that’s good / that’s bad

The kids went to a birthday party this week, and brought home an unwelcome guest. We spent the whole today in bed or on the couch, nursing our fevers, calming coughs, and soothing sore throats. As I tucked my princess in bed, she asked me to pray for her cold. I did, but probably not how she expected.

I had the pleasure this last week of reading The Shack, Wm Paul Young’s conversation with God. One of the recurring themes in the book is how we have set ourselves up to judge so many things. We judge other people, we judge situations, we judge all of Creation.

At times we might even be guilty of judging God.

When the voice of wisdom speaks to the lead character in the book, she says that we ought not judge a situation based on how we feel about it. We judge that which brings pain to be evil. We judge that which brings discomfort to be not of God, because it certainly doesn’t fit into our will.

And yet, when I think about my father’s painful and prolonged death from a brain tumor, I have to think twice about the situation.

His tumor was painful, and robbed him of much before it took his life. That certainly seems evil (or at least bad) on the face of it.

But through his illness, he provided a written testimony that was read by several thousand, including a large number of hospice patients who faced similar situations.

Through his refusal to call it quits against a tumor that was a 100% killer, I learned something about determination. I’ve had to draw on that lesson repeatedly in the years since.

Through his ongoing concern for my mother, at a time when he could easily have been very self-focused, I saw what true love does under pressure. In my better moments, that shows up in my own marriage, a role model that I hope is seen by my kids.

So tonight, I prayed first that my daughter would heal quickly from her cold. Then I prayed that, if there was something to be learned from having to slow down for a few days, that He would help us to understand that.

Above all, I prayed that we would be grateful for what we have, especially each other.

At five, a cold is a horrible thing. At 44, it is a nuisance. I think we both miss the point – that there can be unexpected blessings in a day where the pajamas stay on and the most strenuous activity is turning the pages of Prince Caspian.

too weak, two week

I’m trying something new in the endless battle of the bulge. I’m doing the RPM class at the gym (a.k.a. “Spin,” or “really painful bike riding, set to music“  in most other gyms). I’d say it’s as easy as riding a bike, but that might give one the impression this is not a difficult effort.

I have never sweat so much in my life.

I almost blacked out the first morning.

My legs were sore for almost a week.

Sounds like fun, huh?

As I began this new brand of torture, I also started looking at changing my approach to food. I’ve been watching very carefully what I do during the day, keeping fat content and other stuff at bay, while trying to kick in the protein and other good stuff.

As I was thinking this morning about what to get to take me through the week at work, I had a troubling thought:

I will put a tremendous amount of thought and effort into what I eat, how food is prepared, portion size, etc., and there’s certainly nothing wrong with that. But why is it so much harder for me to bring that same intensity to bear on what is my biggest problem? Why is it that I can focus for a year and a half on busting my gut, but I have trouble maintaining my focus on holiness and righteous living for more than two weeks at a time?

Don’t misuderstand – I’m not going back to old patterns of behavior every two weeks; instead, I find that I am intently focused on taking all the right steps, calling people, being highly involved in others’ lives…all for brief periods. Then I retreat again, back into my coccoon, back to the safety of not having to deal with real people.

It perplexes me. I see what I need to do, and I can talk a good game – but there are times when my heart just isn’t really in it.

I know that a muscle builds endurance through being torn and rebuilt. Strength doesn’t come from light work. As Benjamin Disreali said, “No pain, no gain. No gain, no brain.” Most people leave off the last half of that quote. I’ve been able to retrain my brain regarding exercise. I know what will likely happen if I don’t work out, and I know that losing the weight of a sack of concrete has made my days much less painful.

I also know that there are similar benefits and risks in not getting “fit” spiritually. The obvious problem is that the risks are less tangible.

So what do I do to make the risks more real? How do I reach a point where I take to heart what my head already knows, that I don’t want to cross the finish line in the back of the pack?  I really want to hear, “Well done – good job” at the finish line, not “Well, I guess you made it.“

Perhaps I’ve forgotten one of the mantras of recovery – one day at a time. Thinking ahead is not a bad thing – but maybe I need to establish a pattern of single days – one that lasts longer than two weeks – before I start getting concerned about the long term.

blaming the past or understanding it?

