“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will guide you with My eye.
Do not be like the horse or like the mule,
Which have no understanding,
Which must be harnessed with bit and bridle,
Else they will not come near you.” (Psalm 32:8, 9)
I’m a mule. In the past few weeks I’ve seen that God can do whatever He must to get us next to Him, even if it means a harness for a time. By bit and bridle I was led to a men’s conference, and found myself immersed in an atmosphere where I had nothing to do but think about the past several years. There was no escape in terms of being able to flip on a video game or read a book or watch the Simpsons or find some other way to avoid inner inspection.
I could have continued to resist. But when you’re certain God’s gone to a lot of trouble to put fire under your ass, it’s hard to take it for granted. For me, at least. Even through the pain, it’s encouraging when you realize He’s still interested in you and hasn’t given up on you (though you gave up on yourself long ago). So I chose to start facing reality. And when I made that choice, He was there to help.
The first step was confessing the struggle or, more accurately, to confess I really wasn’t “struggling” at all. Let’s face it: most denizens of Western culture don’t even recognize sexual impurity as a serious problem. Married people, single, divorced, whatever–-even Christians–-toy with lascivious thoughts and behavior as if it’s not snaring, marring, unsatisfying, shameful, empty, deadly sin. To some degree, I’d convinced myself that my roving eyes and heart were probably just normal. I wasn’t contesting the behavior or striving for change: I’d made a kind of truce or compromise with it. In my head I knew what God’s standard for purity was, but in my heart I didn’t believe it was feasible.
Here’s what I learned about myself on the first day of the conference:
1. Though I’ve told the truth sometimes about my behavior, I haven’t allowed the consequences of those deeds to lead me to God. I’ve never stopped and considered how my actions have affected me, my wife, my children, my brothers and sisters in Christ, people I’ve worked with, online contacts, or even God Himself. I’ve never really felt sorrow over my poor choices. In fact, I’ve defended and excused them.
2. I’ve never confessed my need to other people, preferring instead to isolate myself. Again, recognizing and acknowledging need is tough in our culture, where it’s viewed as weakness to say, “This problem is beyond my capacity to control or handle on my own.” It’s especially hard on a man. He won’t even stop to ask for directions when he’s lost. But God views that kind of humility and weakness and dependence as a strength, and in fact He intentionally resists the proud, high-minded, and strongly independent. God doesn’t think like a man. “Likewise you younger people, submit yourselves to your elders. Yes, all of you be submissive to one another, and be clothed with humility, for God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.” (1 Peter 5:5)
3. Up to this point, I’d had no desperate desire to be free from this sin. Viewing pornography and grabbing the attention of women has been something I’ve not only enjoyed, but have come to rely upon. And I didn’t realize I had a serious problem until I got to the conference and considered the idea of never intentionally viewing porn or indulging in fantasy (to be defined here in a later post) again. Ever. When I thought about it, it scared me. It really scared me. The first time I encountered porn I was six years old, and I’ve used it as an escape and coping mechanism since I was eleven. So for almost my entire life I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it, and to go, “Hey, I’m a pastor’s kid and I’ve been a Bible teacher and I love God, but I’ve never been truly sorry about this behavior nor have I taken any real steps to change...”
It was disturbing.
* * * * *
All behavior is purposeful. Even dysfunctional, damaging behavior has an underlying cause. We don’t always understand the reasons why we do things, and most people don’t care to explore this stuff in their own hearts. But I’ve been asking myself hard questions (prompted by what I learned at Every Man’s Battle): What woundings do I have? What purpose have these hurtful, persistent patterns of behavior served in my life? What is it I’m getting from them? What are their roots?
One of the amazing things I’ve discovered is that, at their foundation, these sexual thoughts and behaviors aren’t about sex at all.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Flashpoint Truth, Part 1
One of the reasons the Every Man’s Battle seminar was so striking for me, I think, was that I’d become accustomed to two things in my thoughts and emotions: denial and blame.
Denial. Not so much a willful denial of my situations, but a subconscious escapist mentality where I thought “I’ll start dealing with that tomorrow.” But tomorrow always became another tomorrow.
And blame, which is just denial reaching out to bash someone else. It would seem crazy to people who know me, but it never occurred to me that I was using blame as an excuse to avoid personal change. I've blamed God, and I’ve been blaming my wife for years.
“It’s Jessica’s fault that I’m the way I am because she treated me so shittily in our first years of marriage...if my wife would be the person I need her to be, I wouldn’t struggle with all these damaging behaviors.” So on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
I’ve resisted change because I’ve thought, “Why should I change if Jessica’s not going to change? What about her?”
The day after I sent a letter to my former coworker stating that our contact (however limited) must cease, I was driving and praying. Even though I knew I’d done the right thing in sending the letter, I was on fire with anger.
“This is unfair,” I said to the Lord. “This is just not fair. You expect me to change and yet You don’t expect Jessica to change. I know how You are. I’ll go to this stupid conference and recognize a bunch of shit about myself and I’ll know You want me to change, but Jessica will remain the same so the problem won’t go away, will it? I’ll just end up being miserable forever. Everybody thinks she’s perfect and wonderful and I’m the only one knows what a pisser she is, how self-righteous and proud and judgmental. And she doesn’t have to change, but You’re forcing me.”
So like all manly men, I called my Mommy to whine about the situation. I was telling my mother about how Jessica didn’t want me to come home, didn’t want to speak to me, and wanted to separate unless I agreed to go to the Every Man’s Battle seminar. My mother listened, then started to defend me and my way of thinking.
