- Alcohol
- Drugs
- Faith
Hello, I’m a grateful follower of Jesus Christ and they call me Chap (although my given name is Robert). Just a little aside comment– some of the names mentioned in this testimony have been changed for anonymity purposes.
I was born in Hammond, Indiana, on January 28, 1957, to Richard and Kathryn Schoon of Lansing, Illinois. I am the youngest of seven children who, by the way, beat the odds because of the seven, four of us are left-handed and three right-handed. When you add my parents into the picture, my dad made five of us southpaws and mom was part of the minority. I guess I was meant to pull double-duty as the spoiled and the spoiler. Spoiled because being the youngest, I had a lot of things the others didn’t. The spoiler because the twins, my brother Dick and sister Cherie, lost that title to me since I was born when they were six years-old. They did the same thing to our sister Judi. We are third and fourth generation Americans of Dutch ancestry or Hollanders, as the Dutch refer to themselves, and probably tenth generation Christians. My parents married in 1937 and began the family right away with children spanning over 19 years.
When I was around five years-old I learned the word “tavern.” This was because my dad had found a new adult playground (he’d begun his drinking career). Throughout my childhood, the so-called family secret was my dad’s drinking problem. Being raised in the Reformed Church, this would be the dark secret that everybody (including the church leadership) knew about. Because of this and my mom not having a driver’s license, we were absent from evening service, youth group, catechism, etc. When Mom got her license at 49 years-old, however, that changed. The arguments didn’t. What I remember of the arguments were the violence and the twins and I sitting in a corner crying in fear and sadness.
When Dad was drunk, he didn’t need a reason to voice his opinion loudly and constantly. This gave reason for Mom to jump to the rescue of the victim, whether they were present or not. His selected subjects over the years consisted of a myriad of things that irritated him. People who voted democrat, people that drove Chevys, people who were Catholic, and in my youth, guys with long hair. The grudges would change as time went on. After a period of time his grumblings became drunk weeping. Through his tears he would moan and groan about how God hated him. Through every one of Dad’s liabilities, Mom (a devout believer) ran through the gamut of codependent defenses. Needless to say, dysfunctionality ran rampant in my family. Through all the unrest, we kids were raised in church and witnessed to on a daily basis by Mom. Looking back I have to agree that the root reason my siblings and I are Christians today is due to my mom’s drug problem. She drug us to church all the time.
Now that I’ve given you the background, allow me to continue with my story. I grew up spoiled. I got a lot of things that other kids, including my siblings, didn’t. I attribute that to the fact that I was the youngest child and my parents’ patience had long been expended by the time I came along. The line of thinking here: “Give him what he wants and he’ll leave us alone.” On the other side of the coin, my mom ensured that we had a Christian upbringing. Sheltered yet somewhat exposed, I learned some life lessons that most kids I knew didn’t. I became an uncle at 3 years-old when my sisters Karen and Virginia gave birth within a couple months of each other to my two oldest nieces. Nothing wrong with that, they were married more than a year before. However, when my sister Donna gave birth a year after that to my nephew Mike and was unmarried, I thought she was just at the age when ladies had babies. I guess that’s just how four year-olds think.
Therein lay one of my first recollections of my father’s expressions of angst. I witnessed more arguments than I can ever remember. If discretion is the better part of valor, valor in any form was uncommon in our household. Experiencing my family at their best and worst at a young age was the start of my descent into co-dependency. Ever the tattler, I can remember an argument between Dad and Donna that ended with Dad having the last word and Donna grabbing some pills and taking them. I instantly ran out to the shop and told my dad that she was taking sleeping pills like Marilyn Monroe. It turned out they were just Excedrin. At five years-old, I thought it was my duty to keep the world perfect (even if was just in my family). Co-dependent and spoiled, wow.
Time passed and I entered school. I wasn’t a very good student, yet not much of a discipline problem there, but I was a terror to my nieces and nephew and siblings. Sports weren’t my thing and I was the slowest runner, worst catcher an overall non-athlete and the brunt of ridicule among the other kids. My perfect world had begun to tarnish. When I was eight, we’re in gym class and I was being chased by “IT,” I turned my head to see how close he was, when I turned forward I slammed full on into a 1ft by 3 ft. wooden beam. It knocked me out cold. I barely remember the gym teacher dragging me to the office to see the nurse. I was sent home.
