I have a serious problem, I am addicted to eating. I just cannot seem to stop. I suppose it is understandable, I come from a long line of eaters. We aren’t just your average eaters either, we are semi-professional quality. You can actually hear the whimpering when we approach the buffet line.
I’ve heard that Erasmus, the 16th century philosopher, got it wrong. Pandora didn’t open a box, she opened a storage jar. This makes sense to me, though it begs the question was it a pickle jar or a jelly jar? While Pandora’s Pickle Jar does seem daunting, I personally think that it was a jelly jar.
Can’t you just see the scene when Pandora popped the seal on that jar? First, two giant purple hands squeeze forth from the orifice. Next an ugly, bibulous head pops forth. Quickly after, the enormous remaining bulk oozes from the opening and the beast heaves itself upright. The jelly jar juggernaut slogs forth and in its wake from the jar bounces forth all sorts of delectable pieces of death. Lollipops bounce after donuts. Pizzas roll after cakes. Little ginger bread men charged out towards the unsuspecting world.
Perhaps, before Pandora did her dastardly deed, healthy food tasted irresistible. Spinach tasted like candy and even that vile weed, broccoli, was undeniably delicious. But is it possible that when the great tempter, the demon of gluttony, was released from Pandora’s Jelly Jar, he changed it all?
Is it so hard to believe, in our country rife with obesity and metabolic disorders, that something evil stalks us? Something that is twisted chases us with cake and baby-back ribs screaming, “Eat!” Later, it sneaks into our darkened rooms and whispers seductively about chocolate and cheesecake. In the dark night, the great purple beast bubbles laughter as it fattens us for slaughter.
One of my goals for this year is to slay Pandora’s spawn; to close the lid on the jelly jar demon forever. My strategy is to run it to death. I figure that the obese jelly-spawn is still chasing after me when I run, panting and dripping purple goo all the way. When I get back, my appetite is suppressed. Obviously, the beast is too tired to come after me. I can almost see him sprawled on the couch snoring loudly. He later tries to come back with a vengeance, but it is far easier to resist when I remember running my heart out earlier.
We each face and fight our personal demons. It takes rock hard perseverance and the hand of God to strengthen us. In the end, though, the battle is already won; we just have to persevere and stand to claim the victory.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Fundamental Differences
There are times when the fundamental differences between men and women rear their heads. What follows is a story of one of those times.
Five of us sat together at a round table in a restaurant. My infant son was surrounded by my wife and mother while my father and I sat next to each other on the far side. We had just ordered dinner and were settling in for a wait.
My son can be a bit of a clown and a flirt, and today he was going all out for the ladies. He was throwing his head back and forth in his best head banger impression. After hammering for a while, he would stop to watch the women’s reaction. Smiles and little claps induced him to greater and greater efforts. My mom even did a little head bang herself which made him giggle. My father and I looked at each other, eyes rolling. The little fellow was messing with one of the universal laws of guydom: Showing out for women generally has one result, pain.
Sure enough, it happened. My son threw his head extra far back, chin pointing to the roof. He accelerated forward and slammed his forehead into the table with a smack, a loud, wood wounding sound that resonated throughout the restaurant. In that instant the universe split. Masculine and feminine perspectives came into such dire conflict that they stood out for all to see, like lightening in the night sky.
The ladies seemed to be in a coordinated dance as near simultaneous gasps were accompanied by a synchronized turn toward the little one. Faces knitted with concern. Murmurs of comfort and gentle hands surrounded his head and back depositing kisses to draw away the sting. My son sat in that haze of sympathy and comfort. His eyes welled with tears.
On the other side of the table the men had a very different and yet similarly synchronized reaction. Hands raised and fingers pointed with military precision. Eyebrows popped up in surprise. Mouths opened and out came torrents of laughter accompanied by knee and table slapping. No sympathy was here, only the common humor of men who laugh at their friends when they bring misery upon themselves permeated this side of the table. If the boy had not been so intent on the girls attention, he wouldn’t have wacked his head. He had received his just reward and that reward was to be laughed at by other men.
It is one of those fundamental differences in men and women, I think. For instance, women have “frenemies”, a concept so unnatural to men that we simply attribute it to that brand of feminine mystery that we choose not to explore. Men laugh at each other’s stupidity, and most women don’t understand that either.
