We sometimes expect ourselves to keep the same pace regardless of what life asks of us. Responsibilities increase, circumstances change, and we wonder why something that once felt manageable now takes so much effort. It helps to remember that the ground beneath us matters.
During the Mercedes Half Marathon in Birmingham, I reached the long climb up Red Mountain. I had prepared for that stretch and deliberately slowed down. Trying to maintain my earlier speed would have used energy I still needed. When I reached the descent, I increased my pace again.
I finished in 1:44:11, well inside my goal of two hours. Slowing down on the hill had been part of running the race wisely.
There is something worth remembering in that. We can take our responsibilities seriously while recognizing that a difficult season may require a different pace. Giving ourselves room to adjust can help us remain faithful to what matters.
God was with me on that climb, just as He was during the easier miles. His presence didn’t depend on the number on my watch. Grace gives us room to acknowledge our limits and use the judgment we have been given.
If the road is steep right now, consider what you can reasonably carry today. You can give it your best without demanding that your best look exactly as it did on level ground.
I know life can press in so hard that it feels like everything is falling apart. I have walked through that myself. But one thing I have learned, especially through the breaking points in my own life, is that suffering is never wasted when it is placed in God’s hands. There is something holy about yielding to Him in the middle of what we do not understand, something sacred about trusting His designs even when they feel hidden from us. Scripture says in 1 Peter 2:20 that when we suffer in faith, this is a gracious thing in His sight.
Job lived this in a way few people ever have. His world collapsed in a moment, yet he bowed low before God. He did not pretend he had answers. He did not rely on his own strength. He simply leaned into God with a heart that was willing to accept whatever God allowed and to trust whatever God was doing. He could still say, “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him” in Job 13:15. His surrender was not passive. It was an active yielding of himself to God’s purpose, even when that purpose was hidden.
What Job could not see in the middle of his pain was that God was still holding every piece of his life together. I have learned that same truth. The moments that feel like collapse often become the moments where God reshapes us. And even when nothing makes sense, there is a peace that comes from quietly accepting that God’s designs are wiser and deeper than anything we can grasp. There is a strength that comes from uniting our suffering with Christ and letting God do in us what only suffering can accomplish.
Our suffering mirrors Jesus more than we realize. He carried a cross He did not deserve, and Isaiah 53 reminds us that He carried it with a steady and surrendered heart. When we keep walking, trusting, and placing ourselves in God’s hands even when the night is long, we walk beside Him. We are not trying to be strong. We are simply choosing to stay close to the One who already carried every sorrow we face.
Scripture promises that none of this pain is forgotten. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 4:17 that our suffering is producing an eternal weight of glory. God sees every hidden moment, every quiet act of trust, every time we yield ourselves to Him instead of resisting what He allows. Nothing is overlooked. Nothing is wasted.
So if you are hurting, hear this. Every time you keep faith in the quiet places, every time you trust when you have no answers, every time you take one more step when the last one nearly broke you, your suffering becomes a quiet yes to God. A yes that heaven honors. A yes shaped by surrender. A yes formed by trusting His designs even when they are impenetrable to us. A yes united with the heart of Christ who suffered before us and suffers with us still.
When I think about the word discipline, two images come to mind. One is of my father, firm but steady, correcting me when I veered off course. The other is of myself lacing up running shoes after a long day of work, no one watching, no one telling me what to do, but knowing I had to step out the door anyway.
The Training
In our early years, discipline usually comes from the outside. Parents, teachers, coaches, and mentors set boundaries, give instruction, and sometimes enforce consequences we do not appreciate at the time. It can feel like restriction. But often, that correction is less about control and more about shaping a foundation. My father’s discipline was not only about what not to do, but about teaching me what kind of man I was called to become.
When a parent or mentor disciplines, they are lending us their strength until we have our own. Their “no” is not just a denial. It is a guardrail to keep us on the road long enough for us to learn the way.
