“Russ tells a story filled with contemplative and entertaining insight. His prose proclaims that the faithfulness of God is experienced bit by bit in slow drawls as much as in sudden, blinding epiphanies.”

Jordan Green, editor of Burnside Writers Collective, www.burnsidewriters.com

“Though quite entertaining, and casual in style, 40 Days with Food caused me to confront the motives behind my daily actions. The book is a short yet profound look at what it means to truly live—something today’s fast-paced society woefully lacks.”

Jim Reimann, editor of bestselling books My Utmost for His Highest and Streams in the Desert

“Russ has done an excellent job in opening a window into his inner life to reveal to us the human side of faith.”

Dr. Michael Youssef, founding rector at the Church of the Apostles in Atlanta, Georgia, and president of Leading the Way, a worldwide media ministry

“In 40 Days without Food Russ courageously tells the truth about himself with unfailing insight, negotiating the treacherous internal terrain of self-doubt and self-pity, deftly avoiding the pious pitfalls that normally plague such accounts. He fearlessly allows us to witness his fearfulness, not to mention God’s love for him in the midst of it. For anyone wrestling with questions of purpose and value—of what it means to be human—this book will be a source of immense wisdom and comfort. I can think of no better guide to connect all of us weary travelers with ‘the heart of the matter.’”

David Zahl, editor of Mockingbird Blog, www.mbird.com

Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

Visit Russ Masterson online at www.russmasterson.com.

TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

40 Days without Food: Divine Goodness to a Starving Soul

Copyright © 2011 by Russ Masterson. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph copyright © Image Source/Corbis.

Cover and title page designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez

Edited by Caleb Sjogren

The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary, 2373 NW 185th Avenue, Suite 165, Hillsboro, OR 97124.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-4143-6648-7 (ePub)

This book is dedicated to Kristy, who went to sleep alone and supported me always, while I built a kite.

Author’s Note about the Book

I took the liberty of changing people’s names to respect their privacy; the character of Mac is a composite character based on a friend and a former coworker. In addition, I compressed the timeline of a few events in order to tell a more coherent story.

Through all this, I attempt to tell an honest story about faith, purpose, and love.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note about the Book

Before the Beginning

The Day Before

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Hot Dogs and Brownies

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 8

Pancakes and Bacon

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

Day 12

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Day 13

Day 14

Day 15

Day 16

A Big Mac and Fries

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Heavenly Chicken

Day 21

Day 22

Day 23

Day 24

Trendy Chinese Food

Day 25

Day 26

Day 27

Day 28

Cold-Cut Sub Sandwiches

Day 29

Day 30

Day 31

Day 32

Tacos and Mojitos

Day 33

Day 34

Day 35

Day 36

Stuffed Duck and Spicy Apples

Day 37

Day 38

Day 39

Day 40

Home-Cooked Spaghetti

Acknowledgments

Share the Book

Appendix: Practicalities of Fasting

About the Author

I once went 40 days without food. Toward the end of each day I wrote some thoughts in a journal. Six years later I read those pages and found a story of divine goodness to a starving child.

Before the Beginning

She laid the long wooden platter in front of me, almost dropping it, no care or gentleness shown. A metal plate rested in a carved-out portion on the platter, and a steak the size of Minnesota was on it. The waitress said not to touch the plate. “Burn your pretty little hands off,” she said. The juices from the steak hissed and popped on the hot metal. Some of the juices leaped off the plate, landing on my arms, little fireballs hurled at my flesh. I lifted my napkin to shield myself until the steak fury calmed. Nathan and Dan laughed at me until their plates arrived, and then they did the same.

Nathan and I didn’t really know much about Dan. He was tall and thin, with manicured gray hair parted to the side. He was a business partner of my uncle’s who lived in Houston but commuted and stayed in New Orleans each week. Dan had an apartment in the trendy Warehouse District of New Orleans, just a short walk from the French Quarter, and he was gracious enough to let my best friend and me crash there. Nathan and I were in town for a weeklong class at our seminary.

