I am divorced — What would Jesus say to me if I asked him about it?

Tags

divorce, God, remarriage

This week marks four years since my divorce was finalized. Some guys when they divorce look at that day as freedom day, a reason to celebrate, a release from whatever was holding them down. I don’t look at it that way. My life definitely changed that day, a change that started years before the divorce actually happened. The day of divorce was not a day of freedom — because it’s going to be a part of me for the rest of my life.

She used to say that I really never should have been married, an excuse, an attempt to place the failing marriage on my shoulders, a statement she began to repeat early in our marriage and continued to repeat it to the very end. As I remember those words, I wonder if she had given up even before it began. We held on 25 years, two people who had made a commitment to each other before God, the God part the biggest reason (besides our children) we held on so long.

Divorce is tough for anyone. I am a Christian, a Christ follower, serious about my relationship with God, and I want to honor God. I believe the Bible is one way God communicates with me and I want to listen to him. I believe the Bible is true, every word. In the years leading up to my divorce, I looked up every scripture verse I could find that talks about divorce. There really aren’t that many. As I read them, over and over, I prayed over them, asked God to help me understand. Divorce is tough for anyone, but as a Christian, the decision to divorce is agonizing, no matter the reason for the divorce. After all, God hates divorce, part of a verse from Malachi 2:16 that many well meaning people have quoted to me. I understood that then and really understand it now. No one needs to tell me that God hates divorce. It wasn’t an epiphany, as divorce would be contrary to what God intended for man when woman was created. Separation is contrary to the way God created us.

It took me a while to understand that God hates divorce, but he would not hate me if divorce happened to me.

OK. God is not going to hate me for wanting a divorce. However, there is the matter of sin. If a divorce isn’t due to marital unfaithfulness, then remarriage is adultery.

Matthew 19:9 (NIV) – “I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for marital unfaithfulness, and marries another woman commits adultery.”

Jesus had been asked about divorce as a test, an attempt by Pharisees (teachers of Jewish law) to trap him, to discredit him. There were two schools of thought regarding the interpretation of Deuteronomy 24:1-4 which says “If a man marries a woman who becomes displeasing to him because he finds something indecent about her, and he writes her a certificate of divorce, gives it to her and sends her from his house….”. One school of thought held that ‘something indecent’ meant marital unfaithfulness, the only allowable cause for divorce. The other school of thought emphasized the words ‘who becomes displeasing to him’. That would allow a man to divorce his wife if she did anything he disliked, even if she burned his food while cooking it. Jesus first pointed to God with his response, as the creator who made them male and female, in a way that unites them as one flesh. When the Pharisees responded by asking Jesus why Moses commanded that a man give his wife a certificate of divorce and send her away, Jesus replied as he did in verse 9, first saying that Moses permitted divorce because their hearts were hard.

I don’t know how many times I read that passage, each time asking God to help me understand it. Was I looking for a loophole? Justification? Honestly, I wanted peace that if I did make the decision to ask my wife for divorce, I would not be sinning and worse, be committing another sin if some time later I remarried. The last 8-10 years of my marriage was a time of wrestling with that realization, especially as things became worse, as it became painfully clear that our relationship was not going to get better. The last 12 years (or more) of our marriage, at my estimation, was devoid of any physical affection. I knew that was a sign of something unforgiven that made her not to be with me, even before a counselor volunteered that information, a forgiveness she refused to give, with insistence that forgiveness was something I had never asked for. I had. I did even as I didn’t know what I had done. As the struggle with the thought to divorce grew to the point of being unbearable, I asked her to talk about it. I was tired of her refusal to honor me, asked why. The only thing she told me was that she couldn’t honor a man she thought was wrong. Wrong? What did that mean? She couldn’t explain it. Desperate, I went to her father, asked him to tell me what his relationship was like with his wife. Maybe that would tell me something. He graciously met with me, was very transparent and open with me, and I discovered a few things I didn’t know during that conversation. I left him that evening with the news that things between his daughter and I were not good, that my intention was not to divorce, but was not confident that we would survive. He prayed with me… and when the divorce did happen, I am the only one of the three ex son-in-laws that he did not condemn. I did not hear from him at all after the divorce.

I sought out my church pastor, hoping for an understanding ear. He refused to talk to me. I went to a counselor, who listened. I found friends who also gave me a kind ear. No loopholes. No justification. No one blamed me if I did make the decision. Some didn’t think the decision would be a sin, even if I remarried.

When I made the decision to ask for divorce, despite my attempts to understand what the Bible says about divorce and to reconcile Jesus’ words in Matthew 19, I was afraid of what the decision was doing to my relationship to God. I felt a darkness, a separation, a wall that kept me from being able to approach God in the way I knew I needed to. I was angry to the point of screaming at God. WHY? WHY DO I FEEL THIS WAY? Only when I was able to trust God, to trust in his grace despite what was happening, was I able to find some peace. I asked her for a divorce, yet stayed for another two years until she finally said she too wanted a divorce. Ironically, she told me a few hours following the Cubs’ World Series win. As a Cardinal fan, that night will hurt forever for more than one reason.

Then there is the question of remarriage. One of my brothers, Mark, is divorced and remarried. His wife is a true blessing to him, something I looked to as my relationship with Lisa (now my fiance) grew. When he was going through his divorce, even though there was suspected unfaithfulness on his wife’s part, he agonized about divorcing. He couldn’t reconcile divorce as a Christian. I have thought about the conversations I had with him, and it affects my thoughts about divorce and remarriage.

There are also the words of Paul in his letter to the Corinthians. In I Corinthians 7:10-11, Paul tells them —

“To the married I give this command (not I but the Lord): A wife must not separate from her husband. But if she does, she must remain unmarried or else be reconciled to her husband. And a husband must not divorce his wife.”

I laugh a little, as just a few verses previous, Paul had warned “Do not deprive each other except by mutual consent and for a time,…Then come together again so that Satan will not tempt you because of your lack of control”. Corinth was a very worldly place, with pagan temples that included prostitutes and many other forms of temptation. There were many opportunities to stray. Times now are no different and a strong commitment to the marriage bed is just as necessary now as it was then.

She must remain unmarried or else be reconciled to her husband.

This past Tuesday night, two elders came to my home to interview me as part of the process of becoming a member of the church I attend with Lisa. Lisa and I have been dating 2.5 years and I have been attending her church for at least two years. I waited to join the church until I was sure that our relationship was going to be permanent. I welcomed the opportunity, like a church with sound leadership that is dedicated to communicating the core values of the church as well as maintaining them by accountability. My faith and beliefs are solid. I know they align with the church as well. However, before the elders arrived, Lisa texted me and let me know that a church staff member had asked her to warn me that the elders had been requested to ask me about my response to a question on the survey Lisa and I completed last week for our upcoming premarital counseling. It was a question that asked about the circumstances of my divorce.