The Self
As we grow, something changes. What began as outside correction slowly becomes an inside conviction. I no longer needed my father to tell me that hard work mattered. I had seen it in his life, and I had begun to choose it in mine. The guardrails became a compass, not holding me back but helping me navigate forward.
That is the moment discipline turns inward and becomes self-discipline. It is the quiet decision to get out of bed before sunrise, to keep training when no one else notices, to pray when no one else knows. No parent or mentor stands there to enforce it anymore. The responsibility rests in my own hands.
The Spirit
The Bible makes this same connection. In Hebrews 12, God’s discipline is compared to a father’s. Sometimes it is painful in the moment, but always for our good. His correction is not punishment but preparation. Over time, the goal is not that we remain forever under the rod of correction, but that we develop the fruit of self-discipline born out of trust in Him. Paul wrote to Timothy, “God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-discipline” (2 Timothy 1:7).
In that sense, self-discipline is not independence from God but maturity in Him. It is the freedom to choose obedience because His ways have become our ways.
The Road
Running taught me this lesson all over again. At first, I needed strict rules: “Run three miles after work, no excuses.” It was like the voice of a coach echoing in my head. But as the miles added up, discipline stopped being an external demand and became an internal desire. I wanted the clarity, the order, the closeness with God that came when I kept those habits.
Correction planted the seed. Self-discipline became the harvest.
What if God gave you the power to stop time once a week? Not a metaphor, not a wishful prayer, but a real pause button. The whole world would freeze in place; conversations caught mid-word, birds hovering mid-flight, waves locked in mid-crest. You alone would remain moving, awake, alive.
What would you do with it?
At first glance, it feels like an easy answer: I’d use it for good. I’d serve quietly without being noticed, the way Scripture encourages, “do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” Maybe I’d fix something before it breaks, pick up where someone forgot, or make life a little lighter for the people I love.
But if I’m honest, the temptation would be to use it for escape. To rest when I don’t feel like I can keep up. To avoid the hard conversations that tie my stomach in knots. To let the deadlines wait while I take a long nap or a long run. The pause button would whisper, you can hide here a while.
And isn’t that exactly what I already do? Not with time stopped, but with the small pauses I steal each day. I scroll on my phone, stand too long in the kitchen, or add “just one more mile” when I don’t want to go home to the weight of life. The truth is, if I had that button, I’d probably be tempted to live inside it. And maybe that’s the point: how I’d use it reveals who I already am.
The pause could be holy. Imagine stepping into stillness not to escape, but to pray. No interruptions. No rush. Just me and God in a quiet world. That kind of pause wouldn’t be an escape; it would be an altar. It would be like Moses climbing Sinai, or Jesus slipping away to the lonely places. A pause to remember Who is in control. Not me, not my problems, not my exhaustion.
But the pause could also become a trap. Because control is intoxicating. To hold the world still is to feel like you own it. And the more you bend the pause to your will, the more it bends you in return.
Here’s the question that lingers: if I dream more about escape than service, about hiding more than helping, then maybe it’s not the pause button that needs to change… maybe it’s me. Maybe the gift isn’t in freezing time, but in learning to live faithfully in the time I already have.
We don’t get a button to stop time. But we do get moments, real pauses, scattered throughout the day. A quiet mile on the road. A verse read slowly instead of skimmed. A breath between one task and the next. Maybe those little pauses are already the gift, a way to meet God in stillness without trying to control the world around us.
So the better question isn’t what would I do if time stopped once a week?
The better question is what am I doing with the pauses I already have?
Some of the most important miles I ever ran were the ones I wanted to quit. They were not fast or easy. They happened on days when my body was tired, my mind was heavy, and the last thing I wanted to do was lace up. Those runs taught me something no effortless day could — how to keep moving when every step feels like a decision.
I remember cold winter afternoons when the weight of the day pressed down so heavily that I almost stayed inside. On those days, I finally pushed myself out the door, even when I knew my run would be slower. Finishing mattered more than pace. It was a reminder that perseverance is often measured in the simple act of showing up.