Earlier in the week Dan mentioned taking us out to eat on Thursday night, some steak place people kept telling him about. Dan’s 7-Series BMW chirped, and I quickly hustled for the shotgun seat. He fiddled with the GPS screen in his dash while I settled into the leather seat. “Dan, so what’s the deal with this steak place?”

He looked up after typing in the restaurant’s address. “I’m not sure. People tell me it’s quirky but fantastic. I’ve never been there. It looks to be about ten minutes away.”

“Last night we ate at Paschal’s Manale,” Nathan said from the backseat. “You ever had their bread pudding?”

“Dang, look at you guys, high rolling.”

“Not really. My dad loves that place, and he said he’d pay for us to grab a meal there.”

“Oh, okay. Anyways, that place is great; their barbecued shrimp is unbelievable. I probably eat there once a month or so.”

Nathan and Dan talked about good restaurants in the French Quarter, and I looked out the window, watching the trendy Warehouse District turn into the Garden District. We drove down St. Charles Avenue, a grand street lined with ancient oaks, moss dangling from the branches. The city trolley moved down the landscaped median. The street was home to 19th-century Southern mansions with wide porches and tall columns. We turned off St. Charles onto a quiet side street. After a few more turns we were in a rough area of the city. New Orleans is like that—poverty hidden behind privilege, mansions to mayhem. Gangs of angry-looking young men were gathered on stairways of slum apartments. They gave the BMW and our neatly ironed, collared shirts disapproving looks.

“Well, guys, this is it. This is the address,” Dan said. “My friend said it was a hole in the wall.”

“Let’s just hope your car is here when we get through eating,” I added.

It was a rundown, two-story brick building on a corner. The entire building looked vacant. The brick was stained by dirt and grime. A sign hung above a nondescript door: Charlie’s Steak House and Bar. The door looked like an employee entrance. We entered hesitantly, finding ourselves in a dark stockroom. We began to laugh, unsure what we had gotten ourselves into, scared the angry men might come in and rip our nice collared shirts from our backs. We quickly heard noise coming from a room tucked behind a corner toward the back. Light shone through the doorway. We walked into a room the size of a living room scattered with tables. The walls were ’70s paneling. The ceiling was stained from years of steam rising from the food. An old black-and-white television sat on a bar toward the front of the room, an NBA game barely visible through the squiggles.

An older lady, thin with long gray hair, walked by. She never looked at us, just sort of shouted into the air, “Sit anywhere you like. I’ll get to you.”

There were no menus on the table or anywhere else to be seen, and there was no one to ask. Everybody else in the place had their food and was merrily shoveling it into their mouths. People weren’t coming up for air. The older lady was the only waitress, hustling back and forth from the kitchen serving food. After ten minutes she approached our table, all business. “What do you like?”

“Is there a menu?” Nathan responded. “This is our first time here.”

“Not really. We have T-bones. Small and large. Potatoes, onion rings, and salads. You probably want a small. The large is large. And rings and a salad. Coke to drink. Sound good?”

Nathan said, “Sounds perfect. Sounds like you know.”

“I guess you should just tell us what else we want,” Dan finally said after she stared him down for his answer.

She did, and she was gone. She quickly came back with drinks and salads, and then brought our T-bone steaks 15 minutes later. She dropped the plates before us and hustled off to the kitchen to get someone else’s food. The slabs of meat covered half the plate and a pile of onion rings covered the rest. I cut a small piece of meat and bit through the seasoned surface into a rush of warm juices. The meat melted into my taste buds as I chewed lightly. In all my life I’d only eaten one other steak so good. It was a year earlier, I had just graduated from college, my robe and cap still hanging in my car, and my mom took me and a few friends to the Porterhouse Grill in Athens, Georgia.

The Porterhouse was also in a two-story brick building, a beautifully restored one on the edge of downtown. That evening I ate that steak with such confidence, pride from graduating college in three and a half years, and a general assurance that my future was as manageable as my past, which was paved with success. I’d never tried hard academically, yet good grades were always earned, with honors along the way. I grew up excelling in basketball and tennis and involving myself in whichever social and academic clubs I desired. I’d always been successful. Failure and confusion were never a part of my life, and I never thought they would be.