When the interview with the elders reached the point where they asked about my divorce, the first question they asked was if I had gone to my wife to seek forgiveness and to reconcile with my wife. They said that if the church pastor was asked to perform the wedding between Lisa and I, he would not agree to perform the wedding if I had not made an attempt to reconcile with my ex wife. Even then, since my divorce was not due to adultery, remarriage would be something that would be considered adultery according to scripture. It was an uncomfortable thing for them, something they did not want to say. Oddly, I was perfectly comfortable. I knew that the answer I had given to the survey question was short (there was only space enough for a few sentences). The staff member and the elders didn’t know the full story. I shared the divorce story with the elders, filled in the gaps. I told them that many of the years, in my opinion, were an attempt at reconciliation and forgiveness. My decision was based on trust in God’s grace. Even then, I didn’t leave until months after she asked for a divorce.

I could have asked if they had considered the context of Jesus’ words to the Pharisees (or Malachi’s or Paul’s), but there was no reason for an argument. These guys had approached me with love and concern. They don’t want me to expose myself to sin as much as I also don’t want to expose myself to sin.

But I did ask this question — what if I could look Jesus in the eyes and ask him to talk to me about my divorce? Would he answer the same way he answered the Pharisees? I think he might, but maybe not. He recognized the sin when he looked in their hearts. What would Jesus see when he looked in my heart? I told them that I had felt the peace of God when I prayed over that passage, as if God was telling me it was alright.

After all, God hates divorce. God does not hate me.

Lisa is a blessing to me, encourages me and stands beside me as we worship God together. My ex wife did not do that. God has blessed me with Lisa and our relationship with him will grow together. I am thankful for his faithfulness to me, despite my sin… and even if my decision to remarry is a sin.

Down The Hatch or Down the Drano

Tags

family, friends, God, humor, life, memories, parenting, parents

This may be a story that I have told here before.  If I have and you remember it, sorry.  Good thing is that I tell this story a little differently each time, although the specific details are the same.

My mother was good about teaching my brothers and I to be responsible for ourselves.  We cleaned our own room, made our beds, cleaned our bathroom, washed our clothes (and folded them, put them away), vacuumed the rugs, picked up after ourselves.  I am the oldest of three boys and, once I reached an age where I was able to put gas in a push mower and negotiate our yard with the mower, care of the lawn became my job.  Dad still likes to mention that he never had to mow after I was 8 years old, except for when he just wanted to do it.  My brothers and I also were responsible for waking up in time for school, dressing ourselves, and getting ourselves either to the bus stop or walking to school.  That also meant that we prepared our own brown bag lunch.  Mom made sure there was bread and fixings, as well as chips or whatever else we needed — as long as we put in the request for what we needed for our lunches when she prepared her weekly grocery list.

Lunch got me in trouble.  The high school that I attended was fairly small, roughly 400 students for freshman through senior grade levels.  Our building consisted of two long hallways lined with lockers, with a commons area in between that opened into a courtyard.  Across the courtyard was the shop area where trade classes were taught, as well as the main gym and lunch room building.  My locker was located at the end of the long hallway, next to the main doors that led outside to the courtyard, the doors that many students took to and from the gym or lunch or shop class.  It was also next to the band room, the reason my locker was at the end, since I was a band student (trumpet players are the best kissers, as I have been told by more than one young lady).

My locker was in a perfect spot for those less than honest students, who were inclined to steal.  Three days in a row, my lunch was stolen out of my locker, a big deal to me since it was during track season.  I needed my nutrition for after school practices and meets.  For my lunch, I started keeping it with my band instrument in the band room — not always convenient as the band room often was locked for my lunch period.  My teen mind did not want to report the thefts to the school principal, the most logical thing to do.

So, one morning I decided that the solution would be to make two lunches — one that I would eat and one that was doctored.  In typical teen fashion, I was trying to work this out quickly and at the last minute before I had to leave for school, while I was making my lunch.  I spread one piece of bread with a thick layer of peanut butter, the other with an equally thick layer of grape jelly (Mom always lamented how fast we went through jars of peanut butter and grape jelly).  Hmmmmm… what else needed to go on the sandwich?

“Mom, do we have any ExLax?”  Mom furrowed her brows at me with an expression of mild confusion, an expression she gave to me frequently.  Funny thing is that she knew better than to ask why, which she should have done.  She just said no and carried on with her own task.

I took the task of finding a way to doctor that sandwich into my own hands, utilizing the do it yourself and take responsibility my mother had instilled in me.  What to use?  I searched the bathroom medicine cabinet, the logical place since maybe Mom had just forgotten about the ExLax.  None.  In the vanity under the bathroom sink, I found what seemed to be the solution.  I didn’t think about the solution being potentially criminal.  I just thought that the lunch perpetrators would see this substance and be deterred.  That should work, right?  I carried that can of crystal Drano (that’s drain cleaner) to the kitchen, poured a layer of the large blue crystals on top of the peanut butter, slopped some more peanut butter over the Drano, slapped the jelly laden slice of grape jelly on top, wrapped the PBDranoJ sandwich, and put it into a paper bag.

Voila.

I find out part of the result by third class period.  In between classes, I was slammed up against my locker by an angry Gary Ayers, a fellow senior who had discovered the benefits of weighlifting, one of the largest guys in the school.

“What did you put in your lunch?” he yelled, fists balled in a threat.

I know I was grinning.  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Gary.”

Gary’s girlfriend, Janet, had eaten my lunch before gym class, according to Gary’s story.

“How did she get my lunch?”  Once again, I know that there was a wide grin on my face.

Gary raised a large fist, intended to punch that grin off of my face.  Before he could deliver, a few of my friends stepped in between, allowing me to escape and get to class.  This would not be over, I knew, but at least the mayhem was delayed.  It wasn’t that I was afraid of Gary, but I didn’t want to be suspended from school for fighting.  There was only one track meet left in the season, it was my senior year and I did not want to miss that meet.

Fifth period.  Principal Bill Hinrichs appeared at the classroom door, motioned for me to join him out in the hall.  He was shaking his head with an expression that was between amusement and disbelief.  Mister Hinrichs was that type of person, a math teacher before becoming school principal, one of my favorite teachers.  I had done very well in his classes, had also done well a few years before when I played basketball for the team he assisted as coach.  As he escorted me to his office, he continued to shake his head every time he glanced at me.  When we arrived at his office, he offered me a seat across from his desk, next to the school nurse who was waiting for us.

He went straight to the point.  “Steve, what did you put on your sandwich?”