I remember years ago, when I was still in denial that my life was out of control, shaking my head when I heard someone talk about how their childhood had some impact on the bad choices they were making as an adult. “Yeh, it’s always easier to blame our parents than take responsibility, isn’t it?”, I thought.

What I’ve come to believe in the intervening years is that the events of our earlier years does indeed shape our thinking, our values, and our beliefs about ourselves and others.

The child who is told that they are useless, a mistake, that the people who brought them into the world wish they had never been born – is it really surprising that they would either be hopeless or be extremely driven to prove long-departed tormentors incorrect?

The child who is never reprimanded, never corrected, never taught to consider others – is it surprising when this person turns out to be corrupt, criminal, incorrigible?

Okay, so there are extreme cases; but what about ‘normal’ people with average childhoods?

I would argue (as many do) that virtually everyone carries some wounds from their youth. The wound may not cut as deep for me as it does for someone else, but they are there nonetheless.

My dad never abused me. He was a “model father” of the 1960’s variety. He worked hard and provided well. He didn’t smoke or drink, was highly involved in church, saved for rainy days, and could spend a long day making corporate management decisions and come home and change the brakes on the family roadster.

He was also absent a lot during the years I was looking to him for guidance on becoming a man.

I see; it’s all his fault you strayed so far.

Hardly. My fault, my choices. During my teen years, I was figuring out a lot of things on my own, things some other kids learned from their dads earlier. I’m not blaming him – I’m saying that where I went to learn wasn’t the right classroom for the subject of being a Christian man.

Perhaps an analogy would help. My grandmother played the violin. Somewhere in her early adult life, she broke her left arm. I’m not clear on the circumstances, but for whatever reason, she never went to the doctor. The arm set, badly. It would affect one of the great joys in her life until she quit playing somewhere in her 70s. But the fact that it hindered her disturbed her less than the thought of the pain that would be involved in re-breaking the bone to set it correctly.

To me, that typifies why a lot of people don’t address the issues from their youth that so clearly affect where they are today.

It isn’t blame-shifting to recognize that the past has an influence on where we are today.

It is blame-shifting to say, “It’s all someone else’s fault,” but that’s a different animal than I’m talking about.

I’m trying to dig into my past a little more, trying to understand what I missed that may have helped set me up for the bad choices I’ve since made. There’s some pain in that. But I believe the music will be sweeter in the end.

table for one?

Christian writers talk of the hole in our hearts that only God can fill. I agree with the thought behind that, but that’s not what I’m thinking about today.

I believe there is also, somewhere in the seat of our emotion and thoughts, a seat that is reserved for one other human being. It is a place that is reserved for the relationship that will come as close as I will ever see to heaven here on earth. It is the seat reserved for my wife.

When I was single, I let a lot of people try out that seat. I let too many try out that seat, and I forgot (or never realized) what that seat was about. As a result, it became easy to move people in and out of that position. The seat became a little less important as I pushed people into the seat, then unceremoniously pulled it out from beneath them when it suited me.

In my addiction, I let people who were never even prospects rest in that spot, at least temporarily.

• A dancer at a “gentlemen’s club” (there’s a misnomer if ever there was one) in Memphis held the seat for about three hours
• Women in movies I saw at an “adult” theater (major misnomer #2) sat there for five or ten minute intervals
• I seated strangers who wanted anonymous encounters for short periods of time

Rather than that seat being a place of privilege, I turned it into the seat by the door others used while waiting for a better table.

Eventually, I began to recognize that I was cheapening something that should have been very special. Eventually, my heart was so tired of the endless flow of other broken souls that it cried, “enough!”

The sad thing is, somewhere in that flow I met the proper occupant for that seat. She is my wife, and is the one for whom that spot was reserved, long before I knew the seat existed. The problem is that I still hadn’t figured out that the chair wasn’t big enough for two or three, so I kept pushing her out to make room for others. Since I was married, I had to be more discreet. I had to make my seating arrangements a secret. I couldn’t let anyone know that the seat was still in play. This led to more dishonesty, and the secrecy joined with a growing desire for more and wilder experiences.