The steak at Charlie’s was quite different from the Porterhouse. Sure, it was just as tender and beefy and blissful, but I was in a different restaurant in a different town. It was a different time. The freedom of college, throwing Frisbees and traveling during the summers, had progressed into a mundane office job four days a week with Mondays off to attend 12 hours of seminary classes. My weekday evenings and weekends were full of reading and papers, Greek and Hebrew. Adulthood had begun, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it, or even what to do with it. I expected the future to be clear, but it wasn’t.

Halfway through the meal, after Dan, Nathan, and I commented relentlessly on how great the food was, we realized we had no idea how much any of it would cost. The bill came at the end of the meal—one number, a reasonable number, but no breakdown of cost. Dan said he would treat, and when he asked for an itemized receipt the waitress said they didn’t do things that way.

“This is the way it is,” she said. “You can pay cash or cash.” In many places that sort of attitude could’ve created an uprising, a food fight, a world war, yet her Nazi rules only made the place that much more memorable.

Over the course of the next couple of years I returned to New Orleans six times for seminary classes, staying in hotels after Dan’s job moved back to Houston. Nathan graduated, and other classmates filled my car, generous and kind guys, men who really cared for people. We always stayed in the Warehouse District, making the short drive from the seminary each evening to walk the narrow streets of the French Quarter and eat beignets at Café Du Monde. On Thursday evenings I’d gather 10 or 15 classmates and take them to Charlie’s. I’d warn them beforehand of the unspoken rules, and each time everyone loved it. We’d fill the long table in the back and laugh and carry on for a couple of hours. Most of the guys around the table were in positions they loved, helping and caring for people. I’d ask them questions about their jobs, what they liked and what they didn’t like.

I had a college degree, and soon a seminary degree to accompany it, and I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I’d read and heard a lot about purpose, but I didn’t know what mine was, and there was emptiness where there should’ve been value. I hoped a step would arrive when it was time to lift my foot.

The Day Before

A few months after one of these meals at Charlie’s Steak House I began to notice something growing in my heart, a seed with a small sprout, a single thought: Fast from food. I tried to kill it, smothering it with other thoughts, dreams of shiny things or lottery hopes. Then I tried ignoring it, letting it grow but not turning an eye to it. Nothing worked. It remained and grew stronger, so I decided to avoid God and hope the thought would dry up and wither away.

I was disillusioned with my life, unsure of my future, and depressed with the job I currently was working. And now added stress: this request, fast. God surely had me confused with someone more spiritual. This was the sort of request meant for Billy Graham or Mother Teresa—certainly not me. I was 25. I was four years out of college, freshly married, and I cut the lawn on Saturday mornings. I had just finished seminary, but that certainly didn’t make me Billy Graham, and it definitely didn’t prepare me to fast for 40 days. The only fast I’d known about was blazing down a ridgeline on my mountain bike. I knew little of sacrifice, even less about hunger.

But the sprout kept growing; the idea strengthened: Fast for 40 days. God nagged me. He pestered me. He never left me alone—when I jogged and when I showered and when I drove. The same call, the same burden: Fast for 40 days. Eventually, as the discomfort of my rebellion outweighed the fear of the colossal amount of days of starving myself, I surrendered.

This brings me to today, the day before the beginning. I’m not surrendering out of faith. I simply want to be rid of the request. God won’t relent, so I will. I believe like a demon.

If faith is here I’m not aware of it. Right now fear is my dreaded companion, my pessimistic partner. It’s important to know I’m not a big man. I’m skinny, though I prefer to be called thin. And I wonder how long I can live off this measly frame. What will my body burn once the little fat I have is consumed? Will I burn an organ on day 24? Will I lose a butt cheek on day 36? So I declare aloud to the God of heaven and earth, “Lord, I don’t want to lose an organ or a butt cheek. I’d like to keep these things for future use. So if my weight drops below 150, I’m quitting. Sorry if that seems rude or shallow. Sorry to put conditions on this request you make of me. Maybe it’s wrong to do so, but that’s the deal.”