I looked him straight in the eye, told him exactly what was on the sandwich.

The school nurse gasped.  Mister Hinrichs simply rested his forehead on his hand while shaking his head some more and muttering Henrikson over and over.

Three girls stole my lunch on their way out the door to gym class.  They had a master key to the lockers, so they were able to get to it easily.  As they waited for roll call before gym class, they split the sandwich.  They didn’t see the crystal Drano.  I had done too good of a job concealing it in the thick layers of peanut butter and grape jelly.  They never had a chance to swallow their bite of sandwich, their mouths instantly foaming and slight burns on their tongues as they spit the sandwich out.

I am fortunate that I attended a small school where teachers and administrators had the chance to know their students and their families.  There was no police involved, just a school nurse gasping in shock and a relieved/amused/amazed school administrator.

“You do know, Steve, that this could have been much worse.”  Mister Hinrichs told me the names of the three girls, “Every one of those girls has a big boyfriend.  These girls stole your lunch, so essentially they got what they deserved but GEEEEEEEEZ couldn’t you have used something else?  ExLax maybe?”

Mister Hinrichs actually laughed when I calmly responded with the obvious answer — we didn’t have any ExLax.  I had checked.

“Really, I wouldn’t do anything to you at all since this was a case of theft, but I also don’t want a fight to deal with.  I have called your mom and she knows that you are coming home right now.  You are going to be suspended for three days.”

That meant I would miss the last regular season track meet.  That hurt, but I didn’t argue.  I knew I was lucky that was all that I was missing.

My parents responded in the same fair, reasonable, sensible manner that they always had when I got in trouble.  By my senior year of high school, they had a lot of experience.  They were both shocked, both relieved, both understood that I had luckily survived a very stupid event in my life.  They said that I would also be punished, basically was being grounded those two days of suspension.  My parents called up the parents of each girl, took me that evening to each of their houses, and I had to personally apologize to each girl.

There were a lot of events in my young life that I survived with little or no damage to my life or reputation.  Some might call that survival simple good fortune, some might call it an over qualified guardian angel, some might call it a God thing.  I call it being raised by two loving, common sense, committed parents who always have and will have my back — and that itself could be a God thing.  I have needed and always will need them.

 

Those Who Won’t Join The Club

Tags

God, life, religion?

This blog must begin with an obvious statement — I am near or completely stupid most of a good portion of 99.9% of all of the time.  This morning’s tale demonstrates that.  Most of my blogs should start with that obvious statement.  I will not ask for a vote, although I am sure that a vote on my level of competency will be a more sure vote for most people than the upcoming presidential election.

I am also going to ask any reader of this blog to visit this web site, study it a little if you have the chance, make your own decision (if that is necessary) about the organization that I encountered in this morning’s adventure.  The web site is http://www.churchrepent.com . 

As I have shared here in the past, I volunteer a few times a month as a parking lot attendant at my church, which for me means that I get to wear one of those nifty orange reflective vests and wave/smile/talk to people as they arrive for church services.  It’s not much and I have done other things over the years that may have had more significance in the lives of others, but I seem to be a good fit for the parking lot guy gig.  I want to do more, although some of what I have been allowed to experience in my life qualifies in the top ten of really deep spiritual service category.  Mostly I have been a pretty average Christian though.  I am not sure what that means.  I guess that means that I have been comfortable.

According to what I was told this morning, comfortable = apathetic = enemy of God.  It also means that I am not a true Christian.  Comfortable is the unforgiveable sin.  At least now I know.  Stupid me, I should have realized that a long time ago.

If the Church Repent folks simply made it their mission to help Christians and churches to overcome apathy to make more of a difference in this world, then I would be applauding them and saying “More power to ya… er.. more of GOD’s power to ya!”.  If they tried to accomplish that mission in a way that honors God rather than attack God’s people using God’s name as an excuse, then I would at least be a fan of Church Repent.  What the Church Repent folks have done is replace God with an idol, a cause that has become their idol — to fight abortion by shaming the church into becoming activists against abortion.  If you’re not picketing Planned Parenthood or protesting an abortion clinic, then you have no value.

One look at the Church Repent web site makes that very obvious.  “Churches” (yes, they place that word in parentheses) who they have judged as shallow, who do not punish those who have had abortions, who do not condemn abortion in the way that Church Repent thinks is adequate — will be subjected to a protest.  During that protest, Church Repent will treat the people of those “churches” as non-human, enemies — ironic if you think about it.  Church Repent has made the fight against abortion their God Idol, reminding us that we need to value the lives of the unborn, yet the behavior that I witnessed and experienced this morning demonstrated that they do not apply that principle to the lives of the already born.. or born again even.

Stupid me also thinks that you can reason with lunatics.  I’m still stupidly naïve that way.  My first expectation is that everyone, for the most part, is going to behave reasonably.

Is that wrong?

Back to Steve the Parking Lot Guy story.  It was a beautiful morning, sunny and warm, a slight breeze that cooled pleasantly .  Our church has an east parking lot and a west parking lot.  I man the east lot, a bit tricky because it has only one entrance/exit as well as being close to the traffic light and intersection that most use to get to the church building.  This morning, the lot filled for the early service, then filled again for the second service.  Getting out of the parking lot after each service was challenging, although I am always amazed at the way each driver politely takes turns as they leave.  I guess I shouldn’t be.  It’s church, after all.

My friend and co-attendant, Mark, arrived at our parking attendant posts a few minutes before the early church service concluded.  I removed the “Parking Lot Full” sign from the entrance, took my spot in front of the first aisle to monitor the parade of vehicles out of the lot.  As we took our spots, two men and a woman walked along the front of the lot, next to the street, set up signs that featured fetuses in the womb as well as a list of condemnations for those who do not take a stand for the unborn.  Two men stood at the corner, at the light and intersection that people take to get to the church building, and began shouting through a bull horn at the cars and people as they entered, and soon after as the cars/people left.  The woman positioned herself about 20 feet from me, at and in the driveway that cars used to get in and out of the east parking lot.  She immediately began yelling condemnations, holding a pamphlet while trying to get cars to stop and take from her.  At times, she walked directly into the path of a car to stop it.

Not cool.

Before she took her spot, I received a call on my walkie talkie for help with a situation in the west parking lot.  Apparently, one the Church Repent protestors, a young man holding a large fetus sign, decided that he should protest next to the door where people were exiting to the west parking lot.  Adding to the issue was the fact that the west lot is where many of the young families with children park.  So my co-attendant high tailed it to the west lot.

