Amazing Grace by Denice Jutras
A new day, a new beginning, a new blessing, a new hope.
That is what my testimony will be—sharing what my life was
like, what happened before God’s intervention, and how my life is today.
Growing Up
I was born and raised in a city in Massachusetts, in a
French neighborhood and schooling. Everything looked good on the outside, but
behind closed doors it was another world.
At home, my father was very strict. At the dinner table, we
weren’t allowed to laugh or even speak. Punishments could be harsh. I remember
being hit with a Navy belt or forced to kneel in a closet for an hour.
My two older siblings left home as soon as they could,
leaving me and my younger sister behind. By six years old, I had my first
drink. By twelve, I was drinking and using drugs. By fourteen, I was hanging
out with a gang. Anything to numb the pain.
Much of my childhood is missing from my memory bank. The
trauma was too painful, so I blocked it out. Sometimes other family members
would bring something up, and I’d say, “I don’t remember that.” But I knew it
happened.
Because of drinking and drugging, I never learned how to be
a child. Instead, I got involved in crime. The only thing I wouldn’t do was
break into homes—I thought that was too personal. But stealing cars? That
seemed fine to me back then.
School Years
I spent nine years in Catholic school. We recited prayers in
French and English, sang in the choir, and listened to sermons. But I never
remember learning the Bible.
In eighth grade, I started stealing for classmates. They
would give me lists of what they wanted, and I’d bring it to them. They paid
me, and the money went straight to alcohol.
One day, a nun pulled me aside after someone told on me. She
asked if my parents knew. I lied and said yes, they had just found out. They
hadn’t. Lies upon lies—clearly not obeying the Ten Commandments.
By high school, things got worse. I skipped classes, smoked,
stole, and drank. In my senior year, I was even nominated “Detention Queen.” I
didn’t win. With 650 students, most didn’t even know me—I was never in school.
The only class I cared about was creative writing. It was
the only place I could express myself freely. One poem I wrote went like this:
By the sewer I lived,
By the sewer I died,
They said it was murder,
But it was sewer side.
I think I was crying out for help, longing to be free of all
the pain.
Military Life and After
After high school, my sister and I both joined the Air
Force. We never talked about our home life, but we both needed to escape. She
went in before me.
Drinking and drugs followed me into the military. It felt
normal because everyone else was doing it. The only difference was I no longer
stole—moving from base to base threw my game off.
When I left the service, civilian life was difficult. My
drinking and drugging escalated quickly. I went to my first rehab in New
Hampshire. Thirty days there, but I still used cocaine while inside. Friends
smuggled it in during visits. They even let us have our cars on site, so I
skipped classes to go to the beach. Needless to say, I didn’t learn much about
sobriety or spirituality.
After rehab, I told my friends I couldn’t drink anymore—but
I could still do drugs. We fought a lot because I was greedy, wanting it all
for myself. Later that year, I overdosed in a motel room and ended up in a
psych ward for a month. Even there, I used whenever I could.
Over the years, I went through three more rehabs and another
psych ward. I also started attending 12-step meetings. Back then, you couldn’t
call yourself an addict, only an alcoholic. After a year, they gave me a
sobriety celebration. But I was high at the meeting. The guilt led me to reset
my sobriety date.
Twenty Years and a Relapse
Somehow, I managed to stay sober for nearly twenty years.
But all through those years, I never grasped the spiritual part of recovery. I
went through the motions of church, but never really turned to God.
During that time, my mother developed dementia. My sister
and I cared for her at home until she passed. It was exhausting, and I stopped
going to meetings. I didn’t share my feelings and never turned to God. Shortly
after her death, I relapsed.
The Hardest Years
The next six years were hell. At 49, I married for the first
time. My husband was 12 years younger. We were both drinking and drugging. At
first, I still had a good job and income, but soon addiction consumed
everything.
I stopped paying property taxes and lost our home to
foreclosure. Two of my cars were repossessed. Eventually, I lost my job. We
ended up pushing a shopping cart around town, collecting bottles to pay for
booze.
My 3½-year-old stepson lived with us. He told my husband we
had to stop this vicious cycle. But addiction had us.
My husband carried deep guilt. At 17, he had killed someone
while driving drunk, and he never forgave himself.
In 2008, his mother was in the hospital, dying. He kept
saying, “I should die before my mom because I was a bad kid.” That night,
before bed, he told me, “Two years and 15 days ago was the happiest day of my
life when I married you.” Two hours later, he died in bed at age 39. His mother
died the next day.
My heart was crushed. I had waited until 49 to marry, and
then God took him away. I was furious with God. I sank into despair, suicidal,
and stayed in bed for six months. My sister finally came over and shouted at me
to get up. She told me Joe would not want me to stop living. Eventually, I got
up.
My stepson, now six, went back to his mother so she could
collect Social Security benefits. Another blow—I never had children of my own.
Once again, I felt God was punishing me.
A New Chapter
In 2009, I went back to meetings. Still angry at God, still
spiritually empty. I felt the urge to run away. In 2011, I finally did—moving
to Maine to live with my sister. I knew no one, had no home, and stayed in a
motel room with four cats.
I forced myself to attend a meeting in Houlton. Later, I
found a home in Hersey and wanted a meeting closer. My realtor, Beth Bates,
suggested I check out the Methodist Church in Patten. Pastor David welcomed me,
and my journey with this church began.
At first, I still went to the Catholic Church, but
eventually I joined here. Even so, spirituality was missing. I think I was
still angry at God.
Then COVID hit. Suddenly, no church, no meetings—just me and
my thoughts. It was during that time I began connecting to my Higher Power,
whom I now choose to call God. One day I felt something different. It was like
God put His arm around me. For the first time, I knew He had always been there.
After COVID, I tried going back to my Catholic Church. I
thought I missed the sacraments, but it didn’t feel like family. I returned to
Stetson—and found my true family.
Today
Today, I am fully committed to this church. I am especially
thankful for the women here. Most of my life, I only spent time around men. Now
I have strong, healthy friendships with women. I am especially grateful for
Doris. I don’t know why we click, but we do. God works in mysterious ways.
I thank God for sending Pastor Joyce and her family. At
first, I was nervous about what changes she might bring, but it has been a
blessing. Thank you, Terry and Chrissy, for teaching Bible study and for
answering all my questions. After nine years of Catholic school, I knew nothing
about the Bible. Now, I am learning. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.
Looking back, I know God has always been with me—even when I
was a “bag baby” in California, too young to be a bag lady. Time after time, He
saved me.
There are many more stories of trauma and even about my
years working as a correctional officer. But the most important truth is this:
God never left me, even when I was lost in darkness. Thank you for listening.
Thank you most of all for being my new family and guiding me on my spiritual
journey.
I am home at last.
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