That lesson carried into training with my son. Together we ran race after race, including a cool morning 5K in Birmingham that marked our fifth together. By then we had both come a long way from where we started. The race was not just about that single morning. It was the result of weeks of steady effort and miles stacked quietly when no one else was watching.
There were also days when I dreaded heading out the door, when the thought of running felt like more of a burden than a gift. Yet those runs often surprised me. As the miles passed, my perspective shifted, and I found myself realizing again that the journey itself held its own reward.
It is in these kinds of miles — the slow, the heavy, the unremarkable — that God has met me most clearly. He didn’t always lifted the struggle, but He always gave me enough strength for the moment I was in.
Surrender in the Stride
There is a kind of running that is not about pace or distance at all. It is the kind that loosens your grip on control and teaches you to let go. These are the runs where surrender becomes as important as effort.
I remember training days when I carried tension into every step. Sometimes it was only a short run, but those three miles were enough to shift the weight I had been carrying all day. It was not about speed or proving myself. It was about letting go and finding peace in the rhythm.
In time, I began to see running less as a way to prove something and more as a gift to be received. That realization changed everything. When the miles stopped being a scoreboard and started becoming moments of grace, the run felt lighter.
Even during serious training, surrender would surface. Preparing for the half marathon, I once found myself chasing numbers until halfway through the run I realized I was missing the point. It was not about beating a time. It was about settling into the stride and releasing control. That run left me with more peace than any record ever could.
The deeper truth, though, was that surrender in running pointed to something greater. No amount of training or discipline could heal the deeper places of brokenness within me. Running might teach me how to let go of control, but only Christ could free my heart.
These runs are remembered not for finish lines but for the way burdens lifted, steps became prayers, and breathing slowed into trust. The real victory was not how far I went, but how fully I let go.
Joy in the Journey
Not every run is about perseverance or surrender. Some are simply about joy — the kind that sneaks up on you mid-stride and reminds you why you began.
I remember one afternoon running with my son when a group of kids was playing nearby. Out of nowhere, a little girl looked at me and announced that she liked pizza. It had nothing to do with running, but it made us both laugh, and suddenly the miles felt lighter.
Joy came in other ways too. Training for the Mercedes Half Marathon, I ran through the streets of Birmingham with both my sons. We talked, we laughed, and I finished that day reminded of why I loved running. The city, the conversations, and the shared effort made it unforgettable.
Even the countdown to race day carried its own kind of joy. Twenty-four days, then seventeen, then just over a week. Each marker brought anticipation, not just of the race but of what the training itself was shaping in me.
There were also seasons when joy came not from one specific run but from the rhythm itself. I realized at times that the journey really was the destination. Running gave me both grit and joy, and together they made every mile more meaningful.
The joy in the journey does not mean ignoring the hard miles. It means recognizing that along the way, God gives moments worth smiling about, worth telling stories about, and worth carrying with you long after the run is done.
Looking back, I can see how the road became more than a place to run. It became a classroom. Perseverance showed me how to move forward when my strength was gone. Surrender taught me to release control and find peace in the rhythm of each step. And joy reminded me that even in the grind, there are moments worth smiling about and carrying with me long after the run is over.
The miles were never just about distance or pace. They were about becoming – becoming more patient, more trusting, more grateful. The road taught me that growth is not measured in trophies or times, but in the quiet strength built through difficulty, the freedom discovered in surrender, and the joy found along the way.
Momentum can change everything. It is the quiet force that builds when you keep moving in the same direction over time. In running, it strengthens the body and teaches the mind to endure. In faith, it deepens trust and draws the heart closer to God. Both are built the same way, not through a single burst of effort, but through steady and consistent steps that add up to something you could not have imagined at the start.
Momentum in running is not built in a single day. It is earned in the miles no one else sees, the ones that happen after work when you are tired, on mornings when the bed is warm, and on those days when the air feels heavy before you even take the first step.
When I look back, I can see exactly where my momentum began. It was not during a big race or a record-breaking run. It was in the middle of January, stringing together thirty to forty miles a week. Some runs were smooth. Others were a grind. Every one of them was a deposit in the account I would later draw from when the miles became harder.