To my surprise, I stopped her almost immediately and defended my wife's viewpoint. The words coming out of my mouth didn’t make any sense, but I said, “Mom, God doesn’t have to be fair. I have to change whether Jessica changes or not, whether my marriage is saved or not. I have to become a man of integrity and truth regardless of what anyone else around me does.” Then I reminded her of a passage from John 21, where Jesus is telling Peter (who publicly denied Jesus to save his own hide) how, sometime in the future, he’s going to be martyred:
Jesus said, “The truth is, when you were young, you were able to do as you liked and go wherever you wanted to. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will direct you and take you where you don't want to go." Jesus said this to let him know what kind of death he would die to glorify God. Then Jesus told him, "Follow me."
Peter turned around and saw the disciple Jesus loved [John] following them--the one who had leaned over to Jesus during supper and asked, "Lord, who among us will betray you?"
Peter asked Jesus, "What about him, Lord?"
Jesus replied, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You follow me."
It wasn’t fair, but it was what Jesus wanted for Peter, and it was a direct answer to Peter’s fear and cowardice in terms of monumental failure and saving himself from death during the flashpoint crisis of Jesus’ arrest, trial, and execution. God doesn’t have to be fair. He can expect something of me and not expect it of someone else, including my wife. He’s God.
In talking to my mother (keeping in mind that both of my parents made excuses for years to avoid change and defend themselves) I saw that the choice before me was to humble myself and submit to the workings of God in the situation even though it hurts and it’s not fair, or to persist in the old Hobbs patterns of self-preservation and self-love.
If my wife doesn’t change, what is that to me? The point of decision doesn't concern her; she's secondary. Jesus is primary. It may not be fair, but it's the path to freedom.
So I chose the path never traveled. Not by me, nor by any member of my family for generations.
Denial. Not so much a willful denial of my situations, but a subconscious escapist mentality where I thought “I’ll start dealing with that tomorrow.” But tomorrow always became another tomorrow.
And blame, which is just denial reaching out to bash someone else. It would seem crazy to people who know me, but it never occurred to me that I was using blame as an excuse to avoid personal change. I've blamed God, and I’ve been blaming my wife for years.
“It’s Jessica’s fault that I’m the way I am because she treated me so shittily in our first years of marriage...if my wife would be the person I need her to be, I wouldn’t struggle with all these damaging behaviors.” So on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
I’ve resisted change because I’ve thought, “Why should I change if Jessica’s not going to change? What about her?”
The day after I sent a letter to my former coworker stating that our contact (however limited) must cease, I was driving and praying. Even though I knew I’d done the right thing in sending the letter, I was on fire with anger.
“This is unfair,” I said to the Lord. “This is just not fair. You expect me to change and yet You don’t expect Jessica to change. I know how You are. I’ll go to this stupid conference and recognize a bunch of shit about myself and I’ll know You want me to change, but Jessica will remain the same so the problem won’t go away, will it? I’ll just end up being miserable forever. Everybody thinks she’s perfect and wonderful and I’m the only one knows what a pisser she is, how self-righteous and proud and judgmental. And she doesn’t have to change, but You’re forcing me.”
So like all manly men, I called my Mommy to whine about the situation. I was telling my mother about how Jessica didn’t want me to come home, didn’t want to speak to me, and wanted to separate unless I agreed to go to the Every Man’s Battle seminar. My mother listened, then started to defend me and my way of thinking.
To my surprise, I stopped her almost immediately and defended my wife's viewpoint. The words coming out of my mouth didn’t make any sense, but I said, “Mom, God doesn’t have to be fair. I have to change whether Jessica changes or not, whether my marriage is saved or not. I have to become a man of integrity and truth regardless of what anyone else around me does.” Then I reminded her of a passage from John 21, where Jesus is telling Peter (who publicly denied Jesus to save his own hide) how, sometime in the future, he’s going to be martyred:
Jesus said, “The truth is, when you were young, you were able to do as you liked and go wherever you wanted to. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will direct you and take you where you don't want to go." Jesus said this to let him know what kind of death he would die to glorify God. Then Jesus told him, "Follow me."
Peter turned around and saw the disciple Jesus loved [John] following them--the one who had leaned over to Jesus during supper and asked, "Lord, who among us will betray you?"
Peter asked Jesus, "What about him, Lord?"
Jesus replied, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You follow me."
It wasn’t fair, but it was what Jesus wanted for Peter, and it was a direct answer to Peter’s fear and cowardice in terms of monumental failure and saving himself from death during the flashpoint crisis of Jesus’ arrest, trial, and execution. God doesn’t have to be fair. He can expect something of me and not expect it of someone else, including my wife. He’s God.
In talking to my mother (keeping in mind that both of my parents made excuses for years to avoid change and defend themselves) I saw that the choice before me was to humble myself and submit to the workings of God in the situation even though it hurts and it’s not fair, or to persist in the old Hobbs patterns of self-preservation and self-love.
If my wife doesn’t change, what is that to me? The point of decision doesn't concern her; she's secondary. Jesus is primary. It may not be fair, but it's the path to freedom.
So I chose the path never traveled. Not by me, nor by any member of my family for generations.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
First Steps
I finally have a purpose for this journal.
Here’s what I won’t be using it for. I won’t use it in some fabulous writing pursuit, or to impress anyone with my words or thoughts. In the past, writing has left me feeling empty because the mere expression of misery does not equate to satisfaction or fulfillment in life, no matter how creative or beautiful the form of expression. Man, have I been miserable. And it’s only just in the last few days that I’ve started to catch a small glimpse of why. In the past week God has enabled me to look back on my thirty years and for the first time see things I was unaware of in my experience, twisted things He wants to set straight in my life.
