"I had to think whether I loved my drugs or my kids more. It hit me in an instant."

So said an IR story about Amy Johnson, a mother of three whose children were taken from her because of her drug use.

After her children were removed, Amy kept using and fell into deep depression. Finally one day she entered a church, a place she hadn't been in years. Apparently her brokenness allowed God's still, small voice to pierce her pain and denial.

She knew she had to choose: children or drugs. She realized that her drug use was wrong and hurt her children and others, not only herself.

That very day she stopped using. While she struggled in withdrawal, her 29-year-old brother overdosed and died in her bathroom. His death, instead of spiraling her back into the abyss, motivated her to work hard to get her children returned. She succeeded, and the family is together now with a drug-free mom.

When I was young in eastern Iowa, I was sheltered and naive. I didn't even know the names of any drugs. Kids in my town drank beer and sloe gin. I was lucky. I disliked beer and sloe gin made me throw up.

But I was impetuous, sometimes rash, hard-headed, and more than a little cocky. I married very young, against my parents' wishes, had two children, and my marriage fell apart. In short, I was broken too, though I wouldn't have believed it.

I can't help wondering whether my story might have been even more difficult if I'd been young when Amy was, with crack cocaine, meth and opiates everywhere. Would I have done drugs if someone had shoved them at me during my teens? Probably. As it was, the very notion of drugs horrified me.

My life took a different direction. My brokenness wasn't addiction, it was insecurity, feeling unloved and lack of confidence. The hole in my soul was enormous. I came close to falling into it a few times.

I struggled for years to fill that hole with family, work and fun. These things are still central to my life. But the big change came when I, too, heard that still, small voice after my mom died. Fragments of childhood hymns floated through my head, calling me to prayer. I'd forgotten how to pray. Besides, why would God want to hear from me? I had to humble myself.

The breaking of the Communion bread represents the breaking of Jesus' body for all humanity. It also, when I reach for that holy bread, reveals my own soul's brokenness. Through Communion I first started healing, and that healing continues even now. Each time I take Communion I remember how broken I still am, and through it I become a little more whole.

Life isn't easy for Amy. I suspect it isn't easy for anyone. But God is stronger than all our troubles. Through Jesus' resurrection we learned that God is stronger than death. Jesus saves. Even me.

Joan Uda is a retired United Methodist minister who lives in Lewis and Clark County; joanuda@yahoo.com; www.riceuniverse.net/joanuda