There is also the issue of headaches. A few years ago I began getting migraines, pounding menaces that paralyze me, as if a little man lives in my head and chisels away unneeded parts of the interior of my skull. Usually the little man forces me to lie still in a silent, dark room. I’m on daily medication to help limit the migraines, but there are still triggers. The most common trigger is missing a meal, never mind 120 meals. If I don’t eat, the little man with the chisel goes to work.

So I sit in this murky pool of fear with doubt and dread swirling around me. I look up at the Lifeguard and manage to utter, hoping to avoid being hit by lightning, “You didn’t think this through, God. I can’t do this and you know it. But I’ll start and when I end up in the hospital, or renouncing my faith, joining a pot-smoking, traveling carnival, it will be your fault.”

I don’t much fear the carnival or the hospital. My greatest fear is the sad notion that none of this will matter, that this whole thing will be as meaningless as trying to retrieve fallen rain. I fear getting to the end of this and still having no clue what I should do with my life. Perhaps I made this whole thing up in some grand, self-righteous mission. I fear God isn’t listening, that I’m forgotten. This fear creates a gnawing frustration, one that manifests a lie in my heart: He doesn’t care at all. And all the places in me that should be at rest grow tight.

Day 1

Monday, September 13, 2004

Monday is a good day to start something. Tuesday wouldn’t do. Tuesdays seem too routine for beginnings. Wednesdays feel like work. Thursdays are tired. Fridays are reserved for expectation. And you should never start a project like this on a Saturday or Sunday; those days should be filled with projects you can accomplish in one weekend so you feel good about yourself when Monday comes back around and you begin a grand project.

My coworkers and I eat lunch together five days out of every week. I sit at more tables with these comrades than with my loving bride. All morning we talk about it, the hour of bliss, our noonday escape. It is the god before us: Where to? What will I order? Will we sit on the patio? Everything that matters has faded away. Rush Limbaugh can complain about current events; I can even hear about Jesus on the Christian station. Neither will deter me; my hope is still in lunch.

My coworkers would eventually know about my fast. I was nervous about this, jittery, like I was ashamed, like I was killing the hope we, together as a laboring family, all held sacred. I felt like I’d done something wrong, like I had a lunchtime lover they knew nothing of, as if I were fooling around with the buffet over at Shoney’s.

Fortunately I didn’t have to go into the office today. A bunch of us played in a golf tournament in Snellville to raise funds for the high school a few of us graduated from years ago. The dew on the putting greens shimmered as I pulled into the parking lot. The sun was rising, shining sheets of gold and orange across the opening fairway. I entered the clubhouse, mingling and shaking hands. Everyone was ecstatic not to be in an office listening to Rush and hoping in lunch.

I played with Jeff and Mac. Jeff is a decent golfer, but Mac and I pretty much hacked our way through 18. We weren’t in contention of winning anything. I just tried not to lose all my golf balls into the creeks and forest. Mac usually avoids these types of social settings. The more people around him, the more uncomfortable he gets. He prefers his 10-acre farm and his animals. Mac is good at bunches of things. He can pick up heavy things and could wrestle a polar bear to the ground if he needed to, but golf isn’t his game. He was wretched on the golf course, but it didn’t seem to bother him much. When others would chuck a club at an innocent azalea, he’d shrug his shoulders, pull another ball out of his pocket and hack at it again.

In between drives and irons, I thought a lot about my 40 days. Every time the number 40 came to mind, fear arose and faith hid. I wasn’t sure what to do, how to increase my faith on my own. I find fear quite natural. Faith is harder, something entirely different. I tried to feed myself positive thoughts. I tried to remember Bible verses that might help. I recited proverbs and told myself stories of Jesus’ miraculous healing power. Yet fear reigned. My horrible golf shots didn’t help; hallelujahs were replaced with less spiritual words. The whole thing, fighting fear with faith, felt like attempting to drive a golf ball 300 yards with a pine branch. It just wasn’t going to happen. I’m always one or two over par.

