Destination Discipline

“Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail, in you do we trust, nor find you to fail. Your mercies, how tender, how firm to the end, our Maker, Defender, Redeemer and Friend!” – Robert Grant

We are fortunate when our paths are smooth, but we rarely give thanks. We look at the blue sky as if it were our due—as if we deserve such beauty. But should the dark clouds roll in, we hustle and crab, gripe and moan. Sometimes we are given a great and wonderful gift; the ability to see this world as it truly is, including our relationship to it. By that I mean that this world is broken and we in turn are buried beneath the weight of that brokenness.

As I write this, someone I love dearly is undergoing brain surgery. The doctors have shaved the beautiful hair from her head and they are using instruments to try to remove a significant tumor. And I suppose it would be easy to put my faith in the finest medical doctors utilizing the most modern technology available to remove the mass and save the life of my friend, but I don’t. Because the doctors are just people, and the instruments they use consist of molecules and atoms.

If I place my faith in the doctors, the machines and the instruments, I founder. A co-worker stopped by with his assessment of the situation. “She is laying on a cold, hard slab of metal and we are all waiting to see what will happen.” Time plus matter plus chance indeed.

I felt the gravity of his fear pulsing like waves in my direction. After all, any surgery has inherent risks. He asked me a question with great sincerity, “Are they prepared for the worst?”

It is a question we should all be asking on a regular basis because, if we are honest, tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. And while no one likes to think about it, death comes to all of us at some point. Sure, we console ourselves with the idea of living a long life and have plenty of time to prepare. We assume cancer will never happen to us or that a stroke won’t cripple us. That happens to other people. So when tragedy strikes, we are shattered. Today if you are reading this and you have never considered your future, stop and make an honest assessment, are you truly prepared to die?

There once lived a man named Jesus who spoke these words about death. “And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. So everyone who acknowledges me before men, I also will acknowledge before my Father who is in heaven, but whoever denies me before men, I also will deny before my Father who is in heaven.”

These are the words that came to mind as I considered the loss of my friend. I suppose some people can scrape by with well wishes and hope for a successful surgery. All I could see was the loss of someone I love and how on earth I would begin to cope with such agony.

My friend knows Jesus. So the knowledge that her body might perish does not frighten me. You see, I believe what the Bible says about death—that heaven and hell are real places—but Jesus laid down his life to save us from eternal death(hell) by paying the ultimate price for our sin. And if we know him, he will defend us before the father to ensure we do not go to that terrible place. It is not a hopeful wish. It is not a fairy story. I don’t have some vague idea that my friend will be in a better place. I am confident that should the worst possible thing happen to her, she will go to be with Jesus. And that knowledge gives me incredible joy.

There are people reading this that will think I’m a lunatic. Or they might even think I am foolish or simple-minded. After all, only simpletons believe all that old-fashioned religious stuff. But I am joyfully confident. Can the dear reader say the same?

I woke this morning from a frightful dream. In it I was torn between two loves and couldn’t make up my mind. I thought for some reason that I could maintain both and woke up in tears because I was trying to deceive each into believing I had chosen them. The soundtrack to my dream was an old hymn and I was fearfully reminded that what we worship matters.

“O worship the King all-glorious above,
O gratefully sing his power and his love:
our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days,
pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.”

In my dream I was worshipping myself. I wanted both loves even though each person demanded fidelity. My frustration was the fruit of my selfish desire rather than the love and care of those people. As I prayed about it, I began to see that what I want is tainted by the brokenness of this world, i.e. sin. My limited perspective is guided by selfish desire, but God’s ways are higher than mine. He is not limited by the things that limit me and his purposes are not my purposes. I have to admit that I broke down into sobs. The only prayer I could pray was, “Father, have mercy on me.”

So what if my friend does not wake up? What if she is disabled? Does that make God any less good? I know from my own limited perspective that I want to see her wake up and have no remaining infirmity—as if that is the only good that can come out of such a diagnosis as a brain tumor. But when I consider that the “good” God chose to save me was to murder his son on the cross, I am certain that what I consider good and what He considers good are not the same things. So who will I worship?