Right after that is when the chaos started at the lot I was tending.  I was by myself, with raging lunatics on a bull horn causing a disturbance at the street corner in front of the lot, and an insane woman ranting 20 feet away from me, calling people evil and sinful, surely everyone in our church were Pro Choice, something she kept screaming as the people and cars passed.  People coming out and in their cars were confused, some wondering why our church would stage a protest like that.  I did my best to explain that this was not something that our church was doing or supporting.  But it looked that way.

Yes, that bothered me, maybe more than anything else.

Confronting these people would be foolish.  I called at least five times on my walkie talkie for security.  No one answered.  So I did a foolish thing.  I walked up to the woman who was screaming at the parking lot entrance, asked her if I could speak with her.  She ignored me.  I put my right hand on her left arm, hoping to get her attention.  The woman screamed that I was attacking and assaulting her.  As calmly as I could, I asked her to stop blocking traffic and if she would kindly join the men who were protesting on the corner.  Instead, she screamed that she had a right to be where she was at, refused to move, and I had no right to ask her to leave.

OK.  She was right that she was on a sidewalk and on public property.  I could not make her leave.  I asked her if her and her friends had talked to anyone at our church, with any church leader or staff member, before the protest.  I knew the answer to that one.  No.  She confirmed than, then shoved a pamphlet in my face, which I took as I walked away.

I would like to say that I completely hid my displeasure.  I didn’t.  I didn’t yell or scream either.  Let me tell you this — it was really difficult to keep from losing it.  But I had done a very stupid thing by first touching the woman with my hand, then confronting her with those questions.  These people were looking for conflict.  They were looking for a fight.  Unwittingly, I had given them a target for that conflict.

Stupid.

Security finally showed up.  They asked me to stand near the woman, make sure that traffic kept moving into the parking lot, which I did but with my back to the woman.  There is always a lull between services, when most of the early service traffic has cleared and before the people coming to the late service begin to show up.  Due to the disturbance, people were late leaving, so I was kept busy directing traffic as people left the parking lot.  However, traffic coming in was light and as the amount of cars leaving dwindled, the protestors turned their attention to me.  Police had shown up and made them put away their bullhorns, but the were able to yell insults at me from the corner.

“Hey comfortable parking lot man in your important orange vest.  You think your comfortable life watching your kids play football and taking them to Disneyland is such a good thing.  You are a sinner, a worker of iniquity.”  They quoted their version of a passage from Psalms, apparently justifying their worker of iniquity accusation.  “You brutalized and abused our sister.  You know nothing of God and he hates you.  You are an pathetic apathetic mess and not worthy of being called a son of God.”

I am not making this up.  The woman chimed in.

I ignored them, kept being Mister Parking Lot Guy.  It was stupid, really.  I should have just left.  A large part of me wanted to, but a part of me wanted to stay there to explain to the confused people walking in that our church had absolutely nothing to do with the rude protest.

A man in a red tee shirt, one of the protestors and apparently the leader, joined the woman and started yelling insults at me, telling me that I had abused the woman and was not a Christian, not even worthy to direct traffic in a church parking lot.  He took a spot on the sidewalk across from me, threatening me, telling me that if I did not apologize to the woman, he was going to call the police and say that I had abused her.

During that whole time, I said nothing except once to tell the man that I would not be drawn into their fight.  Yes.  It was stupid of me to stay.  I should have just walked away.  By that time, the lot was almost full and my duties were done.  But the man kept threatening to call the police unless I apologized.  So I walked to within a few feet of them, and apologized for asking the woman to leave.  Then I did go back inside the building, as the man continued to yell insults at my back.  I didn’t look at him, just kept walking.  When I got to the front door, I turned around as the man was dialing his cell phone.  He called the police.

I guess it’s OK to lie if you think it helps your cause.  They told the policeman that I had grabbed the woman and dragged her down the sidewalk towards the corner.  They told the policeman that they wanted to press assault and battery charges against me.  They told the policeman that they had video to prove it and would post it on YouTube to prove it.

Yeah, the woman had a GoPro around her neck.  It would take a real creative edit to prove what they were claiming.  The policeman told me that he had serious doubts that they would even produce the video that they claimed they would produce.

I had parked my car in the west lot.  I walked out to my car to the taunts of the protestors, calling me an abuser and saying that I should apologize for my actions.  Instead of going to my car, friends picked me up and took me a few blocks away.  They waited for a few minutes, then another friend brought my car to me.  We didn’t want to risk the Church Repent lunatics getting my car’s license number.  Who knows if they would show up at my house?

So, there is my crazy day.  Crazy people.  It’s a crazy, mixed up world and it’s just getting worse.

Apparently, if you aren’t willing to join their club, pay their dues, follow their rules, then you are only worth a damnation.

There is a lot more I can say, but I have already said enough that is judgement of the Church Repent protestors.

If you are interested, here are a few pictures of the pamphlet they were passing out.  There actually is a little bit of sense to it, in between the crazy.

 

 

 

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream

Tags

anger, faith, God, life, marriage, marriage issues, relationships

I need to scream.  I am emotionally spent and I have no outlet.  I need to be comforted and hugged, but the one I thought would be there for me when I need her touch took that away from me a long time ago.. and she is the source of my frustration.

Where do you go when you need to scream?  What do you do?

I want to know.

Do you moan to God like David, at times feeling like God has rejected you?  I can relate.  I pray for relief, for change, and it seems like I am praying for naught.  My prayers feel empty.  I have yet to dance naked before God and everyone, like David did in his celebration.

Maybe that’s the answer?

Naaaaaa.

Do you spill your anger out on the people around you, the poison seeping from your pores, dripping from your tongue?  My mood threatens to turn black when the screams are trapped inside me, so much that I wish I could run from myself.  Instead, I run to a mirror, witness the distressed man that stares back at me, darkness lurking in his eyes, tears pooling.  Often enough, I am able to leave him there.

A bicycle provides escape for a time, each frustration shaved away as the pedals turn beneath me.  There was a time when the bicycle was the only outlet that I needed.  There are times when that is still the case, but more and more the screams stay with me.

I am not a violent man.  I can be an angry man, a man I have learned to fight simply because I know that I don’t handle the angry man very well.  Never am I tempted to strike out in an attempt to release the screams.  I am afraid of what might happen if I did.  I want to be angry with my words, but I don’t like to do that, so I hide my words away more often than not.  So I need to scream.  I want to scream.

I can’t.

I want to scream so loud that it all goes away.  The pain.  The want.  The sacrifice.  The woman who complains and takes, who gives so little back.

In a moment, I will retreat to an empty bed.  I will wake up to a still empty bed.

And I will live my day craving the opportunity to scream.

Some day it will happen.

 

Life with Lemons

Tags

God, life, relationships

I really need to learn how to make lemonade.  Little Stevie has been turning tiny fruit into enormous entities.

