Twice I’ve had sponsees who lost their inventory before they took their 5th steps.
The first time it happened, my guy—let’s call him Fred—was in the Salvation Army. If you’ve never been inside a Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center (ARC), then you probably don’t know how important rules are to their treatment philosophy.
Rules, work, and Jesus—that’s how you get sober at the ARC. And in that order, too.
Accordingly, they’ve got rules that govern every aspect of your waking life. If, for example, you were caught with two cups of milk at lunch instead of one, you would be subject to discipline. Such a contrast with the Big Book’s “suggestions only” approach.
Anyway, Fred was a meth addict entrusted to the Army’s care in lieu of a prison term. He wrote good inventory, filling a notebook with resentments, fears, and sexual misconduct (the latter is usually a big deal for methies).
I was rather exited about the prospect of getting this guy through his steps. He still had a few teeth left, you know. He might be put to good use helping others.
When we first started meeting, all Fred wanted to do was bitch about the rules. But as he progressed in his inventory, he laid off the bitching and started sharing a bit about himself. To my mind, that was good, solid progress. Most addicts can’t survive long in a culture of rules. Those that make it do so by breaking rules and/or bitching about them.
To be in the ARC and get over your resentments—even your resentment of the rules—is real spiritual progress. An addict humbly following the rules is…well…it just doesn’t happen that often, and I was starting to get the idea that maybe these Army guys were on to something. Having strict rules—thousands of them—forced the issue. Either you got over yourself or you got kicked out. There was no third option.
I showed up one Saturday, as planned, ready to hear Fred’s inventory.
He got in my car with a sour look on his face and told me he didn’t have his notebook.
Thinking he was trying to back out of his 5th step, I told him he’d better go and get it.
“Can’t,” he said. And then he told me what happened.
Fred had his inventory inside his Army-issued binder. Like all things in the ARC, binders were governed by a code of rules, strictly enforced. Most importantly, you could leave them in the main room only during the day and had to take them to your room at night.
Fred had forgotten his binder in the main room one night. His binder and the inventory it contained were subsequently confiscated.
I appealed to the proper authorities and had them search the storage rooms. I had Fred wade through the dumpsters out back. His inventory was no where to be found.
They had taken his stuff and had sent it through the shredder.
I wanted to burn the place down.
But, after a bit of prayer, I figured we’d better move along as best we could. Fred was graduating in two weeks. He didn’t have time to write his inventory again, at least not before he was turned out.
Not knowing how to do a 5th step without any inventory to read, I had Fred go back and write about the “big ones.” I asked him to try to remember his ten most significant resentments and fill out the columns on them.
He did so, halfheartedly. Then he read it to me, graduated, and was high for two weeks before he got pulled over and was hauled back to prison.
God bless them and their mission, but I don’t hang out with the Salvation Army anymore.
More recently, I was sponsoring a guy we’ll call Dave, who took his inventory to court. When he was called by the judge, he left his notebook in his seat, thinking he’d be back for it. The judge had the bailiff take Dave in, and he was held for a few hours. By the time he was released, Dave’s inventory was gone.
Dave was also in a rehab and was about to move from its “primary” phase to “job search.” There was pressure on him to take his 5th step ASAP because people who didn’t read inventory before they went looking for a work often found a bag of dope instead of a job.
So I prayed about it and had this idea that maybe we could take a page from the Oxford Group. I had Dave write up a classic Four Absolutes inventory and read that to me for his 5th. The idea was that he’d work to fill in the rest of the inventory later, as part of an ongoing 10th step.
Dave did okay for a while. He did a bunch of difficult amends without even blinking. He made amends to four stores and three family members in one day. Fearless.
But after that, he just petered out. Stopped writing inventory. Stopped saying his prayers. Got pissed off about small stuff and pretended he wasn’t mad. Didn’t call me so much as he used to.
He’s officially off the radar for two weeks now. Hopefully, he just moved on to another sponsor. One who’s making him write some good inventory.