After our round everyone gathered under a big tent for hamburgers. The guys got in line and loaded their plates. We were talking about Mac’s horrible shot out of the 18th bunker, and I extended my plate for a burger. Then I remembered. I’m fasting. Amazing, eight hours into it and I almost forgot about this big holy endeavor, trading it all for a dead cow. I set the plate down and fixed a glass of water.

Jeff sat down with his burger and a mound of roasted tomatoes, grilled mushrooms, and fresh lettuce. The juice from the burger gushed from the sides of the patty as he pressed the toasted sesame-seed bun on top. He gathered a few fries and ran them through the pool of ketchup and burger juice that had formed on the plate and lifted them to his mouth. “Russ, you going to get a burger?”

“No, I’m not eating.”

“What? Why not?”

I could’ve claimed I was sick to my stomach over my disgusting golf game, but I decided to be honest, to put it out there. “I started a fast today.”

People stopped eating. I had the table’s attention. Eyes opened a bit wider.

Mac asked, “What, for like the day or something?”

“A little longer than that.”

I hoped there would be no follow-up questions, but Jeff always has a follow-up question. This one took seven seconds to arrive because his mouth was too stuffed with seared ground beef and greasy fries. Finally in between what sounded like satisfying swallows he managed to speak. “Oh, how long?”

“Uhh . . . 40 days.”

They all laughed.

“I couldn’t make it 40 minutes!”

“I wouldn’t want to make it 40 minutes!”

They talked about all the food they’d miss, the burgers and steaks, ice cream and homemade pecan pie. Jeff talked about sweet-potato casserole for twelve minutes, and then he went into a lengthy monologue about the value of Southern cooking. He talked about the country-fried steak he’d had the night before and the fried chicken, okra, and corn pudding his grandma made last Sunday. He went over every ingredient, every condiment a man could possibly use on the food. Then the conversation shifted to the best Thanksgiving foods—turkey, dressing, green-bean casserole, cranberry sauce. I guess they forgot I was there. They forgot about me with my glass of water and 39½ more days. Finally I broke through the banter, trying to end the roundtable discussion on delicious food. “Yeah, I’m not sure how long I’ll last, but the goal is 40.”

When I got home, I lay on my bed and developed an impressive list of all the reasons why I should break the fast and eat. I was telling them to God and reciting them in my head over and over again in case I needed to bring them back up in a later conversation with him. Just after reason #43 I fell asleep, and an hour later I woke up with a renewed positive attitude about the fast, which only further confirms my strong belief that napping is, in fact, a path to godliness.

Faith seems so elusive at times. You’d think someone willing to start a 40-day fast would have more faith, at least a measure of strength and resolve. I think about someone like King David, and I’m comforted by his major moral failures. I feel sorry that his family had to live through the chaos created by his failures, but I can at least relate to that part of his life. But then there are other moments when David seems bold and untouchable. In 2 Samuel 6, the Ark of the Covenant made its way through Jerusalem, delivered home after many years in a foreign country. King David danced and leaped in joy—abounding, insurmountable joy. This was not normal behavior for a king. Kings sat and reigned. They looked regal and stable. This leaping man was a lunatic.

I wonder, in my conservative, polished Christianity, Would I do that? I think I’d be too concerned about what the other people would think of me, what they would say to their friend about me later over coffee. I get so concerned about people liking me that I miss remarkable things along the way. This unhealthy “needing people to like me” thing was going on inside me today at lunch. I wanted a juicy burger, not just for nourishment, but to be like everyone else. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to be liked, and everything in me wanted to end this fast for quick acceptance.

A few months ago Mac told me that being liked is overrated. Mac said we need to be free from needing others to like us, and until then we are in an invisible prison we helped build with people’s subjectivity. I think he was right because this drive to be liked actually preoccupies me and affects how I consider opportunities for my future. When we are guided by the need to be liked, we are unable to love people. We are too needy to love. We hesitate to go into people’s worlds because we are so concerned about receiving definition of our own. I don’t have much in this life mastered. I want to dance, but oftentimes I stand watching.