Training for my first half marathon with my sons was where the rhythm truly set in. We mapped out a plan, stuck to it, and counted down the days. There were long runs that left me exhausted and shorter ones that felt like a gift. I remember the excitement building, twenty-four days to go, then seventeen, then just over a week. Each run brought me closer, not only to the race, but to a different version of myself.
Some days momentum came from pushing through something new. My first hill run was not glamorous. It was not even fun. My son said it was about an eighth of a mile, but I was convinced it was twice that. My legs burned. My lungs protested. When I reached the top, I felt like I had claimed new ground. That is how momentum works. Every challenge you take on makes the next one a little more possible.
By the time race week arrived for the Mercedes Half Marathon, I could feel the strength I had built. The final week was a balance of rest and light runs, my mind replaying the miles behind me. I was not just hoping I could finish. I knew I could. The work was already in the bank.
That same sense of readiness came in smaller ways as well. The first time I moved beyond a 5K, it was not because of a perfect training plan. It was because momentum carried me. I had been stacking runs for weeks, and one day I simply kept going, realizing I was capable of more than I had believed. Those are the moments when you realize that momentum is not just physical. It changes how you see yourself.
Not every run felt like a victory in the moment. I remember a training day where I ran 13.1 miles under nine minutes per mile. It was a personal best, but during the run my legs ached and my mind told me to stop. Momentum is like that at times. It does not always feel like flying. Sometimes it feels like grinding through when everything in you says to quit.
Week after week, the runs stacked up. They built something in my legs, in my breathing, and in my confidence. By the time race day came, whether it was a 5K or a half marathon, I lined up knowing the result was not decided in that moment. It had been decided in the quiet miles, the tired evenings, and the early mornings when I showed up anyway.
Momentum does not mean every run is perfect. It means you have put in enough work that even on the bad days, you can keep moving forward. It is the strength you build when no one is watching, the rhythm that carries you up hills and through late miles. In running, that kind of momentum changes everything.
Momentum in faith grows the same way, through consistency, persistence, and showing up even when you do not feel like it. It is not built on one emotional high or a single mountaintop experience. It is shaped in the quiet and ordinary days when you choose to seek God, trust His Word, and walk in obedience.
There have been seasons when my faith felt like those early training days, slow, awkward, and uncertain. I did not always feel like praying. I did not always feel like reading Scripture. But I kept showing up. Over time, something began to shift. Just as my legs learned to move more efficiently and my lungs learned to carry more air, my soul learned to rest in His presence and to trust Him more deeply.
The same truth that carried me through miles carried me through the spiritual miles of life. You cannot build momentum if you keep stopping completely. In running, even a slow jog forward keeps the rhythm alive. In faith, even a whispered prayer or a moment spent reading one verse keeps the connection alive.
There were times when life threatened to break my spiritual stride. Stress, loss, temptation, and distraction all tried to pull me off course. I learned that momentum in faith is not about never stumbling. It is about returning quickly. It is getting back to prayer when you have neglected it. It is opening your Bible again after a dry season. It is worshipping even when you feel heavy.
When spiritual momentum takes hold, you face challenges differently. You still encounter hills and headwinds, but you climb them with the steady trust that God will carry you. The small acts of obedience have strengthened your faith for the big tests. And just as in running, the rhythm you have built in the quiet moments becomes the strength that carries you through the storms.
Momentum in faith is not only about progress. It is about becoming the kind of person who keeps showing up for God, who keeps running the race marked out before them, who keeps their eyes fixed on Jesus even when the road is long. Because in the end, faith, like running, is not about speed. It is about endurance. And endurance comes from momentum.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”
I never chased races for the medals. I chased them because they marked the journey. Each finish line was more than a time on a clock. It was a stone of remembrance, a witness to how far God had brought me.
Humility
My first few races weren’t about performance. They were about survival. In one of my earliest 5Ks, I finished in just over 31 minutes. It was hard. It hurt. But it lit something in me. The desire to keep going. The desire to become someone new.