Why do we laugh? Men appreciate strength. If we are mature we don’t care for blind, stupid, macho strength. We do, however, appreciate calm, powerful, masculine leadership. Why do we laugh? We laugh because we have all been there. We laugh because by laughing we let those in pain know that it’s not serious enough for them to worry about; they will survive. We laugh because they knew better, or at least they do now. For men, pain is sometimes the only road to wisdom.
The brotherhood of men is a funny thing. As we get older we understand when the pain is beyond normal enduring. True brothers, those who have matured, will stand beside a truly hurt man quietly enduring the pain with him. They will enfold him in prayer. God help any poor demon that tries to break through that covering of calm, powerful, masculine leadership. However, those same men will laugh at you when you deserve it and when you need it. The ultimate lesson is when you learn to laugh at yourself. When you can reach back and bring up that pain, turn it on its head, and lead others in laughter, you are teaching. In the shared pain and laughter we learn and we grow, and thus wisdom is passed on.
I thank God for the women in my life who comfort us when we fail and for the men in my life who laugh at me when I deserve it.
Five of us sat together at a round table in a restaurant. My infant son was surrounded by my wife and mother while my father and I sat next to each other on the far side. We had just ordered dinner and were settling in for a wait.
My son can be a bit of a clown and a flirt, and today he was going all out for the ladies. He was throwing his head back and forth in his best head banger impression. After hammering for a while, he would stop to watch the women’s reaction. Smiles and little claps induced him to greater and greater efforts. My mom even did a little head bang herself which made him giggle. My father and I looked at each other, eyes rolling. The little fellow was messing with one of the universal laws of guydom: Showing out for women generally has one result, pain.
Sure enough, it happened. My son threw his head extra far back, chin pointing to the roof. He accelerated forward and slammed his forehead into the table with a smack, a loud, wood wounding sound that resonated throughout the restaurant. In that instant the universe split. Masculine and feminine perspectives came into such dire conflict that they stood out for all to see, like lightening in the night sky.
The ladies seemed to be in a coordinated dance as near simultaneous gasps were accompanied by a synchronized turn toward the little one. Faces knitted with concern. Murmurs of comfort and gentle hands surrounded his head and back depositing kisses to draw away the sting. My son sat in that haze of sympathy and comfort. His eyes welled with tears.
On the other side of the table the men had a very different and yet similarly synchronized reaction. Hands raised and fingers pointed with military precision. Eyebrows popped up in surprise. Mouths opened and out came torrents of laughter accompanied by knee and table slapping. No sympathy was here, only the common humor of men who laugh at their friends when they bring misery upon themselves permeated this side of the table. If the boy had not been so intent on the girls attention, he wouldn’t have wacked his head. He had received his just reward and that reward was to be laughed at by other men.
It is one of those fundamental differences in men and women, I think. For instance, women have “frenemies”, a concept so unnatural to men that we simply attribute it to that brand of feminine mystery that we choose not to explore. Men laugh at each other’s stupidity, and most women don’t understand that either.
Why do we laugh? Men appreciate strength. If we are mature we don’t care for blind, stupid, macho strength. We do, however, appreciate calm, powerful, masculine leadership. Why do we laugh? We laugh because we have all been there. We laugh because by laughing we let those in pain know that it’s not serious enough for them to worry about; they will survive. We laugh because they knew better, or at least they do now. For men, pain is sometimes the only road to wisdom.
The brotherhood of men is a funny thing. As we get older we understand when the pain is beyond normal enduring. True brothers, those who have matured, will stand beside a truly hurt man quietly enduring the pain with him. They will enfold him in prayer. God help any poor demon that tries to break through that covering of calm, powerful, masculine leadership. However, those same men will laugh at you when you deserve it and when you need it. The ultimate lesson is when you learn to laugh at yourself. When you can reach back and bring up that pain, turn it on its head, and lead others in laughter, you are teaching. In the shared pain and laughter we learn and we grow, and thus wisdom is passed on.
