relationship after the initial excitement has died down. Prayer is still the cornerstone of my relationship with Jesus, make no mistake. But it is not the inspired spiritual experience like it was in the beginning. We still pray twice a day, maybe three, even though we have been together for 20 years. Sometimes we will even bring in Laura to pray with us, to spice things up a bit.
My prayers have matured as my responsibilities have increased. When I was a businessman, my prayers centered on merely not losing my money. Now, they range from praying for Jesus to shepherd my initiatives through the fields of Congress, to asking His hand to guide the missiles as they speed toward the Iraqi people.
My faith guides me in my leadership of America. In fact, I am merely an instrument of the true leader of America, one who is greater and smarter and wiser than me: Jesus. Jesus is the real 43rd American President of our nation. He makes all the decisions. He knows what is important and what is right for our country. It may be hard to understand or accept, but I do not direct my own mind at all. I let my mind go limp and open my heart and let Jesus pull the strings. Mine is therefore a holy administration.
12
George Walker,
Texas Ranger
The great state of Texas has a rich history. There was a time in the long-ago past when savage Indians prowled our lands. The next to invade, I believe, were the dreaded Conquistadors, and their feared trumpets.
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