When I ran my first half marathon, I wasn’t sure if I could finish. I reminded myself not to chase a time. Just keep moving. Just make it to the end. I finished in 1:44:11. Not because I was strong, but because I was faithful to the training. And because God met me there.
Joy
I remember the first race I ran where I truly felt fast. I ran a 5K in 22:10. I gave everything I had, so much that I needed medical attention at the finish line. But even as I caught my breath, I knew something deeper had happened. I had tasted joy. Not because I won, but because I gave everything I had.
There were races I ran with my son. We didn’t always finish together, but we shared the joy of the road. There were training runs with friends and solo miles that gave me peace. These were the bright spots. The good gifts. The laughter after long runs and the gratitude for what my body could now do.
Doubt
There were plenty of moments when I wondered if I could really keep going. During marathon training in the Alabama summer, I logged fifty miles a week. I battled the heat, sore feet, and the fear that I wouldn’t be ready. Even during taper weeks, I struggled to rest. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to heal. I just feared what I might lose by slowing down.
Before the Lehigh Valley Marathon, my goal was 3:29:00. I ended up finishing in 4:14:32. At first, I was disappointed. But then I realized something. I had done what I once thought impossible. I had finished a marathon. And in the process, I learned that grace has nothing to do with performance.
Gratitude
I’ve written before that every mile was grace. I still believe that. Whether it was a 5K, a half marathon, or the full twenty-six miles, every finish line reminded me that God had been faithful.
There was a time I couldn’t run a quarter mile without stopping. Eventually I was logging thirty or forty miles each week. That kind of change isn’t about willpower alone. It’s about mercy.
I don’t remember all my finish times, but I do remember what it felt like to cross those lines. I knew God had brought me there. He sustained me. He wasn’t just cheering from the side. He was running with me.
Endurance
Running never became easy. But it became transformative.
It became the way I learned to endure. It taught me to press forward when things got hard. It taught me to keep believing even when I couldn’t see the outcome. It helped me trust when I didn’t feel strong.
Each race revealed something deeper. I wasn’t just becoming a runner. I was becoming someone who refused to quit. Someone who would keep showing up. Someone who knew every mile mattered, not because of a medal, but because of the One who ran beside me.
Every race taught me something. But together, they taught me the truth:
Every mile was grace.
Grace was there at every start line when I questioned my ability. It was present when I crossed the finish, breathless and astonished. It stayed with me on quiet training days when no one was watching. Grace did not require a perfect performance. It did not wait for a personal best. It carried me when I felt strong, and it carried me when I nearly broke. Every mile I ran, every hill I climbed, every time I got back up and kept moving forward, it was never just about my own strength. It was always about God’s presence. And that, more than anything, is what made the journey worth every step.
Life works the same way. We all face moments that test us. Moments of pain, progress, waiting, and wonder. We walk through relationships, loss, growth, and small victories that no one else sees. The finish lines may look different, but the truth remains. Grace carries us. It walks with us through long days, quiet sacrifices, and unexpected detours. God is not just waiting at the end. He is present in the middle of it all. Every mile. Every moment. Every breath.
In 1 Corinthians, Paul says:
“I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:27 (NIV)
This journey was never about running alone. It was about obedience, discipline, and walking out the life God called me to — not just in public, but in the hidden moments too. Like Paul, I’ve learned that the race is about more than effort. It’s about surrender. And what matters most is not how fast I run, but who I’m becoming as I run with Him.
I’m thinking about writing a “book” about my journey from weighing 278 lbs to training for the Boston Marathon. Not that I ever made that goal, but I found out that the journey became the destination.
Below is the introduction I’ve been working though. I don’t know that I have many readers on this blog since I started this blog so long ago and haven’t kept up with it over the recent years, but I figured I’d post this for myself and to keep me motivated. We will see where this goes, if anywhere.
Introduction: 278 to Boston
At 278 pounds, I wasn’t dreaming about Boston.