Today I do not worship the doctors. I do not worship the hospital where my friend is having surgery. I do not worship the nurses, or the machines, or the drugs that enable my friend to endure a procedure pain free. As we wait on the razor edge with worry about the future, I worship the Ancient of Days. He knit my friend together in her mother’s womb. He knows every atom and molecule in her body. He knows how many hairs are on her head, even after it has been shaved. He loves her, and all those who belong to her. And He is capable of holding them all in the palm of His hands.

And lest I forget, the palms of his hands are marred by the nails of the spikes that held Him to the cross—a torturous place of contempt and shame. And because of this—because of Him—I can rest easy. Because I know how very much He loves my friend and her family. Because I know how much He loves me. He cares more about the soul than the body. And He knows what it means to suffer.

So I wait and I pray.

Because I am confident there will be good.

Because God is good.

No matter the outcome.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” – Jesus (John 14:27 ESV)

I first learned about habitualization from David Kessler in his book, “The End of Overeating.” I never considered that food companies were manipulating me by using taste and texture in order to motivate me to eat—and inevitably buy—more. I don’t fully understand how the brain works, even though I have read “The Addicted Brain” and have now ordered, “Capture: Unraveling the Mystery of Mental Suffering”. I find that by reading about addiction and trying to understand how the brain works, I understand my own situation more fully and am able to combat the compulsions that make up my every day existence. Food addiction is about so much more than overeating(as I have come to learn over the years). It is emotional, physical, psychological and even sometimes completely irrational. But I cannot stop pursuing information on how to conquer my body and its lusts in this stuggle to overcome my own personal Battle of the Bulge”. I find that to concede is to quit, and I’m no quitter.

The only good thing about habitualization is that it works both ways. For instance, I never crave French fries and they used to be a staple of my diet. I do, however, crave broccoli. You might read that last sentence and think I’m joking but I’m not. In fact, after I wrote that I went to the store and bought broccoli because I was out.

Yesterday I had lunch with a group of women from work and the person sitting next to me noticed that I ate the things on my plate in a specific order. In another lifetime I would have been offended by that observation(so insecure am I!) but yesterday I was only mildly amused. I explained the rationale behind my consumption.

“I always eat the vegetables first, then the protein, and then the carbs(if there are any).” She raised her eyebrows, nodded, and then continued to eat the food on her plate. (I get the raised eyebrow a lot when discussing food so I’m used to it)

Eating your vegetables first is lesson one in Healthy Eating 101. Fill your belly with low calorie, high fiber foods and you will fill up faster and consume fewer calories. The problem for a compulsive eater, however, is that gluttony tends to override the natural full impulse. Which is how I came to consume too much at lunch yesterday, and also why I continued to eat at home last night even though I was farther away from hungry than New York is from San Diego. And it’s not as simple as recreational eating or eating to console an emotion gap. Because each episode of gluttony has only one common denominator, mainly, I just eat too darn much.

So if I know my triggers(sugar or anything sweet) and I know that will-power isn’t enough to keep me from said foods, why do I still come into close proximity with them? Even worse, why can’t I just have a little taste and throw the rest away? To delve into such issues would require several hours of psychoanalysis I’m not prepared to undergo at the moment. The problem persists. I still overeat, even(and especially) when I know I shouldn’t. What interests me is that were I not a heavier-set person, no one would care. But I suppose that’s another blog post entirely.

FAT. Is there a less stigmatic three letter word in the English language?

When I grow up I won’t obsess about food any longer. I won’t dream about clouds of cotton candy or eating calorie free cake. I won’t have arguments with myself about why I shouldn’t eat birthday cake or why I should eat more fruit. I won’t lie in bed with aching joints because I’ve over-exercised my body with hopes of cancelling out excess calories. And I won’t silently sob over cookie crumbs with the immense regret only a true food-obsessed person can understand.

No one ever said living a healthy lifestyle was easy. If they did, they never knew what it was to struggle with addiction of any kind.

I have been reading with interest about the epidemic of drug overdoses in the St. Louis area due to synthetic cannabis. It almost appears as if someone is manufacturing the drug to eliminate the homeless population. Is there anything more insidious? But I would argue that the makers of Oreo cookies have the same goal in mind. They have created a product that is almost utterly irresistible. Consuming Oreo cookies, if taken to its logical conclusion, will destroy the body of the consumer—albeit more slowly than a drug like K2. And yet people continue to eat them and pretend there is no ill effect. Why?