That was a recipe for disaster.

I can easily enough write about how God spoke to me in that time, how He brought me to a place where I could begin to see what I was doing for what it was. I can tell you how He brought some key people into my life who would show me grace, but not be enablers.

But I want to focus for a second on how occupancy of that seat is still challenged.

• The mall is not a good place for me. There are the obvious things – the lingerie shops and others with tantalizing pictures that invite mental undressing, the sea of women dressed in clothes that (20 years ago) would have been worn by “professionals” plying their trade (street girls, if that wasn’t clear enough) – and there are the not-so-obvious things. Noise and crowds get to me. Maybe it’s because I am actively blocking so much of what is around me that it wears me down. It is at least in part a paranoia because I like to have a good picture of what’s going on around me, but I also know that I can’t start looking without seeing something that will kick off a painful cycle within me.
• Church can be a problem. I’m glad that I go to a church where no one expects me to wear a suit and tie, but there are Sundays (usually spring and summer) when I can’t look around without seeing more shoulder, or even an occasional tight belly, that distracts me from the focus of the service.

I recognize that the problem still lies in me. I doubt one of the women at the church got dressed that morning thinking, “Wonder how many guys will get turned on by this number?” I suspect that might be exactly the thought of some of the women at the mall, but that may be projection on my part.

Wherever I go there I am.

I have to be very wary about where I focus my eyes. I have to remember that God is about my heart, not my hands. If I go the rest of my life without acting out physically, that’s great – but Jesus says that if I lust after somone, I’ve committed adultery in my heart. That’s harsh, but I believe it.

Surely you don’t think it is the same thing to look a little as it is to take actioin on it?!?

Not my call – I just kinda go with what Jesus said.

And when I feel my heart starting to tip the chair, pulling it out from under the rightful occupant, I have a decision to make; is the little adrenaline rush of what is unknown, forbidden, considered in secret worth the cost to my relationship with my wife? As I get to know her better and better, the answer comes more easily as “No.” That isn’t to say there aren’t challenges – they come often, and they threaten the place I have given her; but for me, the choice has to be to keep that seat a sacred place. I want her to be in that seat, until the day one of us isn’t sitting anymore.

masquerade

Are we really happy here, in this lonely game we play,
Looking for words to say?
Searching, but not finding understanding anyway
We’re lost in this masquerade.
- Leon Russell

George Benson got the award, but Leon Russell wrote this song that captures a lot of life for addicts and codependents.

By the way, I’m not saying either of them fit the above categories.

I’ve been reading back through TrueFaced, and have just had a few experiences with running square into my own and others’ masks. We put on the masks because we don’t want others to see our reality. We think that we can influence others’ opinions if we behave a certain way, or if we do certain things.

Me, for instance. I do woodworking as a hobby. Can it be called a hobby if you only do it two or three days a year? In any case, I used to tell myself that when I would make a piece of furniture, I was doing others a favor. I made a dresser for my daughter. It is way oversized, and the paint job wasn’t done well; but I built it for about half the sticker price at the furniture stores. In the process, I didn’t spend nearly as much time with my wife and infant daughter. Our girl probably didn’t notice as much then, but it did create tension with my wife. She would probably rather have had a husband and helper with our little girl.

As I was reading back through the above-mentioned book, I had a recollection of the Thanksgiving my extended family came to our house. As I showed everyone around, I took a great deal of pride in pointing out the furniture around the house which I had built. In fact, leading the tour was all about trying to impress them with my work.

Don’t get me wrong – there is nothing wrong with taking some pride in the work of our hands. I think that is quite normal. I think the issues are who I was trying to impress, and valuing the work over the people.

Who was I hoping to impress? My oldest brother. Always it comes back to him. Since I was a kid, I’ve been trying to make him think more of me. That drive only increased when our dad died. Go ahead, psych majors and minors – doesn’t take a lot to see what’s wrong there.