I thank God for the women in my life who comfort us when we fail and for the men in my life who laugh at me when I deserve it.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Hobbies
My friend leaned across the table and said, “I’m going to find a hobby. At our age a man needs a hobby.”
I was not really sure what was significant about our age which wasn’t so aged after all.
“Really? So what are you thinking of taking up?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He paused and said, “I kind of like to cut grass.”
I smiled, “Well I hope you have a big yard.”
He frowned at me. “I mean cut grass, trim the hedges, gardening. You know what I mean.”
I do know what he meant. I come from a long line of gardening hobbyists. My mother and my grandmother both find digging in the dirt soothing. I spent two summers and more working for the grounds department of Wake Forest University. Still gardening does not suit me. I just don’t appreciate the results enough to offset the toil in the soil.
This brings a question to mind. Do we really need hobbies? I know men who play sports, sail boats, and work on those same boats. Some fish, hunt, and hike. Others, who have a more indoor bent, play music, paint, sing, work wood, or play board or computer games. My wife knits. As for me, I write.
What drives us into these pursuits? They are often solitary, taking us away from our families. They rarely produce lasting gains. Yet we spend countless hours pursuing them. Somehow they feed the soul and drive energy into the rest of our lives.
A hobby is something we pursue for the pure joy of doing it. Pure joy is a rare thing indeed. Perhaps, that is what is so energizing about hobbies. They are things we pursue on our own without the tyrant of bread or money beating our backs for results. The greatest result is the joy of the pursuit itself.
Joy, I have heard, means grace placed within us. Perhaps it is the grace to face a tough workplace. It might be the grace to deal with a home filled with sickness or strife. Perhaps it is simply the grace to keep going in this dark world. The neat thing about hobbies is that they seem to let us mimic God’s ability to place grace within our souls. These pursuits are gifts to us that take our life and make it more abundant.
There is danger as well. Like any of our gifts from God hobbies can be abused. Ultimately our Joy must come from the Lord. No hobby has the capacity to fill the bottomless void in the human soul. I think this is why so often the boat or the computer or some other avocation breaks people. The poor soul pours more and more into a hobby hoping to fill up their emptiness and neglects their family, their job, or their health. In the end something fails and divorce, poverty, or sickness is the result.
Am I out of balance? The question is simple when I think about it. If I realized tomorrow that I needed to give up my hobby for my faith or my family, would I? If my answer is no or a hesitant, “but that is what keeps me sane” then I’ve missed the point. The hobby has become my God. Thankfully I can answer unequivocally that anything that gets between me and the Lord has to go. My family is next. No activity will come between me and those I love. Any hesitation at all in my answer would mean my hobby would have to go.
I was not really sure what was significant about our age which wasn’t so aged after all.
“Really? So what are you thinking of taking up?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He paused and said, “I kind of like to cut grass.”
I smiled, “Well I hope you have a big yard.”
He frowned at me. “I mean cut grass, trim the hedges, gardening. You know what I mean.”
I do know what he meant. I come from a long line of gardening hobbyists. My mother and my grandmother both find digging in the dirt soothing. I spent two summers and more working for the grounds department of Wake Forest University. Still gardening does not suit me. I just don’t appreciate the results enough to offset the toil in the soil.
This brings a question to mind. Do we really need hobbies? I know men who play sports, sail boats, and work on those same boats. Some fish, hunt, and hike. Others, who have a more indoor bent, play music, paint, sing, work wood, or play board or computer games. My wife knits. As for me, I write.
What drives us into these pursuits? They are often solitary, taking us away from our families. They rarely produce lasting gains. Yet we spend countless hours pursuing them. Somehow they feed the soul and drive energy into the rest of our lives.
A hobby is something we pursue for the pure joy of doing it. Pure joy is a rare thing indeed. Perhaps, that is what is so energizing about hobbies. They are things we pursue on our own without the tyrant of bread or money beating our backs for results. The greatest result is the joy of the pursuit itself.
Joy, I have heard, means grace placed within us. Perhaps it is the grace to face a tough workplace. It might be the grace to deal with a home filled with sickness or strife. Perhaps it is simply the grace to keep going in this dark world. The neat thing about hobbies is that they seem to let us mimic God’s ability to place grace within our souls. These pursuits are gifts to us that take our life and make it more abundant.