When I was heavy I used to joke around that I knew McDonald’s food was unhealthy. But I never actually believed that was true. It tasted good so therefore it was good. As I think back about my mindset, most importantly, I realize I didn’t care if it was healthy or not. I wanted it. So I bought and consumed it. But after reading David Kessler’s book on overeating, I wouldn’t walk into a McDonald’s if someone paid me money. Not if I was starving to death. Not if it was the only food left on the planet. (Okay, maybe I would but for the sake of dramatic license just go with it) The point is greed is indiscriminate. Whether it be money or food or power or sex, greed has tentacles with particularly venomous suction cups attached that will kill us if we cave in. And so if you are not fighting against it, it is destroying you. Your body is the ship being dragged to a watery grave. And while you may “live” as a drowned person until the ripe old age of 60 or 72 or even 103, you are, in essence, dead.

I have a lot of coping mechanisms to help me deal with food addition. I specifically employ them after I have been negligent in my duties to surrender my sin(greed and gluttony) to the only wise God who is able to deliver me from them. It’s all part of the “save myself” mentality the world so readily offers as the remedy for FAT. I have been absolutely sick with myself since I started eating cookies over the weekend until I finally ran out on Sunday night. And so today at lunch I poked my head into the only book I knew would help with that. And I’ll be honest; I didn’t want to go there. I wanted the quick fix. I wanted to escape into a land of fantasy(television). I wanted to exercise the guilt away. But, when I really want to fix my disordered eating patterns, I go to the only place that tells me the truth and offers a suitable remedy…

Tonight I forced my children to engage in dinner and conversation. I asked questions. They gave incomplete answers. I made chocolate chip cookies. They salivated. They begged for cookies. I said no. Finally they capitulated and gave their mean old mom the appropriate responses. And I sighed with relief after the two very tense hours was complete, content that my attempt to teach them discipline while not losing my temper was over.

My husband was sitting at the table as the nervous tremors subsided(two shrieking beastlets can cause the nerves to fray a tad), and looked up at the ceiling. He cocked his head to the side and said, “Why is there pumpkin on the ceiling fan?”

And that is when I told him this story…

It was the day before Thanksgiving and all was not well in the house. My car was in the shop with an as yet unnamed issue that was soon to be estimated to cost an arm, a leg, and half an earlobe. I was busily baking pies. My plan was to bake two sugar free pies for me(because why bake one pie when you can bake two?). And I was also baking two pies for a 5K race on Thanksgiving morning. I had gladly completed the first two pies, which were baking in the oven, when I compiled the ingredients for the last pie–my first ever attempt at a sugar-free pumpkin pie.

You must understand how excited I was. I had baked and prepared the two cups of fresh pumpkin(no cans in my house!). I had put it into the blender with the eggs, cream, honey and milk. It was happily blending when I turned away to roll out the crust. A few seconds later I turned back to the running blender to see it leaping off the counter.

I did not shriek. I did not yelp. I simply dove like a ball player racing from third base to home plate and, with outstretched arms, I managed to catch the contraption before it fell and shattered into a thousand pieces. Unfortunately, I had removed the lid at the last stirring and so the perfectly blended liquid inside leapt out and exploded all over the kitchen floor. And the walls. And the kitchen table. And the back door. And, evidently, the ceiling fan.

After I had finished telling my husband about the aberrant blender he looked at me and said, “Margaret, you should never leave the room when the blender is running.”

And my forehead wrinkled a bit but I didn’t say anything snippy. I said, “Well, I didn’t leave the room. I was standing right there rolling out the pie crust. And that crazy blender went and vibrated to the edge of the counter and jumped off.” And then I smiled that smug kind of smile that people do when they are really proud of something.

“And do you know that I have gotten so good at practicing discipline that I didn’t even holler. I just grabbed a bowl and some towels and started cleaning up.”

And my beloved husband, full of wit and wisdom said, “You missed a spot.”

Today we are married 15 years. Happy Anniversary, Honey.

And yes, had you been here the great pumpkin pie catastrophe would never have happened. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you to tell me how to prevent catastrophes after they have already happened.