But I’ve recognized that writing and online journals have become just another self-distraction to me: something that holds me (and others) back from achieving eternal destiny. Which simply stated is this: to know God and spend my life loving Him, and to love others by pointing them to Him, too.
So in this little unknown part of the web, no fancy stuff. No frills. Just a guy on a search. I have the freedom of not caring what you think of me because I am not seeking the approval of man. (Or woman, thank God.)
This past weekend, I was more or less forced to attend an Every Man’s Battle seminar in Sterling, Virginia. The conference dealt with issues surrounding sexual purity from a Christian standpoint. The literal translation of Psalm 32:6 reads, “Let everyone who is godly pray to You in a time of finding out.” The conference was just that for me–a time of discovery. Agonizing discovery, like debriding a wound.
In facing some of the reality concerning my situation in the past several years (addiction to fantasy, pornography, compulsive masturbation, and extramarital affairs both emotional and physical) I came to realize three things, which will probably take me a long time to process.
1. I am a sex addict. I’ve used sexual thoughts and behavior the same way an alcoholic (like my late father) uses booze: to numb pain.
2. Related to and superceding that, I am not an honest, transparent person. Even in those few rare moments when I’ve told the truth to my wife or pastor, I usually had to be “cornered” first, I didn’t tell the complete truth, and I didn’t do so with the right motives. This is a critical issue because it’s a root cause of a lot of other problems, including number 1 above.
3. Where I had given up hope that these things could ever change, I now truly believe that God is able and willing to help me overcome these things so I can live differently. To some degree I’m like a fish who’s just learned God wants him to be an eagle: life in the murky depths is all I’ve ever known and any other life seems foreign and impossible. But I can look back on the past six months of my life and I know–-I know–-that God engineered the perfect circumstances (though very painful) to bring me to this place of “finding out.”
This will be the place where I record the process. Someday I’m going to look back on this period of my life and remember, “That’s the pit God brought me from.” And He didn’t do it because I deserved it or because I had to be made worthy or because I did everything right: He did it because He loves me and I’m His son.
“You are my Son; today I have become your Father.” (Acts 13:33)
Here’s what I won’t be using it for. I won’t use it in some fabulous writing pursuit, or to impress anyone with my words or thoughts. In the past, writing has left me feeling empty because the mere expression of misery does not equate to satisfaction or fulfillment in life, no matter how creative or beautiful the form of expression. Man, have I been miserable. And it’s only just in the last few days that I’ve started to catch a small glimpse of why. In the past week God has enabled me to look back on my thirty years and for the first time see things I was unaware of in my experience, twisted things He wants to set straight in my life.
But I’ve recognized that writing and online journals have become just another self-distraction to me: something that holds me (and others) back from achieving eternal destiny. Which simply stated is this: to know God and spend my life loving Him, and to love others by pointing them to Him, too.
So in this little unknown part of the web, no fancy stuff. No frills. Just a guy on a search. I have the freedom of not caring what you think of me because I am not seeking the approval of man. (Or woman, thank God.)
This past weekend, I was more or less forced to attend an Every Man’s Battle seminar in Sterling, Virginia. The conference dealt with issues surrounding sexual purity from a Christian standpoint. The literal translation of Psalm 32:6 reads, “Let everyone who is godly pray to You in a time of finding out.” The conference was just that for me–a time of discovery. Agonizing discovery, like debriding a wound.
In facing some of the reality concerning my situation in the past several years (addiction to fantasy, pornography, compulsive masturbation, and extramarital affairs both emotional and physical) I came to realize three things, which will probably take me a long time to process.
1. I am a sex addict. I’ve used sexual thoughts and behavior the same way an alcoholic (like my late father) uses booze: to numb pain.
2. Related to and superceding that, I am not an honest, transparent person. Even in those few rare moments when I’ve told the truth to my wife or pastor, I usually had to be “cornered” first, I didn’t tell the complete truth, and I didn’t do so with the right motives. This is a critical issue because it’s a root cause of a lot of other problems, including number 1 above.
3. Where I had given up hope that these things could ever change, I now truly believe that God is able and willing to help me overcome these things so I can live differently. To some degree I’m like a fish who’s just learned God wants him to be an eagle: life in the murky depths is all I’ve ever known and any other life seems foreign and impossible. But I can look back on the past six months of my life and I know–-I know–-that God engineered the perfect circumstances (though very painful) to bring me to this place of “finding out.”
This will be the place where I record the process. Someday I’m going to look back on this period of my life and remember, “That’s the pit God brought me from.” And He didn’t do it because I deserved it or because I had to be made worthy or because I did everything right: He did it because He loves me and I’m His son.
“You are my Son; today I have become your Father.” (Acts 13:33)
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Don't Try to Tell Me Prophets Don't Still Exist
These words were spoken to me on the evening of February 23, 2003. I was angry at my wife, and completely in love with another woman. No one knew about the affair but me, the other woman, and God. This message was given by a prophet named Dennis DeGrasse, and is reproduced verbatim...
Steve, I have the word of the Lord for you.
God says His call upon your life is a sure call, and it’s a true call. And God says He’s allowing you a time to adjust, a time for your family.
But God says you need to be careful and watch even your emotions and your feelings. He says you need to watch over these things because He’s got a call on your life, and because of that the enemy is going to attack you. He’s going to attack your soul, he’s going to attack your mind, he’s going to attack your emotions because he sees some of the weight and the glory that God has for you in your life. He’s going to do anything he can to cause you to stumble and fall. And God says be aware, son. Be aware because My call upon you is a sure call.