Today showed me that.

Let me start with the lemon that finished me off.  It was a itty bitty Lemonhead, to be honest, one that I think I could have avoided.  Can I admit that there are times when skipping church can be OK?  I should have skipped this morning’s service.  I should have just avoided.  I knew what was on the service agenda.  My church is ambitious, intent on growing and reaching as many people for God as possible.  That really excites me, especially since I know from watching the church grow over close to 30 years that it is blessed.  In order to grow, that means expanding.  Expanding requires money.  This morning was going to be a commitment service, with members being asked to commit to giving more over the next two years.  That requires faith beyond what I have.  Either that or God is telling me that I am not being asked to commit to giving more.

I hate that.  Damn it, God, I really do hate that!  After searching, working out the financial details, praying about it, I had to decide that going beyond what I have in order to give to a church building project is not wise.  God wants me to be a good steward.  God is not asking me to step out in faith and make money appear out of nowhere.  So I signed the commitment card any way, said that I am committing to give $25 a month more, walked up front and dropped it in the basket.

Remember the story in the Bible about Ananias and Sapphira, the couple who sold a piece of land to give the money to their church, lied about the price when they gave the money, and dropped dead as a result?  It’s in Acts 5 if you want to check it out.

I returned to my seat, stood with everyone while we sang.  All of a sudden, I felt very ill, nauseated and so dizzy that I felt like I was going to collapse.  I sat down.  That didn’t help.  Trying to be brave, I sat up straight, all the while feeling like any moment I was going to pass out.  The anxiety was building.  I didn’t know what was happening, but I was pretty sure that a good deal of how I felt at the moment had to do with that anxiety.

There are a lot of lemons in my life.  Anyone who reads this blog knows that.  I let those lemons be a lot larger than they need to be.  This morning, they about crushed me.

It didn’t help that yesterday I rode close to three hours, only drank about a quarter of the one water bottle that I brought with me.  More than likely, I was still a little dehydrated this morning.  Also, when I had that accident at the beginning of January, my blood pressure was around 170 over 102.  That scared the people who looked me over at the hospital after the accident.  They discharged me with a warning to go have my blood pressure checked by my doctor.  I chalked that up to the shock I was experiencing due to the accident, so I didn’t do anything about it.

So I forced myself to get up out of my chair in the church auditorium at the end of the service.  I was afraid.  I was dizzy, my gut churning, but walking helped a little.  I got in my car and it all came back.. worse.

Long story short, I managed to drive myself to a convenient care.  They took one look at me as I walked in and immediately they grabbed a wheelchair, took me back to exam.  After determining that it wasn’t my heart, they told me that there was definitely something doing on, but they needed me to go to the ER.  A few minutes later, I was in an ambulance and on my way to the hospital.

My heart rate was 165 over 102.  I was discharged a few hours later with a prescription for high blood pressure medicine.  Likely culprit is stress and dehydration, with a diet high in caffeine and sodium.

You know what sucks?  Our current health insurance situation.  At one point during my examination in the ER, an intake person came in with a portable computer system, told me that I needed to pay the $600 deductible then.  A big lemon smacked me in the gut.

I about passed out then.  At that point, it was a real good thing that Miriam had arrived.  She took over.  Turns out she has a credit card that I didn’t know about.

Good things — really all this means is that I am going to have to be on blood pressure meds for a while.  There will be a diet change required, something I was already contemplating.  Coffee will likely no longer be a morning staple.  Salt, something I usually overdo, is going to go away.

And today’s events meant Miriam and I talked about our money situation a lot more, without resistance.  That has been improving as of late, something I have been increasingly pushing and both of us becoming more aware of.. and I have really been stressing over our money.  I don’t feel as alone at the moment when it comes to that.  And my wife cooked for me when I got home, put together a menu and grocery list together, and she is doing the grocery shopping for this week.

Time for those lemons to shrink to lemonade size.

Quiet Saturday

Tags

family, fatherhood, God, life, marriage, parents, relationships

Saturday morning quiet is where I exist at this moment.  My family, including the dog and cat, are resting comfortably in their beds upstairs, asleep after their late Friday night revelry.  Alyssa is home for a short two day visit, snuggled up with her mother in her bedroom last night for a pajama party as I ventured down the hallway to bed, a quick “good night” as I stuck my head in to check on them.  The MacBook was out and ready for what was most likely a Gilmore Girl marathon.  Nate was perched in his usual spot, Xbox blazing and cell phone out as he kibitzed with his teenage buddies.  I got out of bed around 5 this morning to shut his bedroom light off, his Xbox controller still in contact with his outstretched fingertips on the bed next to his snoring carcass.  He won’t stir until at least noon today.  There is probably another hour of quiet left in my morning, the girls and animals likely will emerge from the chrysalis of sleep about mid morning.

Me?  I’m plotting my day’s activities as I write.  Last Saturday was a ice/snow ride in the woods, today too warm and sloppy for a ride in the woods.  Sloppy is not what I prefer.  My road bike needs a new hoop for the rear wheel, so it’s not going to come out of the garage.  An old Univega hybrid, once the bike I road almost exclusively for my work commute, is hanging from the garage rafters and waiting to be reconditioned.  Today seems like a good idea to start that project, perhaps an hour or so ride on that bike is in order.  Tax documents also are ready for me, so I may dive in on that chore later on today.  Doing the taxes is not something that I loathe, but it’s one of those chores that I like to get out of the way early.  With a child in college, the FAFSA requires the information from a completed and accepted tax return, so there is extra motivation to get the taxes done early.

In that Alaska coffee cup is a perfect brew of Starbucks Italian Roast.  If the coffee is portioned correctly for the brew, a task I have somehow perfected as of late, the sweetness of the dark roast is further enhanced by the sweetener added.  There are two sips left in my third cup of that brew, almost intoxicating to me on a morning like this.  When the seal breaks, I will get a head start on my Saturday workout.

This year has already given me opportunity to struggle with a tough decision.   That Alaska coffee cup reminds me of that decision, one that I finally made a little over a week ago.  “Finally” is a necessary word for this story because the initial decision wasn’t accepted, forcing me to reconsider and make a stronger case for the decision.  I debated with myself as well as my wife for more than a month before making the announcement — I am not going to Alaska with my family this June for a wedding.

A few months ago, our daughter was asked to be a bridesmaid by her cousin for her June wedding.  We have known for several months about the wedding, excited for Mir’s family and her niece.  Inga has lived with us several times over the years, a happy little blonde pixie who I love like she is my own daughter.  Her father, Dan, is one of my favorite brother-in-laws (I have four) mainly because our personalities and interests are very similar.  When we found out about the wedding, my wife was supposed to be putting away money from her paycheck for the trip and airfare.  January came, time to buy the plane tickets if they were going to be affordable, her sisters putting the pressure on her to buy the tickets now.