I was thinking about how to walk up stairs without gasping. How to feel normal in my own body. How to be here — present — for my family. I knew I was carrying more than weight; I was carrying years of habits, regret, and missed chances. But I also knew this: I didn’t want to stay there.
With the help of my doctors, I lost the first 50 pounds. That was the start. But what came next surprised even me. One day, I laced up a pair of shoes and ran a mile and a half. It wasn’t graceful, and it certainly wasn’t fast — but I did it. And something in me shifted.
My family had always been full of runners. My dad ran many marathons. So did my brothers. It was in our blood, somehow — I used that as my inspiration. But what pushed me forward most was my son. He looked at me one day and said, “We should run a marathon together.” That’s all it took. I wasn’t just losing weight anymore. I had a mission.
Somewhere along the line, Boston entered the conversation. Not because I thought I could qualify — I knew the time standards, and I knew my body wasn’t there. But Boston became something more than a race. It became a symbol. A direction. A way to measure effort, progress, and hope.
The way I kept going — through the plateaus, the setbacks, the long runs, and long days — was through habits. Small, daily decisions. Waking up early. Eating what fueled me instead of what numbed me. Logging miles when I didn’t feel like it. Writing it all down. I didn’t change overnight. I changed through consistency. God used habits to steady my heart and retrain my body.
That’s how my blog was born — 278 to Boston. It started as a way to track miles and meals, but quickly became something deeper. A record of struggle and progress. A place where I could be honest about what it takes to change. Not just physically, but spiritually.
Because through every run, through every pound lost and mile logged, God was there. Quietly calling me forward. Not toward a race, but toward renewal.
This isn’t a story about making it to Boston. It’s a story about what happened because I tried — and about the habits and grace that carried me farther than I ever imagined.
Nearly 17 months after I checked myself into rehab, yesterday, February 12, 2023, I completed my first half marathon in nearly 7 years.
It was last February when, after a long hiatus I began running again. My son paid for me to run a 5K. I wasn’t happy, but it was important to him so I ran it. I hadn’t run in over 5 years and I wasn’t in shape. We ran with my daughter and finished very slowly. As I approached the finish line, my knee that I had surgery on years ago gave out and I collapsed. I got up and finished the race. I’m so thankful that he had me run that race.
Over the past year I ran most days and by the fall was pretty much running 3 miles a day for 4 to 5 days a week.
This November on my birthday my son gave me a card and my present was that he would pay $50 toward my half marathon… What? I can’t run that far. The most I had run in one run to that point was 4 miles. I had just started running again after a month off with covid and other issues. Now 13.1 miles???
I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could get in shape and then found out that the half marathon we normally run (the Mercedes Half Marathon) was ending this year after 21 years. That became my motivation. It was only 3 months until the race and I had to get to 13.1 miles.
I started with what I remembered from my past races years ago. I gradually increased my mileage with a long run and a rest day. I began running 4 miles a day with Sundays off and Mondays as my long day.
It took 3 months, but I finally got up to 12 miles on my long day about 2 weeks ago. It was a good run at a 10:44 pace. For me that was a win. I took the next two weeks a bit easy and then came the big day, 2/12/2023, yesterday.
My son and I both ran and were excited and a bit scared. I had forgotten about hill runs and knew there we several large hills on this course. But I was confident I could finish, hoping to run it in 2 hours and 30 minutes.
I decided to not look at my pace. I just ran to my body and how it felt. Long story short, I finished in 2:06:41 and a 9:41 pace.
It was fun, and I’m glad I ran. At the end of the race my son and I eat a barbecue sandwich and went home excited that we both had a goal and met that goal head on. Good bye Mercedes Half Marathon! It was fun, but now we have to look to a new race (and maybe a marathon)!
One month ago today I began my current journey into this new phase of my life. I chose to keep drinking through the day before and then just head out and get this new life going.
