There are two helpful ideas that was presented to me back in 2011 and recorded in this blog:
“There are two things that the guide said that I would like to remember from this last session. One was that Facts are our Friends. When looking over the validity or power of an idea, look at the facts.
The second is that when we pray, when we send out a petition into the universe, Gomu initiates a process as the answer. We tend to look at our prayers as trips to a vending machine. God cannot be milked like a cow.”
Also, I heard a productive veteran in recovery state that “everything that happens to you in life prepares you for what happens next.” He stated that this realization can help you resist self-pity and useless doubts.
Reflection: The Process Is the Answer
There’s a humility that grows in us, slow and quiet, like moss along the underside of a stone we no longer try to throw. I’ve learned in recovery not to ignore the small phrases that stick in my chest like anchors. Phrases like “Facts are our friends” and “The process is the answer.” These aren’t just clever sayings; they’re handholds in the climb back to truth.
When I first heard “Facts are our friends,” it felt sterile, almost clinical. I didn’t want facts. I wanted relief. But what I’ve come to understand is that facts—when filtered through grace—become a kind of grounding. Not every thought deserves to be treated as true. Not every feeling needs to steer the ship. Sometimes, the most spiritual thing I can do is pause and ask: What are the facts? What’s actually happening right now, not just in my fear or fantasy? This doesn’t dismiss emotion—it gives it a container to rest in.
The second insight—that prayer is not a vending machine, but an initiation of process—landed deeper. In early recovery, I wanted prayers to work like button presses: I insert faith, and out comes comfort or clarity. But Gomu, or God, or the animating Spirit of the universe, is not a cow to be milked. It’s more like a current that begins to shape reality slowly after I ask. Prayer often doesn’t fix the outer world—it sets a sequence into motion that prepares me to meet the world differently.
That’s where the words of the veteran make sense: “Everything that happens to you in life prepares you for what happens next.” It’s a principle of sacred compost. Even my worst mistakes—especially my worst mistakes—are not wasted in this path. Pain becomes instruction. Confusion becomes contrast. And when I pray, I am not sending up a wish—I am entering an agreement to walk a road that may change me more than my circumstances.
This kind of thinking doesn’t come naturally to me. My default is self-pity. My reflex is doubt. But I’ve learned to pause and let the facts speak, to let the process breathe, and to let grace do what grace does best: convert the ordinary into the holy. Not through magic. But through motion. Through surrender. Through the next right action, again and again.
So today I ask not for a miracle on demand, but for the courage to stay with the unfolding. Because somewhere deep in that unfolding is the answer I really need.
Daily Reprieve 
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