One problem — my wife has not saved a penny for the plane tickets or trip.  I can’t pay for them as my paycheck pays all of our bills, little to none in the budget from my pay to save for a trip to Alaska.  I get paid twice a month, the first paycheck going towards the major bills with just enough left for fuel and food, the second covering the rest of the bills (car payment, cell phones for wife/kids, etc).  Besides air fare expenses for the trip, there are going to be plenty of expenses for the 11 days that my wife wants to stay in Alaska.  Not only is my wife not saving money for the plane tickets, she is not regulating her spending, often going through her pay so quickly that she is borrowing from our joint account (my paycheck.. hers goes into her own account).

The other problem was the time away from work needed for the trip.  When I said no to the Alaska trip the first time, which was a few weeks ago, time away from work was the reason that I gave.  If I went for the full trip, it would mean 8 working days away from my job.  In a three person office, at the height of our busiest time of the year, it would be a bad thing.  My boss flinched when I told him I needed to take 8 days in June.  He was fair to me, said it was my time to take but hoped that I could at least reduce some of that time.  That probably meant going just for the wedding and coming home early, without my family.  Unfortunately, the discount plane tickets had to be purchased in pairs and those two people would be required to travel together.  After a good deal of wrestling with the details, I decided that the expense and time away just were not justified for a wedding.

I hated making the decision.  I honestly did.  I like my wife’s family (for the most part) and it would be great to see my daughter decked out as a bride’s maid.  Her family feels the same way about me and offered to pay for my plane ticket.

Part of the struggle is knowing that I know there are changes that need to be made in my family if my marriage is to survive.  One big change is our finances.  Our resources need to be managed better, spending decreased, budget seriously adhered to, debt reduced (not increased).  That meant (means) not spending more money on the Alaska trip than is needed.  If I do not go, my wife and kids won’t need a rental car or hotel, as well as other expenses reduced.  My son likely won’t get to do the fun things with his father, but more than likely will spend more time with his cousins as a result.  The girls will be consumed with the wedding details for at least half of the trip.  So I presented the hard financial facts to my wife, showing her that best case scenario of savings from my pay would be $400 by June.  I would have to turn down the kind offer of her sister paying for my plane ticket.  She would borrow the money from her sister for her air fare and for our children’s air fare, something that I have real doubts she will be able to repay, especially if she is going to be able to save for expenses during the June trip.

The second time that I said no, my wife agreed with one condition — I would have to tell her sister that I was not going and would not be accepting the money for my plane ticket.  My wife wanted me to email her sister.  I thought about her request, initially bristling, but after a little consideration welcomed the chance to explain to her sister why I was not going.  I didn’t email her, I called her, explained my desire to convey how serious I am about our family finances.  We need to learn to live on what we have.  This is an opportunity to convey that message in a way that shows how serious that I am.

This is a decision that really makes me feel like the bad guy.  I don’t like being the bad guy.  I am one of those people that wants to always be the good guy, enough that I sometimes do not make the hard decisions that I need to make.  Before I made the decision to forego the Alaska trip, I called the person I trust the most in my life, my father.  Dad listened to me, told me that he understands why I need to make the decision, especially considering all he knows about my marriage.  Dad did not tell me what decision I needed to make, but he told me that I was thinking along the right lines, that my reasoning was sound.  He said that there are both positive and negative consequences from the decision, thus the struggle, but the potential positive likely outweighs the negative.  And he said one thing to me that stuck — Steve, you need to make a decision like this one right now.  I thanked him sincerely for the encouragement and for listening to me.  My father has learned to listen to me in the last few years.. and he always tells me that he and my mother pray for me each day.  If you do not know the assurance that the knowledge of someone praying for you gives you, you are missing something.  It is strengthening.

The decision has given the message to my family that I am serious about the money we spend.  The past two weeks, I have put together a day to day menu with a grocery list on Sunday.  I do the grocery shopping, cook most of the meals.  There has been resistance, but the message is being delivered.  It gives some strength to my no response when someone, usually our son, wants fast food or a pint of premium ice cream, luxuries far too common for him (as in daily luxuries).  The next step will likely be eliminating the funds available in the joint checking account, opening my own checking account and leaving only enough cash in the joint account to pay bills.  I am tired of financial stress.

There is a full blog, a ton of information.  Now to start on that bike (I won’t be changing out parts — no money in the budget for that!!!).

Coffee is gone.  Day is ready for me to move…..

Clanging Cymbals

Tags

God, I try to think, people, science

A bible from 1859. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I want to propose a statement, one that I suppose could be profound if properly discussed, but as a statement by itself, well, it’s a statement:

Science will never catch up with God.

There you have all of my collective wisdom summed up in six…er.. wait.  SEVEN words.

The statement is easy to make, difficult to dispute, simply because there is no real way to prove the statement can’t be true.  One can take the high road, say the only realistic argument is to say there is no God.  Yeah.  Say that if you want.  But what if you don’t know, if you can’t say without a reasonable doubt that God does not exist.

So you are left with deciding what you believe about God.  Where does God really rank?  Is God creator?  Sustainer of life?

Does science exist because of God?

Oooooooo, good question, Steve.  Stevie may be a profound idiot at times, profane even, but maybe just maybe he asks a good question.  If you hold to the concept of God as creator, then it is reasonable to propose that science does exist because of God.

So does math.

So does art.

So does pretty much anything that exists, mundane or complex.

I might even go as far as to say that religion will never catch up with God.  Why do I think that?  Because I believe that there is too much man in religion, that we can reach as much for God as we want, but we will never find a perfect way on our own to please the God.

Of science.

What man has succeeded to know is that no matter how much we invent and find out, there is always more to discover.

I like what Billy Graham said, a much quoted line from one of his sermons.

There is a mystery to it.

Funny thing is that we are told that there always will be a mystery.  Why?  Because we will never completely see the world as it is, see ourselves or others or anything else as it is, until we fully see God.

And that will never happen while we are alive.

The love chapter of what I believe is God’s message to us, the Bible, tells us this:

¹² For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.  – I Corinthians 13:12

Oddly enough, Paul is not talking about science or the mysteries of this world.  Paul is talking about love.  He is talking about people.

Perhaps my statement should be this — people will never catch up to God

Anyone want to tackle that question?  I can’t.  I can talk about how it’s nearly impossible, no matter how hard we try or no matter how close we come, to look at God’s ultimate creation in the same way that God does.

Might change what Christian people say to people about their sin.  They might choose to look at the person instead, letting God address the sin (or even perceived sin).