There is danger as well. Like any of our gifts from God hobbies can be abused. Ultimately our Joy must come from the Lord. No hobby has the capacity to fill the bottomless void in the human soul. I think this is why so often the boat or the computer or some other avocation breaks people. The poor soul pours more and more into a hobby hoping to fill up their emptiness and neglects their family, their job, or their health. In the end something fails and divorce, poverty, or sickness is the result.
Am I out of balance? The question is simple when I think about it. If I realized tomorrow that I needed to give up my hobby for my faith or my family, would I? If my answer is no or a hesitant, “but that is what keeps me sane” then I’ve missed the point. The hobby has become my God. Thankfully I can answer unequivocally that anything that gets between me and the Lord has to go. My family is next. No activity will come between me and those I love. Any hesitation at all in my answer would mean my hobby would have to go.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Nighttime Surprise
Parenting is tough. It often leads to frustration, pain, and tears. It brings the ogre creeping forth in the best of us. In the end we hope that we can do enough right to counteract what we did wrong.
Case-in-point, when my son was about 2 and a half, we were having problems with him getting up in the middle of the night. We would put him to bed and about 15 minutes later he would get up. He would slip down the stairs and pad over to where we sat in the living room. Giving his sweetest grin, he would say, “Can I have some water?”
Attempting to curb this behavior, we said, “No! You must stay in bed.” Then one of us firmly marched him up the stairs and deposited him onto his mattress. A few moments later we’d again hear the patter of little feet on the stairs.
After this had gone on for a while, it was time for us to go to bed. We reached the hallway between our bedrooms and heard our little one fumbling with his doorknob. I waved my wife towards our sleeping chamber indicating that I would take care of the problem.
I had an idea. It wasn’t a very good idea, but it seemed to make sense at the time. I crept up to the door and waited. Finally the boy managed to twist open the door. An impish face poked forth. Bright blue eyes over an ear to ear grin scanned the semi-lit hallway. I pounced.
I can only imagine what flew through his mind as the Daddy-Ogre jumped from the shadows with a loud “RAHR!” Yes, I literally said “RAHR!” My son’s eyes went from smile slits to huge terror filled orbs. His smile instantly flipped to a comic strip frown. Then his lips popped open and he screamed, “AHHHH” and sprinted directly into the doorknob. Covering his face and screeching an even more distressed “AHHHH” he disappeared into his room.
I stood stunned for a moment. I wasn’t sure what I had expected but that was definitely not it.
My wife darted from our room and said, “What happened?”
“I did something stupid”, I muttered as I pushed into my son’s room and flipped on the light.
In the middle of the mattress was a quivering lump. My wife ran over and scooped up the lump while peeling back the covers. When my shivering son was revealed, he stuffed his face into her shoulder and wept. She hugged him tightly. “What happened?” She asked me again this time with emphasis.
I explained my poorly planned solution, as she was trying to smooth away our little one’s sobbing. It took us nearly an hour to calm him and get him back to sleep. My wife contemplated his red face and quickly blackening eye. She then looked at me, shook her head, and returned to our room. So that is how, at the cost of a black eye and possible future therapy sessions, my son was cured of getting out of bed for a long time.
I smile every time I think of this story, even as I shake my head at my poor judgment. Parenting is tough, but rewarding. I thank God for my little ones each day. He is the perfect father and has entrusted these little ones to my imperfect care. I also thank Him for not jumping out at me with his best ogre impression (which I imagine is pretty good) and scaring me into running into a door when I’m bad. At least he’s not done that so far…
Case-in-point, when my son was about 2 and a half, we were having problems with him getting up in the middle of the night. We would put him to bed and about 15 minutes later he would get up. He would slip down the stairs and pad over to where we sat in the living room. Giving his sweetest grin, he would say, “Can I have some water?”
Attempting to curb this behavior, we said, “No! You must stay in bed.” Then one of us firmly marched him up the stairs and deposited him onto his mattress. A few moments later we’d again hear the patter of little feet on the stairs.
After this had gone on for a while, it was time for us to go to bed. We reached the hallway between our bedrooms and heard our little one fumbling with his doorknob. I waved my wife towards our sleeping chamber indicating that I would take care of the problem.
