It was my job, I thought, to sort out what this was supposed to be. I knew that God would tell me in a still, small voice, and that to hear the message, I had to get very quiet on regular basis. But the chatterbox in my brain — the one screaming, “Danger! Danger! Do something, anything!” made this very difficult.

The ugliest part of all of this was the sheer realisation of how unhealthily attached I was to money. Without a secure, steady supply, I felt useless. Somehow, money had become a kind of a god to me.

Certainly our culture places far too much emphasis on money as a measure of a person’s worth. I didn’t think I was like that, but there it was, plain as day. This was not at all what I wanted to believe about myself. As often as I could, I made myself stand still and let my angry and hurt feelings wash over me.

As an antidote to the fear, I listed and counted my blessings — even when I felt unblessed. And I rallied my support system. Over the years, I have made many friends to whom I can turn for wisdom and counsel, especially in times when I feel I need them most.

I made at least a phone call a day to one of them — rotating my calls so I wouldn’t burn any one of them out with what often turned out to be ranting or whining.

I went to at least one meeting a week of my support group. My path has, in the last four years, involved a more formal religious fellowship; in that time I’ve missed only a handful of Sundays. — Beliefnet.com