Day 2

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Nathan and I used to meet at the fitness center every morning at 6 a.m. We’d lift weights until 6:50, take showers, and change. He’d walk down the block to the Starbucks, where he’d begin his work for the day, studying for sermons and coordinating his weekly youth group meeting. Meanwhile I’d be in my truck slogging through traffic into the city. But now all that has changed: no more workouts. I just don’t think I’m going to have the energy for it. I’m sleeping in instead. I tell myself I need the extra hour of sleep. Half of my heart believes that; the other half thinks I’m lazy, close to worthless. That same shady half of my heart wants people to know about the fast. I want to boast. Not loudly; subtly. My pride wants people to discover how spiritual and devoted I am. Perhaps they’ll mention my spiritual depth to someone else. Perhaps they’ll all be impressed. Perhaps they’ll all like me.

Jesus had other ideas about these matters. “And when you fast, don’t make it obvious, as the hypocrites do, for they try to look miserable and disheveled so people will admire them for their fasting. I tell you the truth, that is the only reward they will ever get. But when you fast, comb your hair and wash your face. Then no one will notice that you are fasting, except your Father, who knows what you do in private. And your Father, who sees everything, will reward you” (Matthew 6:16-18).

Nathan grew a beard during a fast because his face thinned out so much. He never said that’s why he grew the beard, and most people probably never figured it out, but I knew, and it impressed me. I, on the other hand, will probably keep shaving so everyone can see. I hope to be like Nathan one day, but for now, in between my rare Christlike moments, the knowledge of the pious act itches inside me until I tell someone of my goodness.

Wanting to live with a grand purpose seems embedded in each of us. That’s why we anguish over picking majors and career paths, changing jobs, or taking risks with a talent or business. It’s natural to want our God-given gifts to be expressed into the world, to know we’ve done something positive. I want that sense of purpose, and I feel like this fast has something to do with the discontentment I feel with my job. I graduated from seminary several months back and always thought I’d slide easily into some sublime job I loved to wake up to every day, but that’s not my reality.

I’ve been looking for a new job, something in a church or teaching somewhere. I’m telling myself the job quest is all about living with a purpose, using my gifts. But I also know part of this job quest is about my ridiculous desire to be seen. I sit buried in a box at the end of a maze of other little offices, some with long rectangular windows, and others like mine, without any windows. My office used to be a closet. It stored brochures and T-shirts and old suitcases. There was an old tire leaning up against the back wall. Mac has two windows in his office, and when I go in there to talk to him, I grow envious and make a mental list of why I should have windows rather than he. After looking out his windows and talking to Mac I usually return to my office to work on an advertisement for one of our construction products.

I find my work quite mindless, receiving and deserving no recognition. I plan installer-certification meetings and ship out promotional notebooks to engineers. I find little meaning in any of it. I know I can’t stay here working this job. No one will notice, but I’ll slowly die. There will be a smiling veneer, but I’ll be rotting on the inside. I’ll be forgotten, perhaps. I hate that I feel so discontent because I work with great guys in a flourishing company for a wonderful and generous boss. I know finding a job that fully satisfies is a blessing and not a right, but still I want that blessing. And I’m appreciative of all the good things in my current job even while I’m frustrated. I bottle up most of my frustration, tightening a lid on it, hoping the desire for recognition doesn’t hemorrhage my being.

For years I thought I’d play professional basketball. Larry Bird was my hero: tall, pasty white, with a deadly jump shot. I thought one day I would fill his shoes as the great white hope of the NBA. This was a possibility, because I was the best basketball player I knew, the best basketball player in my neighborhood. Then I realized there were millions of me around the country. I gave up being Larry Bird, but I don’t want to give up having a purpose. I don’t want to blend into the millions. I fear mediocrity, so I set huge expectations, push and strive, and wear myself out. I’m driven by my fear of mediocrity, then restrained by my fear of failure. It all has me jumping and jerking—a dizzying reality. I need to be more content where I am, working for the sake of work, not trying to find so much meaning in a job, but rather in the way I work it. I have a hunch deep in my heart that we could give our lives to success and recognition, and they will never return the favor. We could become somebody and still be nobody.