Then there were the relational sacrifices of the project. This is hard to quantify, but there were times when it was clear that my wife would rather have had me nearby and involved than down in the shop.

We are still together, and I don’t think there was long-term damage to us because I took about a week total to put that monster together; but it was a very heavy withdrawal on our emotional bank account. And now, with two active kids (roughly 4 & 6 years old), those times that I would choose to spend in the shop become more costly.

At the moment, I’m working on two storage projects for their rooms – a toy chest for him and a dollhouse bookshelf for her. I spent a few hours last Friday and Saturday in the basement, and my daughter had this disappointed look when she saw that I was going “into the dungeon” rather than playing with her.

So here’s a wierd thing. I’ve come to the realization that I’m not doing what I do for them. Oh, sure, they’ll get a lot of use out of the things I build; but to try to explain what I do as being for them is dishonest. I do it for me. I do it because I want or need a little recharge, I desire to exercise my creativity, I want a place where I can solve problems that are mostly of my own making. And there is nothing wrong with that. Expressing that honestly is a bit of a breakthrough – recognizing that I’m doing the work for me.

The problem comes when I let my desire to turn perfectly good lumber into piles of sawdust become more important to me than the people I’m here to love.

So I’m trying to apply a new factor when deciding the cost of a project – the relational cost. If a project is going to take a lot of time, I either need to be prepared to do it mostly during nap times or in those early hours when I’m the only one stirring – or I need to be prepared for the emotional fallout that comes with being the stranger in the basement. I need to think in terms of involving my family in the project where I can (my kids do a decent job with a paint roller, for instance). I also need to let go of the idea that I’m going to do anything more than what is absolutely necessary in the shop.

I have my ideals of how I want to spend my time; the fact is, it isn’t mine anymore to spend. When I got married, I gave up a portion of that control in exchange for the greatest earthly relationship I could have. When we pursued having kids, I gave up more, in exchange for the joys of parenthood (a phrase often said sarcastically, but I’m earnest about it here).

I need to do what I need to do, for certain; but I must always weigh what I believe I need to do against the relational cost with those who matter the most. To be dishonest about my motivations is to wear a mask, and I doubt I fool those who know me the best.

finches, phlox, and fear

Anxiety is a sobriety-killer.

For an addict, the drug of choice often had initial appeal because it brought pleasure, or at least because it distracted us, numbed us, from the cares of life. So what do you suppose happens when the everyday stress level is ratcheted up a few notches?

• The struggler who is trying to go it alone is more likely to fall back into old, familiar, destructive patterns.
• The addict who is recovering with an occasional slip here or there feels the pull more strongly than they otherwise would.
• The person who is thought of as a model of recovery is blindsided by a desire they believed was a thing of the past.

Anxiety is a constant gnawing, the slow dripping sound from that faucet that keeps you awake at night, and pervades your dreams when you do sleep.

In the last several verses of Matthew 6, Jesus spoke to the issue of anxiety (my paraphrase here):

Listen, don’t worry about stuff like your 401k, your car payment, even your job. Isn’t life about more than that stuff?

Ever seen the bluebells along the highway in Texas, or the sunflowers in Kansas? How much time do they spend worrying? They don’t spend two hours commuting and nine hours in a cubicle farm, staring at a computer and wondering about whether that job will still be there tomorrow; they just sit in the dirt and take in what God sends them.

How about the birds around you? How much do they focus on the finer things in life? They build their nests, eat worms, and maybe say, “Dude, it’s getting frosty. Let’s go south” once a year.

You are God’s special creation – princes and princesses in an eternal kingdom. How much more do you suppose he cares for you than these things?

Look, I’m not above feeling anxious. We’ve been feeling the pinch in finances lately as so many others have. My industry is considered a good one to be in, but I see things slowing down. We will have to make some lifestyle changes if we want to keep working to get out of debt. We will likely have to sacrifice a few of the comforts to which we’re accustomed in order to keep our house and feed the kids.

But I am holding on to the fact that the Creator of the Universe sees me as His child.