I had an idea. It wasn’t a very good idea, but it seemed to make sense at the time. I crept up to the door and waited. Finally the boy managed to twist open the door. An impish face poked forth. Bright blue eyes over an ear to ear grin scanned the semi-lit hallway. I pounced.
I can only imagine what flew through his mind as the Daddy-Ogre jumped from the shadows with a loud “RAHR!” Yes, I literally said “RAHR!” My son’s eyes went from smile slits to huge terror filled orbs. His smile instantly flipped to a comic strip frown. Then his lips popped open and he screamed, “AHHHH” and sprinted directly into the doorknob. Covering his face and screeching an even more distressed “AHHHH” he disappeared into his room.
I stood stunned for a moment. I wasn’t sure what I had expected but that was definitely not it.
My wife darted from our room and said, “What happened?”
“I did something stupid”, I muttered as I pushed into my son’s room and flipped on the light.
In the middle of the mattress was a quivering lump. My wife ran over and scooped up the lump while peeling back the covers. When my shivering son was revealed, he stuffed his face into her shoulder and wept. She hugged him tightly. “What happened?” She asked me again this time with emphasis.
I explained my poorly planned solution, as she was trying to smooth away our little one’s sobbing. It took us nearly an hour to calm him and get him back to sleep. My wife contemplated his red face and quickly blackening eye. She then looked at me, shook her head, and returned to our room. So that is how, at the cost of a black eye and possible future therapy sessions, my son was cured of getting out of bed for a long time.
I smile every time I think of this story, even as I shake my head at my poor judgment. Parenting is tough, but rewarding. I thank God for my little ones each day. He is the perfect father and has entrusted these little ones to my imperfect care. I also thank Him for not jumping out at me with his best ogre impression (which I imagine is pretty good) and scaring me into running into a door when I’m bad. At least he’s not done that so far…
Monday, May 17, 2010
A little past SuckerVille
The plane jerked again as the wind pushed us suddenly downward. Behind me and to my right, a little girl screeched in pure terror. Glancing back I saw wide glistening blue eyes peering over clenched fists. She rocked and shuddered. Her father had his arms wrapped around the little one trying to comfort her, but her whimpers were spiraling up into an all out wail. Across the aisle, the girl’s mother leaned forward whispering, “Do you want a sucker honey?” The little one’s eyes flicked right and then she buried her face in her lap. Rolling his eyes, Dad muttered, “I think we’re a little past SuckerVille.”
What a phrase for immature, childish fear. How often do we find ourselves “A little past SuckerVille?” We ball up our fists and squeal in displeasure. God tries to comfort us, but we won’t listen. We insist on following our fear out into the dry wilderness. Once there God generally leaves us alone until we’re ready to come back. Like any good Father, he realizes that an emotionally strung out child has to calm down before they can be reasoned with.
Part of this has to do with our blatant miss-interpretation of our role with God. He is our Father, and like any good parent, He is more concerned with getting us to our destination than our happiness. When we ignore this and let our emotions run away with us, he waits until we calm down. When we are calm, He pulls us along on our journey. Sometimes we even think to ask and He reveals why we couldn’t have the thing we wanted. Then there are the times when He says, “Wait, you will understand someday.”
The other day my family was out walking when it began raining. I mean it, as we say in the south, “Came up a bad cloud.” The storm quickly deteriorated from spring sprinkle to a frog strangling deluge complete with crashing thunder and blinding lightning. My son, seven years old, and thus wise enough to doubt his father, was worrying. I asked him what had him concerned.
“I’m afraid of dying.” He cried with all the melodrama he could muster.
I smiled and replied, “What exactly are you afraid of?”
Gripping his throat he shouted, “Running out of oxygen.” He worried and fretted all the way to the car.
Now my daughter, 18 months and a bit of an adventurer, reacted quite differently. I was intentionally whooping and laughing, and she got the picture. So long as we kept Mom close, she giggled and shouted all the way to the car.
Both were in the same storm, but saw it in a very different way. My son’s big memory was “It was so wet I couldn’t see out of one eye.” I imagine my daughter will giggle next time she gets caught in the rain.