During this time my dad’s rage became focused on my brother, who would eventually be forced to quit school to work in the body shop. The yelling and whippings still make me shiver. I was an added bonus to my father’s angst as well. I had been taking guitar lessons and as I would leave for my lesson, my dad would loudly yell out in front of the help “There goes Robert Schoon the Great, who’d never make a pimple on musician’s posterior, much less a musician” (except that his spelling for posterior was only 3 letters long).
Fast forward to seventh grade, spring of 1970, when my only brother, just 8 months married, was drafted and left for Army boot camp at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Inevitably he would go to Vietnam. More reason for Dad to drink and cry; and his anger would focus on me. The summer of ’70 would not be like summers had been in the past. Upon returning from Lan-Oak swimming pool during the first few days of summer vacation, I found my parents involved in a heated argument. I was told that I would be in the body shop working from 8:30 to 5:30 daily for the entire summer. Oh brother, please come back! Dick returned home in early spring of 1971.
The following September I started high school. A shy, awkward, chubby kid, I was afraid to talk to girls and was in the uncool crowd. In the late fall of that year our church had a Lay-Witness Mission. This was a weekend event that started with me being drug to the first phase of the weekend, Friday night spaghetti dinner, which was followed by an evening of sharing by young Christian teens. There were more activities Saturday and then Sunday was the finale. After a brief program in the sanctuary, Sunday school began with a very awkward teen-age boy giving testimony. The class had been making fun of the the young man when suddenly Roy, one of my best friends, flew out of the room. The young man continued his testimony and Roy re-entered the room in tears. Roy said how he had been wrong for so long and had accepted Jesus into his life. That evening many of the teens in the church (including me) accepted The Lord Jesus Christ a s our savior. Wow, my heart was supercharged with the invincible love of Christ. But being a fourteen year-old Christian in public school was a lot harder than I thought it would be, and I was the brunt of much ridicule.
I witnessed to friends and began attending Campus Life Meetings (part of youth for Christ). The first night we attended was cold and snowy. The other newly born-again kids showed up at my house, more than could fit in my mom’s station wagon. We piled all of them in the ’67 Mercury Commuter. I’m guessing about 15 in a 9 passenger wagon. A close (licensed) friend drove. Would you believe when we walked out of the meeting one of the tires was flat tire? Later, I would bring some close friends from school to the meetings with me. My friends, through attending these meetings, told me how they discovered the power of prayer.
In sophomore year I joined a bowling league with these friends. Then one thing led to another and I began dating. I beg an to dabble in drinking about this time as well. I was quick to fall in love and slow to let go. I felt that I needed to change the girl I was dating (yet I was in love?). Co-dependency had made its first appearance (in my dating career anyway). In the summer of 1973 my drinking agenda consisted of 4 to 6 beers on any given weekend. My first relationship lasted a week. The longest relationship of my high school dating career was 9 months; it was in this relationship that I was introduced to marijuana.
During Christmas vacationing, I along with a classmate had started “Mannequin Glow,” my garage band. It’s funny that when you change lifestyle, you trade playmates and playgrounds. Weed became pretty much my daily routine. Soon came the occasional mescaline or acid trip. It was also during that same time (February 18, 1974) my sister Cherie, 23 years-old, with a husband and 2 little kids, died suddenly. That event, I believe hastened my downward spiral.
One day while warming up my car outside of my house before school, I decided to roll a couple joints. Suddenly I looked up and saw my mother on the front porch shaking her finger at me. I, of course faced it like a good druggie…I threw the car into reverse and took off to school. When school let out, I was greeted by big brother who had searched my car, found my long lost wooden pipe and ordered me home to face the music. While my parents and I were vehemently discussing my misbehavior, two police detectives walked into the house. My father immediately handed one of them my pipe thinking they were there because of me. They had actually come to report that the cause of my sister’s death was from cyanide poisoning. An extreme tailspin would ensue.
By the summer of 1974, I was smoking weed, dropping acid, downers, and snorting whatever came along, including PCP and huffing whatever. I drank more heavily as well. I ran away from home twice. One afternoon after my dad returned us home from the second road trip I told my mom that I was done putting up with their rules and rebelliously walked off with my friends: destination Wampum Lake where drugs were almost always in abundance. After we’d gotten about a ½ mile away my brother pulled up on his motorcycle jumped off and we began to wrestle in the doorway of the Ace Hardware Store on Indiana Avenue and Torrence in Lansing. One of our church deacons (the brother of CBS newsman Harry Smith) broke us up and brought us to his car and made me agree to go see our church pastor. I did and my dad attended the meeting as well and agreed that I would have my freedom to leave.