Might change what people say about the church and/or believers (Christians).  Perhaps they will cut them some slack, let them make a mistake, quit expecting people who believe in God to be the One they believe in.

Might change boundaries.  Could change a lot of things.

Wouldn’t that be heaven?

I think that’s the place we’ll catch up.

Whir

Tags

anxiety, ct scan, God, health, life, stomach, worry

English: Gallstones from gall bladder Polski: Kamienie z pęcherzyka żółciowego (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Whir.  Hum.

Comforting sounds in different circumstances, not too loud, a pleasantness that on a typical day would have me fighting the sandman for consciousness.  A glance up at the inch wide, six inch long window facing me revealed a glowing orange light, the mechanism inside the tube above me turning quickly behind the window.  Next to the window was a sticker warning me to avoid looking directly inside the window at the laser radiation inside.  My right hand sensed the cold metal of the machine under my palm, placed there a few moments ago when the female technician had instructed me to do so.  Sharp warmth coursed down my arm from an IV, moving along to my mouth, down the other side of my body to my groin, just as I was told would happen.  Confirming the information I had received a few minutes earlier, that warmth turned to a burning sensation not quite like anything I had felt before.  I concentrated on the faint vanilla taste of the thick white smoothie I had drank during the previous hour, the taste mingling with the burning sensation in my mouth.

There is a serenity that filled my mind as I lay inside that machine, strange in that I knew it was taking photos of my innards, scanning to help the doctors figure out what is going on to make me feel the constant nausea.  A few hours before my doctor had announced that what the hospital had told me last Thursday is false.  There is nothing wrong with my gall bladder even though there are stones inside said organ.  Everyone has them there or at least most do.  My body shows no signs of distress and vital signs are strong.  Doc Gary was concerned that it could be something else, so he did not want to waste time, sent me to the lab to have blood drawn for tests, then to the hospital for a CT scan.  That was fine.  I just want to find out what is wrong, do what I need to do to correct what is wrong, and move on to my normal life of work, bicycle riding, baseball, and fatherhood.  Laying inside that whirring and humming tube was going to help me achieve that healing task, so I was at peace with it.

A tinny female voice instructed me to take a deep breath and hold it.  I felt like I was in a science fiction movie.  The table I was lying on moved as the technician adjusted my position from her place behind a glass wall behind me.  The whir turned to a low hum as the machine shut down, the tech came out to remove the IV, give me a few more instructions, then asked me to pull my pants up.  I was done.  I signed a form then followed her out the doors of the scan room, down a few hallways to the waiting room.  She told me the doctor would have the results of the scan and talk to me in a few minutes.

She was right.  A few minutes later the receptionist called my name and took me to a small private room connected to the lobby, instructed me to wait next to the phone in the room as she closed the door behind me.  A few moments later the phone rang.

“You’re fine.  Just like your doctor said there is no sign of distress.  I doubt it is the stones that are your problem.  Frankly, what is probably going on here is stress.  Your doctor has already given you instructions regarding a pill for your stomach.  Let’s stick with those instructions.  Do the two week dosage.”

And that was it.  The diagnosis was what I expected — Steve is a worry wart.  Yeah, I have plenty to be anxious about, but truth is that I am turning that focus inward too much, so easy to do.  I understand why God warns us not to get lost in worry, let him take care of the small and big stuff.  I’m no lily of the field or a bird, but I get the idea.

So why in the world did I get a call yesterday with a referral to a surgeon to have my gall bladder removed?  Gaaaaaah.  I suppose that explains the constant nausea that worsened as the day went on, has not gone away.  Dang it.

It sucks getting “old”.  It sucks more worrying about it.

Oh, and GO CARDINALS!

Stick A Fork In Me

Tags

bicycle, God, healed, recovery

IT HAS HAPPENED!!!!!!!!

No, it’s not the second coming. I would be gone and I probably wouldn’t leave a note behind for my family.  I would also be posting this blog from a WiFi hot spot in heaven.  Hey you, get off of my cloud.

Nope.  But I about high enough to be in heaven.  I called my dad a few minutes ago and he told mom as he handed her the phone —

“Watch out, it’s Steve and he’s on one of his highs.”

I love you, dad.  But you can’t ride my bicycle.

YES, IT HAS HAPPENED!!!!!!!!

No, it’s not the attack of the exclamation points.

Steve wasn’t home for dinner.

My.. first.. bicycle.. ride.. since.. foot… surgery.  I thought this day was never going to get here.  At least not this soon.  January 10th was the surgery and the surgeon said that three months was the minimum (urgh, argh) recovery time.  Six weeks ago my doctor said that I would be wearing the walking boot for six weeks or more, definitely not riding in six weeks, depending on if the fused bone takes and heals.

This afternoon was my six week check up.  Doctor Sunshine showed me the xray, pointed to where the bone had grown around the plate and screws, smiled and said

“Congratulations.  You can throw away that walking boot.  Get out that orange Adidas shoe you have been saving your left foot.  Walk.  You can try riding a bike but be careful.  The exercise is going to help alleviate the swelling… and I don’t want to see you again unless the foot is falling off.”

He shook my hand.  It’s nice to have a doc who rides.  I’ll likely see him on a group ride some time this summer.

The first shoe I wore on my new left foot was my Shimano cycling shoe.  I got home with the sun shining, hardly a breeze blowing, and plenty of daylight left.  We were supposed to have thunderstorms all day, so the weather was a bit of a miracle.  God was telling me to go for it.  No one was home.  There was no question what I was going to do.

My bike looked at me questioningly as I opened the garage door.  Ready?

The spandex fit like a glove.  A very tight glove.  Three months of riding the couch has added a few pounds.  Three months without feeling spandex close to my skin is too long, but it felt soooooo good.

You may stop reading to gag, if required.

Now imagine a 51 year old man bending over a bicycle pump in spandex.  The fssshhh fssssshh fsssshhhhh of the pump filling the high pressure tires of my road bicycle was music to my ears.  I gathered gloves, helmet, water bottle, and shoes.

Ready.

The familiar clop clop clop of the hard soled bike shoes and cleats on the asphalt driveway as I walked my bike out to the street.  I sighed a happy sigh as I stretched my right leg over the top tube, clicked the cleat on my left foot into the pedal, pushed off with my right as the saddle met my back side, then the right cleat clicked in.  The hum of the tires soothed.

I was riding again.  Right turn, turning the pedals to propel my light titanium bicycle forward.  Left turn.

And God showed me that my return to the bike was blessed.  Rolling towards me was my friend, Jim, the guy riding through the woods on my blog header, one of my best riding friends.  Coincidence?  Some times you just have to admit that God does stuff like that.