Day 3

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

The grocery cart was overloaded with grape-juice boxes and V8. The middle-aged lady working the cash register at Costco looked at the contents of my cart and then at me, probably expecting to see a wrinkly grandpa with a juice-crazed grandchild. The grape juice has twice the calories and carbohydrates of other juices, so it’s my juice of choice. Each day, I drink three 12-ounce cans of V8, about 200 ounces of juice with no additives, and a continuous onslaught of water.

There is some weird pleasure in refusing the stomach, being master of the cravings, navigating your ship where you wish to go, telling it when to dock and when to sail. Yet the body fights back. It eats itself. This morning I stood on the scale, 167 pounds. Six foot three and 167 pounds. Three pounds gone in three days! Immediately I began recalling the list of reasons I should quit. And I know I can quit; I can walk away and God will still love me. I know children won’t be orphaned and Seinfeld won’t cease being funny just because I quit my fast. This knowledge is what makes the idea of quitting so easily entertained.

Last night, after unloading the juice purchase into the garage, I crawled into bed. My bride of three months, Kristy, was reading. We read a lot. We don’t have a TV. Or Internet. This was a pact for our first year of marriage. This fast wasn’t in the pact.

“You tired?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“What do you have tomorrow?”

“Normal day. I’ll try to be in the classroom by 6:30, then coach cheerleading after school. I’ll be home when you get home.”

Kristy is careful not to mention my work too much. She maneuvers through a fine china showroom, trying to avoid tipping my fragile person over while attempting not to avoid me altogether. I try not to sour the satisfaction she has in her own career, but I’m not exactly a bundle of positive energy.

Kristy loves to teach and loves her students, and she also values the relationships with the other teachers. Despite being a fraction of the age of these teachers, Kristy is constantly finding herself on the giving end of advice and encouragement. A couple of months ago Kristy arrived at school early to quiet herself before her hectic day began. As she situated her biscuit and coffee, allowing some room for reading and journaling, her door opened. This was unusual. It was painfully early.

The other early-bird teacher made her way in. She was a caring mom, a good teacher, and a loving wife, but she was bad at keeping up with the times. Her hair was still in 1988. “Good morning, Kristy. Am I interrupting?” she said, after closing the door behind her.

“No, not at all. Come on in. I’m just eating breakfast. What’s going on for you to be here so early?”

The lady came and sat in a chair to the left of Kristy’s desk. She sat on the front half of the seat, with her bag in her lap, holding it, leaning over it just a bit. “I wanted to talk to you and knew we wouldn’t have any time once students got here. I know this is going to sound crazy, but it really bothered me. Yesterday, just after lunch, I heard Jill and Heather making fun of my hair, and I know this sounds adolescent, and I hate that it does, but I couldn’t shake it. I went home and cried all evening.”

Kristy spoke her name aloud in sympathy and the lady continued. “The worst part is, I used to be incredibly self-conscious, but I thought I was past all of it. In high school I was a mess, in college my self-esteem was not much better, but then I married and had kids. I know I’m not a fashionista or anything, but I thought this sort of thing was over.”

“So, what bothered you the most about it?” Kristy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did their comments bother you, or did your reaction to their comments bother you the most?”

“I guess my reaction.”

“Yeah, that’s what would’ve bothered me,” Kristy said. “I always figure there are cruel people around, but I hate when something so little throws me off. You already know this, but I think you have to believe your value comes from somewhere else, something deeper than hairdos, clothes, cars, or even how people think of you.”

“I know. I know. I hate this. I’m 36 years old and acting like a middle schooler.”

“You’re telling me. I’m a huge people pleaser. I struggle with this every day of my life,” Kristy said.

The lady finally leaned back in the chair and released her tight grip on her bag.

“I know this might be weird,” Kristy said, “but would you be okay if we prayed about this?”

Kristy is worn out at the end of each day and almost always the first one to bed, usually falling asleep while I’m still brushing my teeth and talking to her through a mouthful of Crest. I scooted over to the middle of the bed, resting my head beside hers on the pillow. She lowered her magazine and turned toward me. We kissed and held our faces a few inches apart. I reached out and brushed back the hair on her check. I tucked it behind her ear and rested my hand on her neck. I saw her mouth begin to move, and I expected some sweet lullabies of love.