Oh, I know there are a lot of people who don’t buy into creation, let alone the whole God thing. If that is your belief system, I don’t know how you avoid despair.

But for those who believe, I need only look back at a few other lean years in my life to see that God cares and will provide. He won’t give me my every desire; but He will provide for my needs.

All it takes is a little trust.

belief

I was listening to a conversation last night that has stirred some thoughts about belief. To some this may not seem connected to the primary topic of my blog, but I think it has everything to do with it.

The two primary participants were discussing the existence of God. Both of these guys are very intelligent (both by my estimation and their IQ scores), and I know them both well enough to say that neither of them is flippant about their viewpoints on important issues. One is a devout Christian and leader in his local church (henceforth referred to as J); the other is a devout agnostic (B).

I was reminded in their discussion how much a worldview is changed when God is added or subtracted from the equation.

B believes that, if God exists, He set things in motion and sits back watching with curiosity, wondering what we’ll do next, hoping someday we’ll get it right and straighten the world out.

J responds that, no, we won’t get it right. We aren’t really capable of getting it right, not without divine intervention.

B thinks that is a very pessimistic viewpoint. I didn’t understand why at first, but then I thought about his worldview. If God does not exist, or is a disinterested third party, it would be distressing to think that we are limited and incapable.

But from a viewpoint of belief, I recognize that I am a child of a loving God who wants what is best for me. It makes more sense to me now as a father than it ever did when I was childless. I don’t want to give my children everything; I want them to grow and learn, which doesn’t happen if they just sit on their rear all day and never live. I am very careful to make sure they have what they need, but that is a far cry from just handing over everything they want.

Then there’s the issue of our place in the unverse. J mentioned that his brother had just sent him some pictures from the Hubbel telescope, including captions estimating the distances of the objects from earth in terms of light years. My brain isn’t capable of keeping track of the number of zeroes involved, but it is, as we say in the South, “a fur piece.”

B says that makes him feel all the less significant, that he is a fortunate accident among millions of other fortunate accidents, spinning around on another unfortunate accident, feeling feelings that are an amazingly fortunate accident, looking out at galaxies upon galaxies of similarly fortunate accidents…and that increases his feeling that he is insignificant. That decreases the odds, in his view, that he is especially designed for a purpose. I should mention that he didn’t keep inserting “fortunate accident” in that dialog. J was doing that, and it was really beginning to annoy B.

J didn’t have a chance to respond; B took the conversation in a different direction.

I’m not a mathmatician, nor am I an odds-maker. But I really do wonder about those numbers. If no design, and therefor no Designer, what are the odds of planetary placement in favor of life? What are the odds in favor of a planet stable enough to support ongoing life for hundreds, thousands of years? What are the odds of life developing at all, and what evolutionary purpose do emotions serve? For that matter, why conscious thought? Why not simple instinct? Why would we ever place ourselves under the burden of organized society, and why would we ever have such altruistic ideals as love, honor, patience, kindness, hope?

I know none of those things prove a loving Creator, or even a creator at all; but there is so much that makes no sense if we are indeed fortunate accidents existing strictly for the propogation and survival of the species.

What has this to do with addiction?

If we are not an incredible series of fortunate accidents, if there is some plan, if there is a Planner, than I believe the plan would not be for me to be enslaved by my behaviors. Oh, I know, that requires the assumption that the Planner is interested – a step of faith B finds quite troubling – and even compassionate. I suppose my predisposition toward that is based in the idea that God is a father.

I don’t want evil to happen to my kids. I want them to grow to their greatest potential, and I’m smart enough to recognize that this sometimes requires some bumps and bruises (not at my hand; only those that result from their unwise choices). I believe the best parental instincts I have are a reflection of how my Father sees (and treats) me.

I want good for my kids. I don’t want them to suffer the consequences of slavery to alcohol, drugs, sex, food, whatever substance gets between them and really relating to others and to me.I hope they will allow me to give them guidance, to suggest how they can avoid some of the traps that lie ahead on a perilous road.

I know my connection to God was the first victim of my addiction, and meaningful relationships with those around me soon followed. As I have found some respite from my addictions, I am discovering those connections again.