That night while walking with my so-called friends past our neighbor’s house, my dad, who was standing in the yard, called one of my friends a name that sounds similar to dip-stick. A brief exchange of words happened and when one of them cursed out my dad, I felt ashamed because I was raised not to treat my elders like that. Was there a little bit of heart showing through in me? Hmmm…. Things really didn’t change a whole lot, except my parents didn’t ride me too much for a while and they would lock the door at night whether I was home or not. One time I decided to shinny up one of the patio supports, climb up the roof to the peak, walk along the ridge to the dormer gable that was my room, grab the roof truss and while tethering forty feet in the air, open my bedroom window and climb in. Every time I pass that old house now I can’t believe I did that. I decided I was a tortured soul/wannabe rock-star yet with no motivation except to get high. I did nothing but get high on whatever I found.
Believe it or not, I did start my senior year of high school the following September anyway. My grades were so bad that they would have been better if I didn’t show up at all. That, along with my frequent ditching, caused my dad to tell me that I was going to quit school. I replied that he couldn’t make me (basically because that’s where my drug connections were). He said otherwise, and I grabbed a butcher knife and went at him. Big brother grabbed me from behind (there he was again, always there to knock me in line); within minutes I saw the inside of my first jail cell. My dad refused to press charges. I spoke with the school police counselor and stayed in school for the time being.
Once, when the drug supply was going through a dry spell, some friends of mine who I will call the Jason Brothers along with cohorts Rip and Snake, flagged me down about a block from the house and told me that they had a half gallon of vodka and asked if I wanted to drink it with them. I naturally agreed and we stopped at the IGA for a mixer. Does anybody remember Canfield’s Honey Orange Soda? We went over to Sweet Woods South and drank it beside a fire we made in the shelter. After an hour of getting intoxicated, the younger of the Jason’s took my car and knocked down a split rail fence. We chased him down, piled in and headed to the Lansing Burger King for some solid food. The next part gets fragmented. Parking my car at Illiana Christian High School –Snake and Rip jumping a couple of Illiana students– a police squad car involved in a fender bender — running from police and hiding in a ditch. I remember peering over the railroad tracks next to the ditch and seeing Bob Jason and Snake in handcuffs. Rip and I got away.
A month later I was beaten up at a party while trying to make a drug deal. The next day, after giving some thought to a pamphlet I received from the U.S. Marine Corps, I came home and asked my dad to take me to the recruiter the following morning. My folks signed the papers a few days later and I had a month to kill before reporting for duty, and that’s what happened to my goody goody reputation, which believe it or not was still intact; it died. During that month of waiting, I went from the good kid that no one would suspect to one of the usual suspects.
I was told on more than one occasion by the by representatives of the Lansing Police Department that if I didn’t go into the Marines on my departure date, I would be locked up for a long time: one time in particular was when I loaned my mom’s car to a friend for a short trip and he rear-ended a car that was parked and promptly took off. His account of the incident, which I believed to be true, was that had been cut off by a white Toyota causing the car to crash into a pole. Since my only had a learner’s permit, I went home and reported what he told me had happened, to my parents, using myself as the driver. Dad said we needed to go report it to the police. As I walked out the front door I noticed a Lansing Squad Car was in our driveway. The officer called me over and, using very colorful language, encouraged me to depart for boot camp in a timely manner.
On December 30th, 1974, I reported for duty at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island, South Carolina, aka “Boot Camp.” You may not believe this, but the Corps was a rude awakening for me. Too many drugs and no exercise had left me a marshmallow. I failed the initial Physical Fitness Test (PFT) and was sent to PCP (Physical Conditioning Platoon). My 3 month boot camp cycle had been extended. I spent two months in PCP including a week in the Dispensary with severe bronchitis. After a while, about 10 of us from PCP were picked up by the drill instructors of 1st Battalion, B Company, Platoon 124. It would be a few days before the rest of the platoon would be picked up. On the day of our initial PFT, I failed one of the three events (3 being pull-ups, sit-ups and a 1.5 mile run), but was kept in the platoon anyway. In fact our Sr. Drill Instructor kept almost all of us. While the other platoons were whittled down from 80 to 30 recruits by graduation, ours went from 80 to 72 and stayed there. Too ensure my success, I vowed to never again drink or do drugs, and I constantly prayed.