I want to shout and giggle through life’s storms. People may think I’m mad, but I think I will have quite a bit more fun shouting than worrying. What’s more, I hope it will keep me on this side of SuckerVille, where I am focused on God instead of my fear.
What a phrase for immature, childish fear. How often do we find ourselves “A little past SuckerVille?” We ball up our fists and squeal in displeasure. God tries to comfort us, but we won’t listen. We insist on following our fear out into the dry wilderness. Once there God generally leaves us alone until we’re ready to come back. Like any good Father, he realizes that an emotionally strung out child has to calm down before they can be reasoned with.
Part of this has to do with our blatant miss-interpretation of our role with God. He is our Father, and like any good parent, He is more concerned with getting us to our destination than our happiness. When we ignore this and let our emotions run away with us, he waits until we calm down. When we are calm, He pulls us along on our journey. Sometimes we even think to ask and He reveals why we couldn’t have the thing we wanted. Then there are the times when He says, “Wait, you will understand someday.”
The other day my family was out walking when it began raining. I mean it, as we say in the south, “Came up a bad cloud.” The storm quickly deteriorated from spring sprinkle to a frog strangling deluge complete with crashing thunder and blinding lightning. My son, seven years old, and thus wise enough to doubt his father, was worrying. I asked him what had him concerned.
“I’m afraid of dying.” He cried with all the melodrama he could muster.
I smiled and replied, “What exactly are you afraid of?”
Gripping his throat he shouted, “Running out of oxygen.” He worried and fretted all the way to the car.
Now my daughter, 18 months and a bit of an adventurer, reacted quite differently. I was intentionally whooping and laughing, and she got the picture. So long as we kept Mom close, she giggled and shouted all the way to the car.
Both were in the same storm, but saw it in a very different way. My son’s big memory was “It was so wet I couldn’t see out of one eye.” I imagine my daughter will giggle next time she gets caught in the rain.
I want to shout and giggle through life’s storms. People may think I’m mad, but I think I will have quite a bit more fun shouting than worrying. What’s more, I hope it will keep me on this side of SuckerVille, where I am focused on God instead of my fear.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
2009 - A Great Year
Dickens started his great tale “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” So this year was for us. We were hard pressed on every side by emotional distress, financial disaster, and spiritual despair. Nearly crushed by the weight of it all, we endured. The Lord does not place on us burdens we cannot withstand. Indeed, I believe his discipline is for our strength; through it we become mighty in Him.
The story of this year starts in 2006. We were financially stable and tithing. We decided to buy a home. It was an impulsive decision, something we wanted, but for which we weren’t prepared. The costs of the home were more than expected and after a time making payments became difficult. One month, the decision came. There wasn’t enough money to pay both the tithe and the all the bills. It wasn’t even a question. God forgives, Visa does not. We only skimped a little but it was a slippery slope. Over time, our tithing sputtered and died.
I struggle to articulate the foolishness of our decision. There really is no excuse. We had both seen God provide miraculously in the past. He paid for our wedding, our reception, and our Honeymoon. He had Leta’s wedding dress created by a vogue-published designer essentially for free. He financed our move to Atlanta with someone unexpectedly showing up with a check for $1000 on the day we were leaving. He generously provided abundance that increased my salary over 300% in less than 10 years. Somehow though, despite it all, I still had not learned to rely on him. God knew it, even if I didn’t
We buckled down and made plan after plan. Plan after plan failed. In 2008 we saw the divine patience begin to give out. We had nearly $10,000 in out-of-pocket medical expenses and no salary increase. By March of 2009 my creative solutions had kept us afloat but we had accumulated nearly $100,000 in unsecured debt. We were in trouble and freefalling to the tune of almost $2,000 per month.
God was done waiting on us to see the light. He sent the final warning April 1, 2009. My company announced that they were merging with a major competitor. For the first time in years, my job was at risk. We put our heads together and tried to decide what to do. With pressure mounting on all sides, we approached our church for counseling.
