When I finally got the nerve to accept an invitation back to church at the age of 26, after I'd avoided Christianity like the plague for about 15 years of my life, I had the strangely God-ordained advantage of walking in the door with the principles of a program of spiritual recovery under my belt. About nine months sober by then, working the Twelve Steps with a sponsor, I'd been through the wringer. I'd come to believe a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity, and I'd made the decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God, as I understood Him. Right there, I'd begun to learn just how much I had to un-learn, if I was ever going to come to terms with the God I'd abandoned as a youth.

It helped that Jeff invited me to go to church with him, way before I was in the mood to have that conversation. He'd been attending for about six months at the time, and as we were exploring spiritual principles together, we were kinda thinking we might end up dating sometime, too, while we were at it. I was supportive of his experimentation, and interested in hearing about what he was getting out of church, but when he asked me if I wanted to check it out, my response was a firm "I'll think about it."

I had no intention of thinking about it. Jeff never asked me again. I was so impressed that he didn't bug me about it, I actually did give it some thought. In fact, as I was working through Steps Two and Three with my sponsor, I found myself thinking about church a lot... tracing the downward spiral of my life all the way back to the moment I turned away from God at the age of 11.

Several months later, after we'd tentatively decided we were dating after all, I found out Jeff had stopped going to church for a few weeks. Life was getting him down, and he was withdrawing, the way we in recovery know all too well. Equal parts concerned and curious, I felt inspired to brighten Jeff's day—by taking him up on that offer to "try church." It worked; he was disproportionately excited to come pick me up on Sunday morning. (Years later, I found out my coming around to the idea of church right then was the answer to Jeff's prayers about whether he should continue a relationship with me or not. It's like God does these things on purpose or something!)

For my part, at this point, I'd done some deep work on the first eight of the Twelve Steps, and I knew if I was going to make an honest start on the rest of them, it was time to go face God in His own house. I'd believed in Jesus when I was a kid; I knew where to find Him. So, despite a laundry list of hurts and hang-ups prejudicing my past experiences with "church people," I took the leap of faith. I was ready to hear, prepared to keep an open mind, and willing to take whatever I could get from a Sunday sermon.

I never heard of Kate Spade before last Tuesday. I never cared for Anthony Bourdain's TV show. But I read some headlines in the past week, and I instantly knew these people on an intimate level—the kind of understanding that goes deeper than words.

I didn’t have to click links to suicide notes; I didn’t need to read any lurid details about potential divorce, ongoing addiction, particular method, or personal pain. From the headlines alone, I saw into two people living in places where I’ve been before.

Maybe it was just poor timing after that. The other night, while channel surfing with my husband and stepson, we passed by a popular music entertainment channel, and I saw Stevie Ryan’s face on our television screen. My heart went still for a moment. Stevie Ryan took her life last July. And MTV's still replaying her appearance on Ridiculousness as if Stevie’s doing just fine and dandy.

I mean, she sure looked great on the screen: vibrant, quick-witted, full of personality. To the untrained eye, the charisma looks natural and unforced. To me, the brittleness in her eyes is unmistakable.

Stevie Ryan was 33 when she died; I’m 33 right now. I know her too, now, in a way many people never did.

At some point this week, I came across a blog post by Pastor Chris Owens, called, “So I Have Mental Illness…” That's probably not the kind of title that calls for rejoicing, but I rejoiced.

"For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you." (Romans 12:3)

I started smoking when I was about 15 or so. I don't really remember why... I didn't really care if other people thought I was cool, but I guess I thought I was pretty cool.

By the time I was 16, most of my friends smoked, too. We would disappear to our cars during lunch breaks at school to light up and crank the music. After school, we'd cruise for hours, driving in circles and listening to pirated CDs, talking about boys and smoking cigarettes. The "good kids" would sneer at us and talk about us after we passed by. We told each other it wasn't like we ever wanted anything to do with them anyway. They were "too good" for us. We were much more interested in the twenty-something crowd who would buy us cigarettes and other things.

Along a main highway between my town and a nearby town, there's an anti-smoking billboard posted next to the road. I don't remember the exact wording of the "quit smoking" message, but I remember that every time we came up on that billboard, my friend Juli would say, "Time to light up!" And we would all light a cigarette as we drove by the "quit smoking" sign.

Juvenile? Sure. Hardheaded rebellion? Bingo!

When I was 27, toward the end of my first year of sobriety, I quit smoking. Having smoked for more than a decade by then, I'd tried quitting cigarettes dozens of times before. But that time, after learning to work the steps of a spiritual program of addiction recovery, with prayer and conviction, I finally had the tools to quit and stay quit.

For me, it was more than just changing a few behaviors. By then, I'd seen God in a way that made me long for the purity I'd disdained as a youth. I wanted to be washed clean and made new. I was finally ready to be "that good."

I was so tired of my stupid decisions and self-destructive habits. Cigarettes were the least of my problems, after the life I'd lived, but I wanted to be free from all of it—substance free and dependence free, physically and emotionally. I wanted God to remove my shortcomings and restore me to an innocence I had never truly known or appreciated. After years of looking down on the "good" people, thinking them pathetic and boring, now I wanted to be free from sin, with the full assurance of faith.

A couple of years ago, my church supported a team for a Walk a Mile in Her Shoes event benefiting our local domestic abuse shelter. In a nut shell, the annual event gives men an opportunity to "walk a mile in her shoes," both literally and figuratively, to bring visibility to the topic of sexual violence. Men accomplish this mission by marching together in bright red high heels.

Yes, it's a silly way to highlight a serious issue. And it's also a really effective way to get a community talking about a topic no one wants to touch with a ten-foot pole.

While working to raise awareness for the event, I heard a lot of crappy comments from a lot of guys, mostly geared toward the presumed masculinity of other men involved. But I let the boys be boys. I sat there with a smile and didn't say anything, because I don't have to say everything I know, and I know they didn't know who they were talking to.

It's a statistical certainty that we each know someone affected by sexual violence, whether or not we know it. As one of those statistics myself (whether or not many people know that), I rolled my eyes at the comments made by my male coworkers, and I felt deeply, acutely, indescribably honored by the pastors, husbands, fathers, and sons of my church who showed up to participate in this particular event.