"The day I became free of alcohol was the day that I fully understood and embraced the truth that I would not be giving anything up by not drinking"
--- Liz Hemingway (Author)
This is a true story. It isn't a story about aliens. It's a close encounter of another kind. Zombies. Or at least the closest thing to them.
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THE INTOXICATED ZOMBIES
I ran into my first drunk encounters on day two in Mexico, on Wednesday, September 17, 2014. I hesitate to label them as “drunkards” because I feel like that word dehumanizes a person. It's horrible to label a person based on their worst attribute.
We were perusing the streets of Monterreal between appointments. The first stranger could hardly walk straight yet his hand clasped around his brown glass beer bottle like it had a mind of its own. Like the Spider-Man villain, Doc Ock, mind and body under the influence of a sinister third-party puppeteer which had become an inseparable part of him. He bellowed unintelligible mumbles as he wobbled slowly towards us like a Walking Dead character. At that moment, he seemed more zombie than human.
Alcohol is a serious and very real problem which you can read all about in my post "Word of Wisdom: A Code of Health"! Its cost exceeds any dollar amount alone. It robs a person of their agency, sensibility, and strength (See "The Return of the King -- Part 1"). But it does come at a financial cost as well, not only in and of itself at shelf value, but in the damage it does to one's own health and well-being, and the tragic events that befall those under the influence, and the innocents who are in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's an inhibitor that impedes one's ability to reason. It turns otherwise good men and women into fools. It numbs the Holy Ghost's ability to reach our hearts and minds. I watched innumerable struggling souls plead for us to help them but many without the strength of will to so much as put down the bottle. I plead for us to avoid alcohol consumption at all costs. Any way you choose to look honestly at it, it's not worth it.
In my naivety as an 18-year-old missionary wanting to help others in any way I could, I almost walked over to see why this stranger with the bottle was calling us over! But instead, my trainer Elder Howard from Idaho (See "Testimonies and Trainers"), without skipping a beat, warned me to keep walking and to not so much as look the stranger in the eye. Before I knew what was happening, he turned me in the opposite direction. He told me to walk faster and the next thing I knew we were sprinting around the corner out of his sight. I don’t know why exactly. It wasn’t like this old inebriated man could catch us in his wobbly, probably double-visioned condition. I was rattled nonetheless at the thought of what could happen if I wasn’t careful. People aren't themselves when drunk! They're unpredictable. I was learning what it meant to mourn for the sins of the world (3 Nephi 28:9) because I can tell you now, up to that moment, I don't think my heart ached for anyone like it did for that unfortunate man ignorant of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I was witnessing the physical effects of sin in people’s lives and although I knew that we had the spiritual medicine to cure them, they would not swallow. Alcohol was their "drug" of choice and they couldn't take our medicine with alcohol.
We soon came across another drunk man. That evening as we were making our way West closer to home, the mid-September sun was still out and strong but lowering, giving everything that warm golden-hour glow. I still remember it like it was yesterday; we were standing adjacent to the train tracks that led toward home.
The man spotted our identifying white shirts and speedily made his way towards us. I heard his shouting and turned around to see him and must not have realized that Elder Howard kept walking, leaving me to confront him on my own. I wasn’t scared "danger-wise" because this man was shorter than me (As many of the Mexican people were). But as I said, drunk people are not in their right minds and are unpredictable as was this man.
I stood there immobile as the man approached me on my own. Suddenly, without warning, again loudly mumbling Spanish, he took hold of my hands by the wrists forcibly slapping them on his inclined head, and asked that I pray for him to receive, and I quote, “The blessings of heaven”. With my hands still on his head in paralyzing shock, I rotated my neck enough to call out to Elder Howard for help on what to do. “Should I give him a blessing?”. Elder Howard promptly returned to my rescue and told him, “Okay, Hermano, if you want to pray we’ll pray for you but you have to fold your arms”. He allowed me to remove my hands from his head, he folded his arms, we said a little prayer asking Heavenly Father to keep the man safe (If anything, safe from any trains that might come by) and we continued on our way. The man didn’t bother us again. I don’t think we ever saw him again. What a way to start out a mission as a brand new, almost 19-year-old kid in a foreign country! I must say, growing up in Utah, I'm glad that most of the people I know don't drink and I never have to experience anything remotely like that again.
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