Counseling was easy. We knew the first answer. Tithe. The second answer was pray. Now someone reading this is saying, “That approach wouldn’t work for me.” I’ve heard the arguments and have made them myself. It won’t work. It can’t be done. The money isn’t there. Our counselor dubbed our situation “the most hopeless case I’ve ever seen” and “only the second time in 9 years I’ve counseled bankruptcy.” I can’t tell you what to do I can only tell you what we did. We tithed; we prayed; and we looked for God to show us solutions.
God responded immediately when we began tithing. The money just appeared out of nowhere. It wasn’t enough to solve our problems. God wasn’t through with us but it was enough to show that He was there waiting.
Did you know that if you make over a certain amount it’s almost impossible to successfully declare bankruptcy? We were ready to do it. Give up everything and walk away. But a law change in 2006 said that I made about $450/month too much money to do so. The sticking point ultimately, again, came down to the tithe. Now we were wiser and refused to give in. We would not give up the tithe.
From May through November little positive happened. The collectors called and we waited for God to show up. I found that time especially difficult. It seemed to me that unless God provided a miracle, my only options amounted to total failure. It added up to being enslaved by my debt for the rest of my working life. Perhaps if we were careful and diligent and lucky we could dig ourselves out of our hole by retirement. It was truly slavery where all of our disposable funds would be absorbed by our creditors with no resolution. I told myself constantly that surely God didn’t want me to be a slave this way. I wouldn’t be a slave!
Nothing happened and I died a bit at a time. One day as I was reading the Bible I came across a passage where Paul told slaves how to act towards their masters and to become free “if they could.” It occurred to me that perhaps it was God’s purpose for me to live in slavery to debt. Perhaps by living a life of hope in that awful situation my testimony could shine for those who otherwise would not see it. God had asked others to live with worse. Financial freedom itself had become an idol to me and it was time to give it up. I resigned myself to the possibility of losing my future hopes and dreams if God had other plans for me.
As I let go of my plans and said “your will Lord”, God showed up. It was difficult and complex, but God changed the complexion of our problems. Tens of thousands of dollars were removed from the debt. What remained was restructured and we went from -$2000 per month to a little in the black each month.
Dozens of other things settled themselves. My job stabilized into essentially what I was doing before, except for an organization 5 times the size. I attained my PMP certification. Our medical expenses started disappearing. Most importantly, our lives were back in sync with God’s will.
Sometimes success requires a paradigm shift. Not only a shift in what you are doing but a shift in the way you see the world. The Christian Life itself is a paradigm shift. God is gentle with us and within our walk we find ourselves shifted again and again towards God’s unique perspective.
The story of this year starts in 2006. We were financially stable and tithing. We decided to buy a home. It was an impulsive decision, something we wanted, but for which we weren’t prepared. The costs of the home were more than expected and after a time making payments became difficult. One month, the decision came. There wasn’t enough money to pay both the tithe and the all the bills. It wasn’t even a question. God forgives, Visa does not. We only skimped a little but it was a slippery slope. Over time, our tithing sputtered and died.
I struggle to articulate the foolishness of our decision. There really is no excuse. We had both seen God provide miraculously in the past. He paid for our wedding, our reception, and our Honeymoon. He had Leta’s wedding dress created by a vogue-published designer essentially for free. He financed our move to Atlanta with someone unexpectedly showing up with a check for $1000 on the day we were leaving. He generously provided abundance that increased my salary over 300% in less than 10 years. Somehow though, despite it all, I still had not learned to rely on him. God knew it, even if I didn’t
We buckled down and made plan after plan. Plan after plan failed. In 2008 we saw the divine patience begin to give out. We had nearly $10,000 in out-of-pocket medical expenses and no salary increase. By March of 2009 my creative solutions had kept us afloat but we had accumulated nearly $100,000 in unsecured debt. We were in trouble and freefalling to the tune of almost $2,000 per month.
God was done waiting on us to see the light. He sent the final warning April 1, 2009. My company announced that they were merging with a major competitor. For the first time in years, my job was at risk. We put our heads together and tried to decide what to do. With pressure mounting on all sides, we approached our church for counseling.
Counseling was easy. We knew the first answer. Tithe. The second answer was pray. Now someone reading this is saying, “That approach wouldn’t work for me.” I’ve heard the arguments and have made them myself. It won’t work. It can’t be done. The money isn’t there. Our counselor dubbed our situation “the most hopeless case I’ve ever seen” and “only the second time in 9 years I’ve counseled bankruptcy.” I can’t tell you what to do I can only tell you what we did. We tithed; we prayed; and we looked for God to show us solutions.