That just makes more sense to me than a series of fortunate accidents.

sex and marriage – the two great myths

Peggy: No TV, Al, we’re talking.
Al: You’re my wife. I will not talk to you while I have a TV.
– From Married With Children

I think our culture perpetuates two major myths about sex and marriage. The first is that getting married means you’ll be able to have sex as often as you want it; the other is that marriage is sexless.

I have a theory that a guy who enters marriage believing myth #1 will find himself living in myth #2. But one myth at a time.

Time after time I have heard guys in my group talk about the belief they held that getting married meant they would be able to have sex whenever they wanted it, and that would take care of the little porn problem (or whatever their acting out included). The belief is that she exists largely for the man’s sexual fulfillment. In reality, that paints a picture of the wife as a glorified call-girl.

I know there are still some guys around who will drop their clubs, scratch their ear-hair, and grunt in disapproval of that last sentence; but one need only to look to the Song of Solomon to see that the Cromagnon approach is not Biblically supported.

Truth is, you can have sex in marriage any time you want it; the problem is that you is plural, not singular. Based on my history, you might guess that I would generally be the one with a stronger drive in my marriage; you’d be guessing correctly there. But even so, there have been times when I have been the one to say no. Rare, but it has happened.

So what sometimes happens (as most of the guys I know who have admitted to sexual addiction would testify) is that expectations about sexual activity go uncommunicated because the him thinks the her has the same desires and drives as him. It is somewhere within the first weeks after the honeymoon that the truth is revealed.

By the way, I’m well aware of the dangers of writing in generalities on this topic. Some people get through a few years before the wife starts to feel like a geisha, others not even through the night after the wedding.

In any case, sex in marriage should primarily be about honoring each other, and focused on meeting each other’s needs and desires rather than on our own interests. Sexual intimacy is at its best when it is an outgrowth of spiritual/emotional intimacy.

As to the second myth, which implies that sex and marriage are incompatible…

This is, sadly, becoming a partial truth in our society. The myth is that this is a normal state of things. When it does happen, it is normally a warning sign that emotional intimacy is lacking or even dying.

It is no accident that the most common picture the Bible uses to describe the relationship between God and the church is that of a good husband. God desires intimacy with us. That is a little uncomfortable for many, but it is the truth. Bill Hybels of Willow Creek said it this way:

“For a marriage relationship to flourish, there must be intimacy. It takes an enormous amount of courage to say to your spouse, “This is me. I’m not proud of it — in fact, I’m a little embarrassed by it — but this is who I am.””

Intimacy in marriage is to know and be known, to walk with your partner naked and unashamed as Adam and Eve. And no, I’m not encouraging a “naturalist” lifestyle; I’m talking about having a comfort level where you can tell your spouse what is on your heart without fearing rejection, and creating an environment where she feels free to do the same.

As with all myths, there is truth behind each of these; but that doesn’t mean they are necessarily accurate.

all’s well that ends well

Her husband died unexpectedly a few months ago. He had the kind of week where all went incredibly well, capped off by playing a round at one of the premiere golf clubs in the Atlanta area. He stopped for some water on the way home, and collapsed. He never regained consciousness, and his family was left with a very sudden and very large hole in their lives.

I look at where she is, and can’t help but compare to where my own mother was a few months, even several years, after my father’s death.

Our friend is in a pretty healthy place. She has a lot of people around her who are supportive, and an army of people from her church who have really been God’s arms around her these past few months.

My mother is still stuck. When dad died, she had me. Oh, she had a few friends…but her church was not the kind where a widow is treated the way Christ described true religion.

I’m so glad for our friend, and so sad for my mom.

I’ve watched my mom try to be tough, to be strong. And I’ve seen her become more bitter than tough, more angry than strong. I see our friend becoming more comfortable with who she is as she allows others to show her love.

Life isn’t fair. We say that as a cliche, but it is so true. And we can’t make life fair, no matter how hard we might try. So I guess the secret is in making sure you are in a place where other arms can and will reach out to hold you when life’s unfairness reaches out to touch you.