The first time it happened, my guy—let’s call him Fred—was in the Salvation Army. If you’ve never been inside a Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center (ARC), then you probably don’t know how important rules are to their treatment philosophy.
Rules, work, and Jesus—that’s how you get sober at the ARC. And in that order, too.
Accordingly, they’ve got rules that govern every aspect of your waking life. If, for example, you were caught with two cups of milk at lunch instead of one, you would be subject to discipline. Such a contrast with the Big Book’s “suggestions only” approach.
Anyway, Fred was a meth addict entrusted to the Army’s care in lieu of a prison term. He wrote good inventory, filling a notebook with resentments, fears, and sexual misconduct (the latter is usually a big deal for methies).
I was rather exited about the prospect of getting this guy through his steps. He still had a few teeth left, you know. He might be put to good use helping others.
When we first started meeting, all Fred wanted to do was bitch about the rules. But as he progressed in his inventory, he laid off the bitching and started sharing a bit about himself. To my mind, that was good, solid progress. Most addicts can’t survive long in a culture of rules. Those that make it do so by breaking rules and/or bitching about them.
To be in the ARC and get over your resentments—even your resentment of the rules—is real spiritual progress. An addict humbly following the rules is…well…it just doesn’t happen that often, and I was starting to get the idea that maybe these Army guys were on to something. Having strict rules—thousands of them—forced the issue. Either you got over yourself or you got kicked out. There was no third option.
I showed up one Saturday, as planned, ready to hear Fred’s inventory.
He got in my car with a sour look on his face and told me he didn’t have his notebook.
Thinking he was trying to back out of his 5th step, I told him he’d better go and get it.
“Can’t,” he said. And then he told me what happened.
Fred had his inventory inside his Army-issued binder. Like all things in the ARC, binders were governed by a code of rules, strictly enforced. Most importantly, you could leave them in the main room only during the day and had to take them to your room at night.
Fred had forgotten his binder in the main room one night. His binder and the inventory it contained were subsequently confiscated.
I appealed to the proper authorities and had them search the storage rooms. I had Fred wade through the dumpsters out back. His inventory was no where to be found.
They had taken his stuff and had sent it through the shredder.
I wanted to burn the place down.
But, after a bit of prayer, I figured we’d better move along as best we could. Fred was graduating in two weeks. He didn’t have time to write his inventory again, at least not before he was turned out.
Not knowing how to do a 5th step without any inventory to read, I had Fred go back and write about the “big ones.” I asked him to try to remember his ten most significant resentments and fill out the columns on them.
He did so, halfheartedly. Then he read it to me, graduated, and was high for two weeks before he got pulled over and was hauled back to prison.
God bless them and their mission, but I don’t hang out with the Salvation Army anymore.
More recently, I was sponsoring a guy we’ll call Dave, who took his inventory to court. When he was called by the judge, he left his notebook in his seat, thinking he’d be back for it. The judge had the bailiff take Dave in, and he was held for a few hours. By the time he was released, Dave’s inventory was gone.
Dave was also in a rehab and was about to move from its “primary” phase to “job search.” There was pressure on him to take his 5th step ASAP because people who didn’t read inventory before they went looking for a work often found a bag of dope instead of a job.
So I prayed about it and had this idea that maybe we could take a page from the Oxford Group. I had Dave write up a classic Four Absolutes inventory and read that to me for his 5th. The idea was that he’d work to fill in the rest of the inventory later, as part of an ongoing 10th step.
Dave did okay for a while. He did a bunch of difficult amends without even blinking. He made amends to four stores and three family members in one day. Fearless.
But after that, he just petered out. Stopped writing inventory. Stopped saying his prayers. Got pissed off about small stuff and pretended he wasn’t mad. Didn’t call me so much as he used to.
He’s officially off the radar for two weeks now. Hopefully, he just moved on to another sponsor. One who’s making him write some good inventory.
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