On May 20th, 1975, I had officially earned the title of United States Marine. I was so proud. My daily prayers had been answered. I was one of the World’s Finest Fighting Force. I was drug-free too. My dad and mom were as proud as I was were at my graduation. I came home to a fanfare that I couldn’t believe. My brother, my sisters and their kids were all waiting to welcome me home. A huge “Welcome Home” sign adorned the front porch.
When the party ended, I went with some friends to my favorite haunt (Burger King). Did I mention I was drug-free? Well within minutes we were sitting in the alley passing a joint around. Drug-free no more! I returned to drinking and smoking pot regularly. Drugs were a lot easier to get ahold of in the service. After graduating from “A” school at Naval Air Station Memphis, I reported to Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, California. At El Toro, trainees were assigned their MOS or Military Occupational Specialty. We were also assigned to professional job training on our assigned aircraft. Three of us were sent to the Naval Air Station at Whidbey Island, Washington. On the flight to Seattle, we even smoked a joint during the landing in the open cabin.
Do you believe in omens? I don’t, but I guess that incident was a precursor to the next few months. While we had gotten away with it on the airplane, we got detained a few weeks later by the Shore Patrol for smoking weed in our room. What’s wrong with having a marathon shotgun contest? They took our names and let us go. I was back in a downward spiral. I met a woman, a Filipina, older than me. She was what’s known as a “WESPAC Widow.” In other words, a Navy wife whose husband was serving in the Western Pacific. They frequented the enlisted club to attract young service members, who, quite often accept their advances. I was one of them. She became pregnant, and I transferred back to California. We had an argument over the phone; I went UA (AWOL) for a month, then a couple weeks, then a day or two here and there. She divorced her husband and came down to California where we were married.
The news of my roommates and my detainment made it down to our command at El Toro and the Commanding Officer wanted our hides. Could I work a deal? I was awaiting court martial for desertion when I was called into the C.O.’s office. He told me that he would throw out the court martial and give me a lower form of punishment if I agreed to testify against the other two Marines involved. With a new wife and baby on the way, I felt I had no choice but to agree. I was given a suspended sentence which was vacated when I missed roll call and transferred to VMA (AW) 224 at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, North Carolina. I got into trouble there too. I skipped a couple days of work and my new commanding officer had me court martialed. The “convening authority” or judge had compassion on me, and I was given 3 weeks of extra-military instruction (something similar to KP). Oh, by the way, Rob, Jr. was born on September 10th, 1976.
I did a 180, I got promoted, and then I got certified to sign-off work done on the airplanes. I got promoted again meritoriously. My squadron went overseas in 1978. I extended my enlistment for six months so I would be able to go along. During this time though, I continued to smoke marijuana and drink. A sex addict, I was an unfaithful husband as well. In May of 1979, the squadron returned to Cherry Point. I had made it to the rank of corporal while overseas.
In August, I reenlisted for the first time and that October was promoted to sergeant with Mom, Dad, my wife and 3 year-old son watching proudly. I spent the next couple of years at Cherry Point. My daughter Rhiana was born on September 26th, 1980. I went overseas again in 1981. Upon returning in 1982, I got legally separated from my wife (unfaithfulness sometime goes two ways). With custody of my children, I reenlisted for my third hitch. I transferred in January 1983. This time I was heading back to Whidbey Island to teach. My wife suddenly wanted to make up and work on our marriage (remember I met her there). Surprisingly I was selected for staff sergeant my first time up. I was promoted in June.
My wife had a gambling problem, and I still had a roving eye; when we divorced in 1984, I gave her custody of Rob and Rhiana. My spiral restarted. I lost 50 pounds, I became a wild womanizer, I got arrested for drunk driving (I had stopped doing illegal drugs for over a year due to the military’s more stringent drug policy). I lost my license for one year. The good thing in all of it was my wife signed over custody of our two kids to me. The military required that I be screened for alcoholism. My boss suggested I get honest during the interview. I did and was recommended for level two (outpatient) drug and alcohol treatment.
I got completely sober for the first time in my life; I attended AA and NA meetings regularly, but remained a playboy. I got with every girl who would have me. One relationship included the young lady getting pregnant. I proposed, she accepted, and then within days broke up with me. She introduced me to my son Josh when he was 10 days old on my 29th birthday. That would be the last time I would see him for 21 years. She vowed to keep him away from me. On the rebound, I married a girl from AA. A terrible marriage from the start, we fought constantly. We transferred back to Cherry Point. A year later my squadron went overseas, and she promptly moved another man into the house.