Best ride ever.  Ten miles out of the box, out of healing.  It felt good with hardly a twinge of pain.

Miriam greeted me in the garage as I pulled in from the ride, laughing at me as I gave a loud whoop with my fist in the air.

It’s going to be OK.  It’s going to be great.  All is well.

It has happened.

All In

Tags

church, faith, giving, God, pastors, tithes

I have always held in high regards the people I know who are willing to push their limits, take themselves to one level and continue on.  Over the years of cycling I have known a lot of riders who seem to have a genetic ability to focus in a way that sets them apart, with a superhuman constitution or at least a switch in their brain that says ‘no’ to the signals their body is sending them, a Lance Armstrong focus without the doping.  I admire the fearless way they approach the challenges any ride presents.  No obstacle stops them whether it is a steep climb, a scary descent, a jump on a trail, or simply fried legs.

No fear.  Total commitment.

Scott is one of those fearless types.  I have been riding road with him for several years, enough to see him ride brakeless descents that I almost always white knuckle so much that I melt brake pads.  When we ride an event that requires a lot of climbing, I usually pass Scott on the climbs and flat sections, but Scott zooms by me on the screaming downhill sections.  I marvel not only at his skill as Scott zooms deftly by but at the lack of fear he has.  When I ask him about it, he says that his experience as a flat track motorcycle racer cured him of any fear he had of riding two wheels at speed.  Flat track racing meant laying a heavy machine practically flat into a curve, with the rider’s knee skimming or nearly skimming the ground, at speeds exceeding 150 mph.  His attitude when describing it was so matter of fact that I had no doubt that he barely thought about the danger of it all when descending a curvy road at speeds close to fifty mph.  I am so afraid for my life that I nearly wet myself if my fingers leave the brakes.  Scott craves the rush.

John and Jeff each like riding at the front of the pack, so much that they train for the endurance it takes to be there.  Each of them has a tolerance to pain that I find difficult to understand.  On a long group ride, I find myself wincing when one or both of them takes the front.  I know I am about to have my “legs torn off”.  The pace is going to raise to excrutiating, gut wrenching torture, such that requires one to reach down deep to keep from being dropped.  One let down and I am watching the back of the pack move quickly away.  I recognize the commitment, the total disregard for pain, the discipline required to be that type of rider.  To ride like that, you have to be willing to push yourself to a place you have never been, then build on that experience until you know the pain can be overcome.  You know longer fear the pain, you welcome it.

When I look at those three friends, I see three people who know what it means to be all in.  Committed.

They are familiar with their fears enough that fear has found a place in their success.

My friend Jim negotiates a tricky section of single track.

Overcoming fear involves taking a leap into what might cause pain.  The experience teaches.  Each victory builds until what once seemed impossible is behind, new challenges taking their place.  I discovered that when my interest in mountain biking was renewed last Fall and I found myself following my friends Jim and Jon over obstacles that years ago would have stopped me.  Fear on a mountain bike is a real enemy, one that can injure and make the obstacles more difficult.  If you don’t go all in on a steep descent, you likely are going to get hurt.

All I have said up to this point seems to point to a blog about commitment, about living without fear, taking the leap of faith.  You want to know what I really think?

Bull.

Hogwash.

A line of crap.

Vaginae.  (not really, but I just learned that term and wanted to use it in a blog)

I am hear to preach the benefits of living a lukewarm life.  “All in” middle class.  There is a lot to be said about knowing where you are and being happy about it, even accepting it.

* Look at that bit of belly and smile at the tasty burritos, beer, and chocolate that made it happen.

* Ride a dirt path through the woods and take the easy way around the tough stuff, happy in the peaceful exercise you are getting.

* Take the front on a group ride, ride full out as long as you can in the hopes that the guys behind you have had a chance to hurt, then drop back the rest of the ride, happy that the guys who have been busting their butt at four A.M. each day to be top dogs are now getting their due.

* Pick up Scott from the ditch at the bottom of the descent after his over confidence caused him to overshoot the curve.

I’m not saying that one should never put out the effort to be the best one can be.  Not at all.  Go for it if that is what you want to be about.

Never ever look down your nose at me if that is not what I am about.  I am not going to buy your performance enhancing product (thank you, Lance Armstrong, for adding the exclamation point to that one), not going to buy a fancy bicycle or accessories, not going to attend your boot camps, not going to work 60 hours every week and come in every Saturday.  My family is more important to me than that.  I have had my share of success, enough to bore my grandkids for hours when I have grandkids.  Success to me does not require bragging rights.  I’m not a park district give-them-a-trophy-for-blowing-their-nose type, but I am a guy who likes to have a life.  The type of commitment that involves

ALL IN

requires a focus that I am going to leave to the professionals who have just that one thing.

That is not bad.

Unless you tell someone that unless they go ALL IN, then they are lacking true faith.

Yep.

That is what the church I go to is doing right now.  The leaders of this church have launched a campaign they call “All In”.  It’s a campaign to raise twelve million dollars so that they can accomplish the task of bringing people back to God.  I call it

BULL

SHIT

Because that is what it is.  It is flat out propaganda designed to entice people to step out of their financial comfort zone, a fine idea of sorts if it is properly motivated, but telling people to test their faith by making insane pledges they should not be making is not the way to do it.  Why do I say that?

Because really this is a staff of ministers wanting to feel successful, to puff out their chests and be recognized for doing something big.  I know the guy behind this and I do not like it.  He recognizes and kisses up to the powerful, ignores the guys who can’t give him what he needs, which is their money.

How do I know that?  I needed help a year or so ago, needed to talk to our church pastor about the struggles I was having in my marriage.  Just an hour with someone to sort out my thoughts.  The pastor would not talk to me.  After several days of my asking to meet with him, he said really I would have to pay to go to a counselor instead.  He said he would pray for me, pushed me away, never checked on me again.  A few weeks later, he boasted in a sermon about how he is there for people who need him, especially when God tells him someone is in need.  Guess God told him I’m a paycheck to paycheck guy.

Honestly, I am all in.  Just not that kind of all in.

I was.  When the church started some 25 years ago, it grew from the sweat and tears of people like me who worked hard, gave up the majority of their free time, so that church could become the success it is today.  It’s a church of many thousands, spread over 15 different locations now, started from one tiny group of all in, committed Christians.  I was one of them.

Guess that’s not enough.

I wrote a letter to that pastor today, asked him to think about one question as this campaign for millions of dollars progresses, as he asks people to step out in faith to give money they have no idea where it is going to come from — does God say no to someone who wants to be blessed to give?  I say he does.  I say that is what God has done with me and my family.  And I am perfectly OK with that.