God responded immediately when we began tithing. The money just appeared out of nowhere. It wasn’t enough to solve our problems. God wasn’t through with us but it was enough to show that He was there waiting.
Did you know that if you make over a certain amount it’s almost impossible to successfully declare bankruptcy? We were ready to do it. Give up everything and walk away. But a law change in 2006 said that I made about $450/month too much money to do so. The sticking point ultimately, again, came down to the tithe. Now we were wiser and refused to give in. We would not give up the tithe.
From May through November little positive happened. The collectors called and we waited for God to show up. I found that time especially difficult. It seemed to me that unless God provided a miracle, my only options amounted to total failure. It added up to being enslaved by my debt for the rest of my working life. Perhaps if we were careful and diligent and lucky we could dig ourselves out of our hole by retirement. It was truly slavery where all of our disposable funds would be absorbed by our creditors with no resolution. I told myself constantly that surely God didn’t want me to be a slave this way. I wouldn’t be a slave!
Nothing happened and I died a bit at a time. One day as I was reading the Bible I came across a passage where Paul told slaves how to act towards their masters and to become free “if they could.” It occurred to me that perhaps it was God’s purpose for me to live in slavery to debt. Perhaps by living a life of hope in that awful situation my testimony could shine for those who otherwise would not see it. God had asked others to live with worse. Financial freedom itself had become an idol to me and it was time to give it up. I resigned myself to the possibility of losing my future hopes and dreams if God had other plans for me.
As I let go of my plans and said “your will Lord”, God showed up. It was difficult and complex, but God changed the complexion of our problems. Tens of thousands of dollars were removed from the debt. What remained was restructured and we went from -$2000 per month to a little in the black each month.
Dozens of other things settled themselves. My job stabilized into essentially what I was doing before, except for an organization 5 times the size. I attained my PMP certification. Our medical expenses started disappearing. Most importantly, our lives were back in sync with God’s will.
Sometimes success requires a paradigm shift. Not only a shift in what you are doing but a shift in the way you see the world. The Christian Life itself is a paradigm shift. God is gentle with us and within our walk we find ourselves shifted again and again towards God’s unique perspective.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Burdens
“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him;” Psalms 37:7
There are times when the burden seems too great. Sometimes new weight comes from responsibilities gained in promotion or success. Sometimes the load increases due to my own failures and irresponsibility. Once in a while it is the mere whim of chance that adds tonnage to my load.
I groan and shudder under the pressure. “How did I get here?” I wonder. My spirit quivers. The pain and exhaustion are too much to bear. Yet I bear it.
So many times I’ve been here, where my spirit and my heart seem to be beyond the edge of what they can take. Each time though I find that I can take it. Am I broken? Perhaps I am. But still I stand.
Always it happens. Weeks pass. Months pass. Sinew and bone have thickened and I am transformed. I am new again, a new creation. The old is gone and I barely remember it. The burden is not carried easily, but it is bearable now. Before hope was obscured in pain, after it is bright before me. I find I can bear it.
It is only these memories that sustain me in times of vast seas of pain, when I am walking by faith and not by sight. When I am tempted by despair, he will not temp me more than I can bear. He makes this clear in 1 Corinthians 10:13. He’s made it clear in my life.
So I sit still before Him my heart crushed in my chest. A tear meanders its way down my cheek. My heavy soul cannot even lift my eyes to look for Him. I see only shadow and death. Waiting is hard. I want to scream out. I want to fight. I want to beat against the chains that bind me. But I must wait for Him.
He has promised release, a rescue from the darkness that surrounds me. His word promises redemption, freedom, and restoration. He will replace ashes, mourning, and despair, with beauty, gladness, and praise. He will grow me into something more, to display His splendor.
But I must wait. A tree does not grow in a day; a grove does not spring up overnight. When the growing is completed though, it will provide shade and comfort for those beneath its bows. The Lord is thanked for the shade. And on the edges of its domain, seed falls and the grove expands.
I must wait upon the Lord.
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