On a cold rainy night in Okinawa, I got a “Dear John” phone call. After realizing I needed to once again come clean with my folks, I called them from the Philippines and reported what happened. My brother quickly flew out to North Carolina and got my daughter Rhiana. Rob, Jr., whom I had sent to Washington state for his own safety, also came to Chicago.
While in the Philippines, I met a girl and she became pregnant. After a couple months the squadron returned to the states. I intended to bring her to Cherry Point and marry her, but over time I became fearful that she would get to the states and promptly start carousing as many of my friends’ foreign wives did (Déjà vu all over again).
Enter Phoebe, a friend of my niece. She came to visit; we got engaged and were married for 10 years. We subsequently had three children; Addi Lin in July of 1989, Alli Kate in December 1990, and Drew Tyler in April of 1992. By the end of 1989 the aircraft that I worked on (The A6 Intruder) was quickly being phased out. I was transferred to a C-9 (or DC-9) Outfit. There was no MOS for C-9 aircraft; a jet engine is a jet engine. I was assistant non-in commissioned officer in charge of the powerline shop. We fixed the engines when they broke, reconfigured the seats and interior of the aircraft, and directed, inspected and serviced the aircraft. Some of us became flight attendants and aircrew chiefs.
The chance to actually fly was a dream that every airdale Marine has (even if he has worked on the plane himself). This allowed me the opportunity to serve in Operation Desert Storm, though briefly. Due to the demise of the intruder, promotions were scarce and I took a buy-out and received an Honorable Discharge on May 1st, 1992. Coming back home to the Chicago area was harder than I had anticipated. Phoebe’s parents pried into nearly every aspect of our marriage, and I had started drinking again after five years of sobriety. It was my way of drowning my sorrows. Money was scarce. Fights broke out all the time. Sometimes it was between Phoebe and me, her and Rhiana, Rhiana and the in-laws, me and Phoebe—the combinations seemed endless.
I had applied with the U.S. Postal Service and was hired in July of 1997. Soon I was making good money. In November my disability claim finally came back approved at 50% service connected. I stopped drinking again in ’98. Though the money problems were lessened, the personality conflicts persisted. Months earlier I met a nice lady named Cheryl. She was easy to talk to. She listened to me and I to her. She’d been in a bad marriage and she and her husband soon divorced. She and I became buddies. I now had the courage to leave the marriage I was in. After the divorce was final; Cher and I married. It was June of 1999.
Since our nuptials, we have had our ups and downs. My drinking started back up and I put on the jerk suit once again and became an obnoxious fool, until Halloween night seven years ago. I was acting so mean and out of hand that she called an ambulance to come and get me. When I heard that, I darted out of the house ran across the street and hid under the wooden porch of a three flat. At that time it occurred to me that I was 46 years-old and hiding like a naughty little boy. I stopped drinking immediately and haven’t touched a drop since.
We survived the raising of our children and we both returned to Christ in the summer of 2007 when a Marine buddy of mine named Larry Crites invited us to present Colors at the Oakview Center where his new church New Life South met. I had just been elected State Chaplain of the Marine Corps League and was wearing a military cover with the word CHAPLAIN embroidered on the side of the crown and was standing in the men’s room facing the wall when a guy came up beside me, read my hat. He then showed me his wallet and badge. He said he was the Palos Police Chaplain. That man became my mentor. He encouraged me to expand the chaplaincy into the community of Oak Forst. His name is Pastor Al Garcia and is one of my closest friends today.
Speaking of today: Today I am happily married to Cheryl (the girl of my dreams) and we celebrated our 12th anniversary on June 12th. Today I am seven years sober, three of which with Celebrate Recovery Today. I am an ordained Chaplain in a much deeper relationship with the Lord Jesus than I ever could have imagined. Today I am the Senior Police Chaplain for the Oak Forest Police Department. Today I have a great relationship with all seven of my kids and even married my son Josh and his wife Brandi. I also dedicated both of their children. Today I am a grandfather of six (five girls, one boy) . Today my youngest three children, Addi, Alli and Drew are attending college, as is my stepdaughter Kathleen. Today I am a co-leader of Celebrate Recovery. Today I am recovering and receiving a lot of victories, piece by piece. Today I am grateful for CR and most of all the Lord Jesus Christ for a lot of healing; and because of that, I think I’ll stick around. My chosen Bible verse for inspiration is Romans 12:2, which says, “Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect” (MSG). Thank you for your patience in letting me share my story. God bless all of you.