I have writing many times here is my time in detox, but I still I feel it was the best part of this journey so far in the sense of forcing me on this path of sobriety. Although I didn’t know that it was a mental health hospital, it was really perfect for me. I had 4 days of living a routine where everything about my life was decided for me. And after the initial shock, I loved it. I never thought of having a drink, I had doctors to talk with everyday and people that I could observe and talk with and as much time to sit and do my Sudoku as I wanted. Looking back, even a month later, it was awesome for me. Now had you asked me ahead if I wanted to go, I would have said, “No”.
Today is the 16h, my month long anniversary of sobriety. Yay, one month. I have never had the urge to drink so far. There were times that if I hadn’t taken the measures I did, I would have probably wanted a drink. Mainly those measures are that my lovely wife gives me my meds every night that prevent me from drinking. If I take these meds and then do have a drink (within a week) I get violently Ill. Out of the desire to not puke my guts out, I choose not to drink. I told my primary care doctor our arrangement and he agreed that our arrangement was best. He said that those who give themselves their own meds have a much bigger temptation to stop at some point and get back to drinking. He said if you have someone to make you accountable, you will stick with it up to and including forever.
So now I’m at 1 month on and soon 2 months and then a year and then 10 years. I never plan on drinking again as there will always be a question of where it would lead and I never want to get back to where I was.
Time is too short
In many ways time is too short to drink. While I used to drink each evening, I didn’t have a care in the world. I’d watch news or some show that was mindless because it really didn’t matter what I watched. I really didn’t have the need for social interaction, so my relationship with my lovely wife got much less attention, unless she initiated it. But time is too short for that now. Quality of life is important.
There are many changes coming up. I begin back at work full time next week. It has been nice only working half days, but those are coming to an end. It will be interesting to see how things progress once I get back.
I want to fill my afternoons with more than sitting around the house, especially now the Fall is around the corner. I’m hoping for walked and runs, etc and time outside with our doggos and my lovely wife.
There is more to life than what I have planned. I’m excited to see what is around the corner!
I have been writing for the past month about my life as a secret drinker, really more of a closet alcoholic. I drank at night and was fine by morning. I worked, I laughed, I went to church, but at night I drank. I have lots of reasons, but mainly it was because I hurt and didn’t know how to process that hurt or to deal with it. I felt alone and no one understood what I was going through.
Will I ever drink again? I don’t know the answer to that.
That last question and answer may be surprising. I answered it that way because only God knows if I’ll ever drink again. I am humble enough now to say that I don’t know what I will do tomorrow. I never thought 10 years ago that I’d be writing this post. I didn’t “believe” in drinking or that it was helpful in any way. I never thought I’d drink on a daily basis, but yet I did. Why? Because I am human and imperfect.
You know, as I write this I wonder about my neighbors. What are they going through that I don’t understand. What about my co-workers that I interact with every day. Is there someone that is feeling the need to get drunk every night in order to stop the stress and pain in their lives? I don’t know the answer to that. Are there those who are cheating on their spouse? Are their those who have just found out that their spouse is cheating on them? Maybe some are about to file for a divorce or have one filed against them. Maybe some are beaten at night or abused or even some that don’t know how or if they will live another night or even want to live another night.
I guess my point here is that I don’t know what you are going through and neither do you know about me, other than what I am willing to share here. Let’s not take for granted that our neighbor (home, work, church, etc) is living the perfect Facebook life. I can promise you that they are not. In fact, realize that most people you come in contact with are hurting. From the cashier to the landscaper to the CEO of your company, there is a crisis in their lives or about to come to their lives. They will say they are okay. They are handling the stress, they are happy and life is good. But perhaps they drink every night in order to forget the day and they are wishing they might just never wake up.
Be nice. Use their names when you see them. Smile at people and wave at your neighbor. Give a bigger tip to your server at your favorite restaurant. They may need that smile, waive or bigger tip in order to survive and you will receive an eternal reward for doing the very thing that made them live to see another day. You will probably never know that you were instrumental to their survival of their day, but wasn’t that Jesus’ point in the parable to the sheep and the goats?
“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. And he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left. Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’