I’ve not changed My mind because of any circumstances, says the Lord. I’ve not changed My mind because of any circumstances, says the Lord. I have NOT changed My mind because of any circumstances! says the Lord.
And God says you need to go get back at it. You need to get yourself back in the harness. He says that’s where you’re the happiest, that’s where you’re fulfilled, and that’s where your sense of completeness is: not just in knowing God but in serving God, because He’s called you to it. It’s a lifetime call. It’s more than just a call, it’s your vocation. It’s more than a vocation, it’s who you are. You’re His man.
Bless you.
* * * * *
When I heard these words (especially the line that was repeated three times, and by the end was practically being shouted at me) I knew what they referred to because I had already been attacked. And I knew God knew what was going on, even if the prophet didn’t know the exact meaning of the words he was speaking.
The question I have now is, “What next, God?” I’m assuming He’s still not finished with me since He went to all this trouble to get me out here in the world by myself with no earthly friend or help or anyone to talk to, or even anyone who understands me or my experiences. And I’m trusting Him to help me swallow my pride and submit to this process, whatever it is.
That’s part of the frustration. I don’t even know what He’s trying to do. I’m sure “Make Steve writhe in agony” isn’t His prime focus here, even though that’s being accomplished remarkably well.
But what am I supposed to do now? Where’s this thing headed, God? I have to have some kind of vision or purpose or reason or I don’t think I’ll make it through this time.
Where there is no vision, the people perish. - Proverbs 29:18
Steve, I have the word of the Lord for you.
God says His call upon your life is a sure call, and it’s a true call. And God says He’s allowing you a time to adjust, a time for your family.
But God says you need to be careful and watch even your emotions and your feelings. He says you need to watch over these things because He’s got a call on your life, and because of that the enemy is going to attack you. He’s going to attack your soul, he’s going to attack your mind, he’s going to attack your emotions because he sees some of the weight and the glory that God has for you in your life. He’s going to do anything he can to cause you to stumble and fall. And God says be aware, son. Be aware because My call upon you is a sure call.
I’ve not changed My mind because of any circumstances, says the Lord. I’ve not changed My mind because of any circumstances, says the Lord. I have NOT changed My mind because of any circumstances! says the Lord.
And God says you need to go get back at it. You need to get yourself back in the harness. He says that’s where you’re the happiest, that’s where you’re fulfilled, and that’s where your sense of completeness is: not just in knowing God but in serving God, because He’s called you to it. It’s a lifetime call. It’s more than just a call, it’s your vocation. It’s more than a vocation, it’s who you are. You’re His man.
Bless you.
* * * * *
When I heard these words (especially the line that was repeated three times, and by the end was practically being shouted at me) I knew what they referred to because I had already been attacked. And I knew God knew what was going on, even if the prophet didn’t know the exact meaning of the words he was speaking.
The question I have now is, “What next, God?” I’m assuming He’s still not finished with me since He went to all this trouble to get me out here in the world by myself with no earthly friend or help or anyone to talk to, or even anyone who understands me or my experiences. And I’m trusting Him to help me swallow my pride and submit to this process, whatever it is.
That’s part of the frustration. I don’t even know what He’s trying to do. I’m sure “Make Steve writhe in agony” isn’t His prime focus here, even though that’s being accomplished remarkably well.
But what am I supposed to do now? Where’s this thing headed, God? I have to have some kind of vision or purpose or reason or I don’t think I’ll make it through this time.
Where there is no vision, the people perish. - Proverbs 29:18
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Consumed By The Blow
In times past I would’ve been careful to try and keep Jessica from reading what is essentially my “diary,” (which is diarrhea and biography, together in writing at last). But the events of the past couple weeks--and my hope that our marriage is headed toward lasting change--makes me want to be more transparent.
It’s been 19 days since I last saw her or my children, and God has brought me to a place of extreme discomfort, a pinnacle of pain so to speak. But with a purpose.
It started when Jessica gave me an ultimatum: cut off all contact with a former coworker (with whom I’d engaged in an adulterous relationship) or face separation from my family.
* * * * *
I was talking to someone a few weeks ago about my life situation in general and he said, “Being a trucker is kind of like being in the military.” And I thought, “No, it’s more like doing time--especially when everything’s going to shit in your family and you can’t be home to deal with it.”
I’m now certain the trucking decision was and is God’s doing. It’s what had to be.
My parents were both ordained ministers. I grew up in church, but more important, I’ve had several very real encounters with God in my life. There have been times when the unseen has been just as real--more real--than people I talk to face-to-face and the tangible circumstances I observe around me.
Before the affair, I believed I was on my way to full-time ministry (though it wasn’t what I thought I wanted for my life). I’m a teacher of a Word of God. I spoke regularly in our church. I know the Bible, and I’ve walked through difficult times with true faith. I’ve seen God turn the most horrendous situations imaginable into things that work for good in the lives of those who love Him. I’ve seen Him provide answers to needs in unexpected and miraculous ways.
I’ve loved God since I was eight years old. I don’t just tolerate Him, or think He’s far off watching me fumble through existence: I know He’s active and that He cares for people. I’ve questioned Him, yes, and I’m still questioning Him. Sometimes I’ve been furious at Him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate that He goes to such trouble to reach out to belligerent, obtuse idiots like me.
Several nights ago (while considering my wife’s seemingly unfair demands) I faced the fact that the sense of emotional pain and isolation I’ve been feeling with was getting beyond my ability to cope. When that happens in a person’s life--when the brute force of circumstances becomes heavier than the capacity or resources to allay the pain--they start thinking about escape in the form of death. Death is the out, the end of the pain. Severe, sustained anguish can grind a soul down until the will to live is gone and all you can think about is making it stop.