“Russ, your breath stinks.” She began laughing.

“I just brushed my teeth.”

“Still stinks—bad.” She sat up and went back to reading.

“I read about this. It’s the fast. I think my whole body smells bad.”

“I don’t know. Just keep it on your side.”

This fast is hard on Kristy in many ways. My breath is just one way. Coming home from a demanding day to a needy husband is another. She eats alone at night. Date nights will change. I won’t be able to attend some family functions, and parties will be difficult for me to navigate. And in general there is a distance between us. She is living in normalcy and I’m on a journey that disconnects me from norms. This distance between us worries me a little, but I’m not sure there’s anything I can do.

I knew problems would surface during this fast, but I didn’t really think they’d be in my marriage. This possibility of a marital roadblock doesn’t really bother me. I know we’ll figure it out together. The most stressful thing continues to be a lack of direction. People need direction and purpose—a calling, as some may label it. We have to figure this out, yet sometimes we just can’t make things happen; the light hasn’t turned green and we aren’t free yet to pursue our purpose and satisfy our calling.

I have been shooting e-mails, working my network, trying to find some work that fits me. Sometimes my e-mails are responded to without a hint of guidance or good news. But other times, like today, I see a shimmer of light. Next week I’m meeting with the publishing arm of Walk Thru the Bible, a publisher of devotional books and magazines. It’s easy for my ambitious mind to create a whole timeline of events, where they hire me as an editor and I slowly gain wisdom and influence, becoming the youngest CEO of any publishing company in the country. Reality lassos these thoughts and pulls them to sanity, and I begin to grow nervous about the interview and my sample writings. I feel anxious and tell myself: Control what you can control.

Day 4

Thursday, September 16, 2004

My friend Mac is 47 years old. He’s five foot eight and thick. He has short brown hair brushed forward and a tan that follows the outline of the tight, short-sleeved, collared shirts he wears. The shirts are one size too small, and I can only gather he bought them in 1983, so they’ve probably just shrunk over the years. I’ve never seen him wear something new, and his hands are always dirty, matching his jeans and work boots. Even when the man is clean, he’s dirty.

Mac kept telling me we weren’t friends because I’d never been to his farm. He says you aren’t friends with someone if you haven’t been to their home. So one Saturday Kristy and I went out there, rode horses, and looked at his chickens and goats. We swung on a rope swing he’d hung over a ravine on the back of his property. I’ve never seen Mac so alive as I did that day on his farm—so comfortable. All the awkwardness he exudes in social settings turned to life.

This morning I walked into his office, noticing his nice windows. Parts and tools were scattered on the floor and across his desk. “Morning, Mac. What’s going on?”

“Buildin’ some hoses for the drive heads.”

We’re in the construction product business.

“Have you seen Punkin’?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He set the two long wrenches down, wiped his hands on a rag, and spun his desk chair around. A few clicks on his computer mouse, and a huge animal appeared on his screen. “Meet Punkin’,” he said proudly.

“You bought a cow?”

“A steer.”

“Why do you need a steer?”

“I don’t, but we have the room.”

“What do you do with a steer?”

“Don’t know; I’m still learning. I rode him last night.” He clicked on another picture of himself sitting atop Punkin’.

Mac changed the subject. “You eaten yet?”

“No, still holding out.”

“Man, how much weight you think you’ll lose?”

“I’m not sure. Hopefully not more than 20 pounds. There’s not much else on me. Most people lose 40. So far I’ve lost 4 pounds.”

“Well, I think it’s great—risky, but great. Those two things usually go together. I’ll never do this fasting thing, but I can only guess you start to see things differently.”

“Yes, exactly; that’s what I was thinking about on my drive in this morning. Seeing more clearly, meaningless things seem to fall away.”

“Suffering seems to do that. Always has for me. When ease isn’t there to lull us to sleep we stay awake and see the truth behind the scenes.” