by albion » Tue May 23, 2006 4:12 pm
Here's an 1988 article that narrates MWS's experience with substance abuse. According to this, his wild years were 1976-1979. It's an all-American story of sin and redemptionn, although I suppose one could read between the lines in places.<br><br><!--EZCODE QUOTE START--><blockquote><strong><em>Quote:</em></strong><hr><!--EZCODE BOLD START--><strong>Michael W. Smith Looks Back</strong><!--EZCODE BOLD END--><br>The pop prodigal looks back<br>By Jim Long<br><br>The linoleum was probably brown and tan, he says, but Smitty doesn't recall exactly. Nor does he recall how he got there, face down on the kitchen floor of his Nashville apartment, crying. What he does remember—vividly so—is what led to that uncomfortable evening in November, 1979. After all, it had taken three years to wind up there, sprawled across the cool, hard linoleum. A lot of misspent effort had gone into this brokenness.<br><br>That evening, alone with his depression and regret, Michael W. Smith was certain of one thing: He could not go on as he had been. There had to be a change. A change he was powerless to bring about on his own.<br><br>[...]<br><br>To hear Michael describe it all now, childhood, right up through his high-school years, was happy. Secure in his parents' love. Involved in church. Close to God. So what went wrong?<br><br>Why'd Smitty go off the deep end?<br><br>It began in his junior year, 1976, this radical, negative change. How can you describe it? Michael simply flipped out. First, he drifted into a hypocritical, double life; then he ran from faith altogether. It didn't help that Michael lost his "support group." Those older Christians moved away, went off to college, took jobs, got married. As that group changed, Michael struggled to find support; he simply did not have the strength to stand alone without that circle of stronger, helpful friends. He felt a growing loneliness. And he slipped away from faith.<br><br>"I started kind of 'going out to lunch.' When I graduated, I don't know if I was mad at God or what. I don't know. But I just lost touch."<br><br>This about-face put his parents' values, his church's beliefs, God himself, behind him. Smitty soon turned from it all and walked away.<br><br>But walked away to what?<br><br>Michael had only three aspirations over the years: When he was 8, he figured he should be either an astronaut or a professional baseball player. With a few years of maturity, he dumped both of those ideas in favor of a career in music. One year of music studies and goofing off at a local college only bored him, and put him in closer touch with the wrong kind of influences. Yet his musical interests—writing and performance—continued to grow. A friend, Shane Keister, a session player in Nashville, had encouraged him, "If music's really in your blood, you should probably move to Nashville."<br><br>[...]<br><br>"I really started losing touch when I moved to Nashville, around April of '78. I was smokin' marijuana, drinking, doing some other drugs; just being crazy, you know. My mom and dad knew what I was doing. Mom later told me that she had found a bag of pot under my mattress when I was still living at home. But they never hassled me, they just prayed for me. And I felt convicted by God. Every time I'd wake up I knew: This isn't me. But I couldn't change myself."<br><br>[...]<br><br>"On one of my visits home—soon after my move to Nashville—Dad took me aside, out on the front porch, and talked to me about smoking pot. It was really strange. A very simple, direct message: 'You're going to have to quit smoking this marijuana. You know it's not right.' He wasn't hard; he was just so gentle, and all I could say was, 'I know, Dad. I know.'<br><br>"What could I say? I couldn't defend myself. What was there to defend? Dad was right."<br><br>Nevertheless, Michael returned to Nashville unchanged.<br><br>Within a few months, things were looking brighter musically. Opportunities were coming up to do some club work. His parents had signed a promissory note so he could buy his first synthesizer, and he was busy polishing his keyboard skills. Then Smitty received a particularly significant call from a band that was looking for a keyboard player. Here was the chance to play five nights a week, promising about $1,200 a month.<br><br>"I went over and met the guys in the band. They were all long-haired rock 'n' rollers. Somebody had a joint lit, but I didn't think anything of it. These guys were really good musicians. I liked them and they seemed to like me. I thought, This is the ticket! Three hundred dollars a week, no slaving away to plant shrubs. I'm finally going to get to do what 1 really want to do. So I joined the band. I moved in with one of the band members and his wife; they needed help paying the rent. That's when I found out this guy was a drug dealer. There were all kinds of drugs coming in and out of this place. I still can't believe that all of this happened to me.<br><br>"I was at a crossroads: If this guy got busted, I would get busted, too. And I was also feeling this heavy conviction from God. It was like, here he was, protecting me, but I felt so unworthy. So guilty. But I stayed there for two or three months, doing the club thing. Then I moved out. And I felt so relieved to put that behind me.<br><br>"A month later, one of the guys called to let me know that Red, one of the drug contacts who was always coming over and bringing two, three, 400 hits of LSD—all kinds of stuff—had been found on the interstate with four bullets in his head. And I'm thinking, I lived over there! What's going on? It really flipped me out. And I just kept thinking, Oh, God, what am I doing? Get me out of this thing. That's what I begged for every night and every morning when I woke up."<br><br>This prayer, calling out, flailing to reach God, was not new to Michael. Less than a month into his "crazy mode," he had started praying: "God, get me out of this . …" But he went on in his guilt-stirring ways for three years. Three years, as he now describes it, of "just floating out there, not quite able to grab onto God, yet feeling Satan really had a grip on me."<br><br>[...]<br><br>That November night in Nashville, 1979; that night in the kitchen of his apartment; that night on the linoleum floor, the full weight of his wasted living fell on him. He buckled under the burden of his guilt and restlessness. And he cried: "Lord, I can't do it. I am really going to commit my life to you. I want you to intervene in my life."<br><br>Sounds familiar. Wasn't this what he'd been crying to God about for three years already?<br><br>Not quite.<br><br>"Up to that point, I would pray, 'Oh God, get me out of here. Do whatever you've got to do. Break my legs, whatever, just get my attention.' Then I would kind of leave it all alone and say, 'Where's the joint, man?' But that night was different. That night I just got sick of it. I knew I was never going to be happy until I got myself right with God. That night I finally said, 'OK, God. I'm yours.'<br><br>"I prayed that prayer, and when I woke up the next day, I felt refreshed. I felt like it was a new day."<br><br><!--EZCODE ITALIC START--><em>more:</em><!--EZCODE ITALIC END--><br><br><!--EZCODE AUTOLINK START--><a href="http://www.christianitytoday.com/cl/1988/003/1.56.html">www.christianitytoday.com.../1.56.html</a><!--EZCODE AUTOLINK END--><br><hr></blockquote><!--EZCODE QUOTE END--><br><br>According to Wikipedia, he was born in 1957. During the above-mentioned period he would have been about 18 to 22, so it's not really unusual that he was a bit wayward at that age. And FWIW, according to his own account, he didn't meet GHWB until 1989, when he was about 32. <br><br>But yes, one could certainly read between the lines... <p></p><i></i>