That’s where I was. I’d been giving serious thought to ending my life. Sometimes I’ve even felt a sense of urgency about it, like I needed to pull the truck over somewhere and do it fast--just get it over with. I know those thoughts don’t come from God, but the other night when I realized my wife and I were separating and all my worst fears coming true, the desire to paint it all black became very intense.
So I did what most people do as an absolute last resort when they’re standing on the edge of the precipice between this world and the next--in their misery uncertain whether they’ll fall or jump. I prayed. It was messy. I told God off at first, really let Him have it. I don’t think it made Him angry, though, because after I’d ranted and cussed a sense of calm came over me and I just said, “Jesus, help me. What am I supposed to do?”
Right away I had the sense that I needed to write one last letter to my very good friend and former lover--the one I used to work with, the one I loved--and tell her I never wanted to see her or hear from her again. This is what my wife has been asking me to do for a few weeks. This is the reason we’re separated right now. I haven’t worked with the girl for six months, but I had lunch with her once in December, I’ve talked to her on the phone a couple of times, and she was a regular reader of my other journal.
But when my wife asked me to cut off all communication with her, I resisted. For one thing, a dude doesn’t want his wife telling him what to do. It makes him feel like his balls are being hacked off.
Second, sometimes I feel that when Jessica is getting her needs met and thinks everything is wonderful she starts getting complacent about whether she’s listening to me or whether my needs are being met in our relationship. It’s sick, I know, but a part of me wanted her to be kept in limbo (which is where I’ve been for years) so she wouldn’t get comfortable and start ignoring me like happened in our first years of marriage.
And third, I went from seeing and talking to the other girl almost every day to talking to her maybe once a month. I’ve seen her once in six months. In my mind, it was ridiculous that I couldn’t be friendly with her and shoot the breeze every so often--it was no longer an affair but a leftover friendship, and a long, close one at that. So I dug in my heels at Jessica’s repeated demands, refusing to break contact with the other woman.
But at the thought of losing Jessica, I came to the end of myself. As I prayed, I knew God wanted me to do exactly what my wife was requiring of me. It didn’t come in words, really. Just a mental impression--not angry or demanding, but a very clear impression. And it was the polar opposite of what I really wanted to hear: “Do what your wife is asking.” (A similar situation to mine is described in Genesis 21. People never change.)
Resistance welled inside me. It was unfair, for one thing. In our first years of marriage Jessica treated me pretty shabbily, but I never twisted her arm to force her to change. The whole idea is abhorrent to my mind. It’s not love, it’s coercion.
And writing to the other girl would hurt me (because I’d have to admit I was wrong, both to her and to my wife) and hurt her (because she might not understand, and the idea of never talking to me again is hard on her, as it is me). Plus I was just plain scared of losing my relationship, however limited, with the last person I felt really knows and cares about me, someone my heart loves. I decided to sleep on it, and write the letter the next morning. That was around midnight.
I never have trouble sleeping. I’m one of those dudes hits the pillow and is zonked in five minutes. But I rolled in my sleeper berth for two hours, wide awake.
Shit, I thought. I guess He means right now.
I was pissed and railed at Him some more, but I made the decision. I grabbed my laptop and wrote the letter. In it I took full blame for the events of the past several years, confirmed my love and commitment to my wife (the opposite of what I really felt, but no less true), apologized for the pain I’d brought into her life, and stated without any ambiguity in the plainest terms that we would never call, write, email, or meet each other ever again. It was the end. Over and out. Finito.
For accountability purposes, I courtesy-copied it to my pastor, wife, and another lady from church who knows the situation. As my finger was about to click the Send tab, my objections to the whole idea surfaced again more forcefully. I hesitated. I felt afraid and torn. I was losing a piece of myself--a cherished thing. I was about to torch a beautiful bridge and watch it burn to charred cinders, and it would be forever impassable after that moment.
I wept as I clicked the Send key and slammed the laptop shut. It was three in the morning. I put my head on the pillow and went to sleep almost immediately.
* * * * *
The next morning, I reread the letter I’d sent and came to these words:
I’m at a point where God’s isolated me. I see it, and I know that it’s His doing and that He’s done it for a reason. I’ve lost every important relationship in my life. My Dad, you, Scott, a job where I could talk and relate to people, my internet acquaintances and journal, my church, and now my wife and children. I’m severed from all of it. No one is speaking to me. No one really seems to care that I'm alone and literally wishing I was dead. It’s just me and God, alone.
It’s the stroke of God I refer to sometimes, and it relates to a passage from Psalm 39. “Remove thy stroke away from me, for I am consumed by the blow of thy hand.” I’ve always looked at it as a reference to punishment and vengeance, but it’s not that at all. It’s grace.
People use the word “grace” so flippantly. And what they usually mean is that God will forgive all the stupid things you’ve done. And He will. But it’s so much more than that. Grace can take an almost violent form sometimes for those who’ve committed themselves to the Lord, because He takes our promises seriously. He can arrange the circumstances so you’re nearly forced between choosing the path that’s really best for your life, or keeling over from the misery of resisting His love.
I feel lighter, like a load I was never meant to shoulder on my own has been lifted. I’m joyful again. Not because everything is fixed and wonderful: my personal circumstances are as shitty as ever. There’s a long way to go and rebuilding to do and a lot of hard days ahead. And I’m still full of questions about why it all went down the way it did.
The difference is, I’m back where I belong. I can endure any hardship or sorrow if, at the end of the day, I know I can lie down secure in the promise that there’s meaning behind it all, that there’s a vision and purpose in this life. I finally gave in and stopped resisting. I’m home again, and He did what He had to do to make it happen.
God is speaking. He was speaking all along, really, but I was like a little boy pretending not to hear. I had to be reduced to absolute solitude and removed from anyone and anything I might run to for comfort or help. Think Jonah in the belly of a whale, except for me the whale is a white 18-wheeler that has the blue-and-gold lightning bolt “S” logo of the Swift Transportation Corporation on the side.
That’s what grace looks like as revealed in the life of one Gen-Xer: angry, questioning, cynical, alone. But not really alone.
It’s been 19 days since I last saw her or my children, and God has brought me to a place of extreme discomfort, a pinnacle of pain so to speak. But with a purpose.
It started when Jessica gave me an ultimatum: cut off all contact with a former coworker (with whom I’d engaged in an adulterous relationship) or face separation from my family.
* * * * *
I was talking to someone a few weeks ago about my life situation in general and he said, “Being a trucker is kind of like being in the military.” And I thought, “No, it’s more like doing time--especially when everything’s going to shit in your family and you can’t be home to deal with it.”
I’m now certain the trucking decision was and is God’s doing. It’s what had to be.
My parents were both ordained ministers. I grew up in church, but more important, I’ve had several very real encounters with God in my life. There have been times when the unseen has been just as real--more real--than people I talk to face-to-face and the tangible circumstances I observe around me.
Before the affair, I believed I was on my way to full-time ministry (though it wasn’t what I thought I wanted for my life). I’m a teacher of a Word of God. I spoke regularly in our church. I know the Bible, and I’ve walked through difficult times with true faith. I’ve seen God turn the most horrendous situations imaginable into things that work for good in the lives of those who love Him. I’ve seen Him provide answers to needs in unexpected and miraculous ways.
I’ve loved God since I was eight years old. I don’t just tolerate Him, or think He’s far off watching me fumble through existence: I know He’s active and that He cares for people. I’ve questioned Him, yes, and I’m still questioning Him. Sometimes I’ve been furious at Him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate that He goes to such trouble to reach out to belligerent, obtuse idiots like me.
Several nights ago (while considering my wife’s seemingly unfair demands) I faced the fact that the sense of emotional pain and isolation I’ve been feeling with was getting beyond my ability to cope. When that happens in a person’s life--when the brute force of circumstances becomes heavier than the capacity or resources to allay the pain--they start thinking about escape in the form of death. Death is the out, the end of the pain. Severe, sustained anguish can grind a soul down until the will to live is gone and all you can think about is making it stop.
That’s where I was. I’d been giving serious thought to ending my life. Sometimes I’ve even felt a sense of urgency about it, like I needed to pull the truck over somewhere and do it fast--just get it over with. I know those thoughts don’t come from God, but the other night when I realized my wife and I were separating and all my worst fears coming true, the desire to paint it all black became very intense.
So I did what most people do as an absolute last resort when they’re standing on the edge of the precipice between this world and the next--in their misery uncertain whether they’ll fall or jump. I prayed. It was messy. I told God off at first, really let Him have it. I don’t think it made Him angry, though, because after I’d ranted and cussed a sense of calm came over me and I just said, “Jesus, help me. What am I supposed to do?”
Right away I had the sense that I needed to write one last letter to my very good friend and former lover--the one I used to work with, the one I loved--and tell her I never wanted to see her or hear from her again. This is what my wife has been asking me to do for a few weeks. This is the reason we’re separated right now. I haven’t worked with the girl for six months, but I had lunch with her once in December, I’ve talked to her on the phone a couple of times, and she was a regular reader of my other journal.
But when my wife asked me to cut off all communication with her, I resisted. For one thing, a dude doesn’t want his wife telling him what to do. It makes him feel like his balls are being hacked off.
Second, sometimes I feel that when Jessica is getting her needs met and thinks everything is wonderful she starts getting complacent about whether she’s listening to me or whether my needs are being met in our relationship. It’s sick, I know, but a part of me wanted her to be kept in limbo (which is where I’ve been for years) so she wouldn’t get comfortable and start ignoring me like happened in our first years of marriage.
And third, I went from seeing and talking to the other girl almost every day to talking to her maybe once a month. I’ve seen her once in six months. In my mind, it was ridiculous that I couldn’t be friendly with her and shoot the breeze every so often--it was no longer an affair but a leftover friendship, and a long, close one at that. So I dug in my heels at Jessica’s repeated demands, refusing to break contact with the other woman.
But at the thought of losing Jessica, I came to the end of myself. As I prayed, I knew God wanted me to do exactly what my wife was requiring of me. It didn’t come in words, really. Just a mental impression--not angry or demanding, but a very clear impression. And it was the polar opposite of what I really wanted to hear: “Do what your wife is asking.” (A similar situation to mine is described in Genesis 21. People never change.)
Resistance welled inside me. It was unfair, for one thing. In our first years of marriage Jessica treated me pretty shabbily, but I never twisted her arm to force her to change. The whole idea is abhorrent to my mind. It’s not love, it’s coercion.
And writing to the other girl would hurt me (because I’d have to admit I was wrong, both to her and to my wife) and hurt her (because she might not understand, and the idea of never talking to me again is hard on her, as it is me). Plus I was just plain scared of losing my relationship, however limited, with the last person I felt really knows and cares about me, someone my heart loves. I decided to sleep on it, and write the letter the next morning. That was around midnight.
I never have trouble sleeping. I’m one of those dudes hits the pillow and is zonked in five minutes. But I rolled in my sleeper berth for two hours, wide awake.
Shit, I thought. I guess He means right now.
I was pissed and railed at Him some more, but I made the decision. I grabbed my laptop and wrote the letter. In it I took full blame for the events of the past several years, confirmed my love and commitment to my wife (the opposite of what I really felt, but no less true), apologized for the pain I’d brought into her life, and stated without any ambiguity in the plainest terms that we would never call, write, email, or meet each other ever again. It was the end. Over and out. Finito.
For accountability purposes, I courtesy-copied it to my pastor, wife, and another lady from church who knows the situation. As my finger was about to click the Send tab, my objections to the whole idea surfaced again more forcefully. I hesitated. I felt afraid and torn. I was losing a piece of myself--a cherished thing. I was about to torch a beautiful bridge and watch it burn to charred cinders, and it would be forever impassable after that moment.
I wept as I clicked the Send key and slammed the laptop shut. It was three in the morning. I put my head on the pillow and went to sleep almost immediately.
* * * * *
The next morning, I reread the letter I’d sent and came to these words:
I’m at a point where God’s isolated me. I see it, and I know that it’s His doing and that He’s done it for a reason. I’ve lost every important relationship in my life. My Dad, you, Scott, a job where I could talk and relate to people, my internet acquaintances and journal, my church, and now my wife and children. I’m severed from all of it. No one is speaking to me. No one really seems to care that I'm alone and literally wishing I was dead. It’s just me and God, alone.
It’s the stroke of God I refer to sometimes, and it relates to a passage from Psalm 39. “Remove thy stroke away from me, for I am consumed by the blow of thy hand.” I’ve always looked at it as a reference to punishment and vengeance, but it’s not that at all. It’s grace.
People use the word “grace” so flippantly. And what they usually mean is that God will forgive all the stupid things you’ve done. And He will. But it’s so much more than that. Grace can take an almost violent form sometimes for those who’ve committed themselves to the Lord, because He takes our promises seriously. He can arrange the circumstances so you’re nearly forced between choosing the path that’s really best for your life, or keeling over from the misery of resisting His love.
I feel lighter, like a load I was never meant to shoulder on my own has been lifted. I’m joyful again. Not because everything is fixed and wonderful: my personal circumstances are as shitty as ever. There’s a long way to go and rebuilding to do and a lot of hard days ahead. And I’m still full of questions about why it all went down the way it did.
The difference is, I’m back where I belong. I can endure any hardship or sorrow if, at the end of the day, I know I can lie down secure in the promise that there’s meaning behind it all, that there’s a vision and purpose in this life. I finally gave in and stopped resisting. I’m home again, and He did what He had to do to make it happen.
God is speaking. He was speaking all along, really, but I was like a little boy pretending not to hear. I had to be reduced to absolute solitude and removed from anyone and anything I might run to for comfort or help. Think Jonah in the belly of a whale, except for me the whale is a white 18-wheeler that has the blue-and-gold lightning bolt “S” logo of the Swift Transportation Corporation on the side.
That’s what grace looks like as revealed in the life of one Gen-Xer: angry, questioning, cynical, alone. But not really alone.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Know Thyself
I guess my wife and I have separated for the time being, though to imply separation in the traditional sense would be absurd. I’m a trucker for God’s sake. I’m separated from my family twelve days out of fourteen. But before I see them again six weeks will have passed. It’s looking like the first weekend in June before I’ll be back in Delaware unless I’m routed there with a load of freight. Which is unlikely.
I informed Jessica of my plan to spend my home time in North Carolina this weekend. I even invited her to bring the kids and join me. But she says she “needs a break,” whatever that means. (We’re taking a “break” eighty-seven percent of the time.) She wanted me to come home and spend time with the kids by myself, but I know my limitations in some ways. I know I’d be no good to them as a father right now because I’m absorbed in my own anguish. I can’t even think.
Of greater concern is that I’ve had two events in my life–-both in the past four years or so–-where I completely lost control of my temper when Jessica wouldn't let an issue rest.
Heh. Saying I lost my temper is an understatement that borders on comedy. I became the clash of two fronts. I bit my lip and clenched my fists, trying to suppress a boiling point. But I couldn’t.
I destroyed our bedroom during the first event. I mean I fucked it over good, left gaping fist-holes in the walls, spilled the bookshelf, overturned the bed, threw lamps and vacuum and DVDs and family pictures until I was too tired to go on and collapsed in a shaking heap on top of the shattered mess, crying and bleeding quietly for a long time before I managed to call a friend and asked him to come over and keep me from killing myself.
The second event was worse because it was, plainly stated, a crime: I smashed out the windshield of my wife’s car. (I’m paying for the car, but nevertheless.) She was in it at the time. I didn’t actually hit her but it could’ve happened. And if I had I’d probably have killed her and would be sitting in prison in Smyrna, Delaware, trying to fend off a horny cellmate.
No one else in my life has managed to get such an interesting reaction out of me. Sometimes I'm just a straight bitch.
I remind myself of Posey in the movie “The Dirty Dozen,” where these thieves and murderers and rapists serving life sentences are pulled out of military prisons and told they can join a crack special forces outfit. The pro is, if they survive and accomplish the mission they’re being trained for, they’ll be pardoned for their previous crimes. The con is it’s a suicide mission and it’s doubtful any of them'll live through it. Posey’s the largest, strongest guy in the group. He’s sedate, soft-spoken, mannerly, and just a really nice dude with an easy-going boyish charm.
But he hates being pushed. When someone physically pushes him, he gets murderous. He’ll warn them for awhile: “Stop pushing me...I don’t like being pushed I tell you...don’t, please...stop doing that.” But if they don’t quit, out comes a Ka-bar. Or he puts a fist into their nasal cavity, driving a wedge of skull up into their brains.
Posey had a problem with rage, and I understand it. Unhinged, unchanneled, unholy anger. It's blinding. You stand outside yourself, shocked, watching yourself do things you can’t believe, things you never thought possible. But you can’t stop yourself from doing them–-you’re all impulse and reflex. It’s like living a nightmare. And once rationality returns you think, “My God...I cannot believe what just happened.” Push me enough after I’ve warned you to stop and you can wear me down. Eventually I’ll crack. That’s what I’ve learned about myself.
And that’s why I’m avoiding going home this weekend. Because I don’t trust her not to push, and I don’t trust myself not to work the room over again. I saw those kinds of scenes between my parents all the time as a kid. I don’t want my children to see us arguing and me playing the fool. One of my personal quests is to find a way to keep this shit from embedding itself in the next generation of Hobbses.
Coming to know yourself--in a real sense removed from vague, quasi-religious, humanistic hippy spew--is the most harsh and depressing thing that can happen to a person. Don’t try to know yourself. You don’t want to know yourself. You don’t want to discover the things you’re capable of in the proper environment, when the right buttons are pushed. Oh, you think you’re not capable of them because you’re American or you’re a Christian or you’re a Republican or Democrat. You're just too good and enlightened and brilliant. But human history disagrees. Violently.
People never change. Someone left a comment in my now-defunct journal on another site. It’s a common phrase you hear all the time, the creed of the milk-toast masses. It's also a lie straight from hell: “You deserve better.”
No I don’t. No I fucking don’t. And neither do you. We deserve worse, much worse. The only truly good news I’ve heard in this life is that God doesn’t give us what we deserve.
I informed Jessica of my plan to spend my home time in North Carolina this weekend. I even invited her to bring the kids and join me. But she says she “needs a break,” whatever that means. (We’re taking a “break” eighty-seven percent of the time.) She wanted me to come home and spend time with the kids by myself, but I know my limitations in some ways. I know I’d be no good to them as a father right now because I’m absorbed in my own anguish. I can’t even think.
Of greater concern is that I’ve had two events in my life–-both in the past four years or so–-where I completely lost control of my temper when Jessica wouldn't let an issue rest.
Heh. Saying I lost my temper is an understatement that borders on comedy. I became the clash of two fronts. I bit my lip and clenched my fists, trying to suppress a boiling point. But I couldn’t.
I destroyed our bedroom during the first event. I mean I fucked it over good, left gaping fist-holes in the walls, spilled the bookshelf, overturned the bed, threw lamps and vacuum and DVDs and family pictures until I was too tired to go on and collapsed in a shaking heap on top of the shattered mess, crying and bleeding quietly for a long time before I managed to call a friend and asked him to come over and keep me from killing myself.
The second event was worse because it was, plainly stated, a crime: I smashed out the windshield of my wife’s car. (I’m paying for the car, but nevertheless.) She was in it at the time. I didn’t actually hit her but it could’ve happened. And if I had I’d probably have killed her and would be sitting in prison in Smyrna, Delaware, trying to fend off a horny cellmate.
No one else in my life has managed to get such an interesting reaction out of me. Sometimes I'm just a straight bitch.
I remind myself of Posey in the movie “The Dirty Dozen,” where these thieves and murderers and rapists serving life sentences are pulled out of military prisons and told they can join a crack special forces outfit. The pro is, if they survive and accomplish the mission they’re being trained for, they’ll be pardoned for their previous crimes. The con is it’s a suicide mission and it’s doubtful any of them'll live through it. Posey’s the largest, strongest guy in the group. He’s sedate, soft-spoken, mannerly, and just a really nice dude with an easy-going boyish charm.
But he hates being pushed. When someone physically pushes him, he gets murderous. He’ll warn them for awhile: “Stop pushing me...I don’t like being pushed I tell you...don’t, please...stop doing that.” But if they don’t quit, out comes a Ka-bar. Or he puts a fist into their nasal cavity, driving a wedge of skull up into their brains.
Posey had a problem with rage, and I understand it. Unhinged, unchanneled, unholy anger. It's blinding. You stand outside yourself, shocked, watching yourself do things you can’t believe, things you never thought possible. But you can’t stop yourself from doing them–-you’re all impulse and reflex. It’s like living a nightmare. And once rationality returns you think, “My God...I cannot believe what just happened.” Push me enough after I’ve warned you to stop and you can wear me down. Eventually I’ll crack. That’s what I’ve learned about myself.
And that’s why I’m avoiding going home this weekend. Because I don’t trust her not to push, and I don’t trust myself not to work the room over again. I saw those kinds of scenes between my parents all the time as a kid. I don’t want my children to see us arguing and me playing the fool. One of my personal quests is to find a way to keep this shit from embedding itself in the next generation of Hobbses.
Coming to know yourself--in a real sense removed from vague, quasi-religious, humanistic hippy spew--is the most harsh and depressing thing that can happen to a person. Don’t try to know yourself. You don’t want to know yourself. You don’t want to discover the things you’re capable of in the proper environment, when the right buttons are pushed. Oh, you think you’re not capable of them because you’re American or you’re a Christian or you’re a Republican or Democrat. You're just too good and enlightened and brilliant. But human history disagrees. Violently.
People never change. Someone left a comment in my now-defunct journal on another site. It’s a common phrase you hear all the time, the creed of the milk-toast masses. It's also a lie straight from hell: “You deserve better.”
No I don’t. No I fucking don’t. And neither do you. We deserve worse, much worse. The only truly good news I’ve heard in this life is that God doesn’t give us what we deserve.
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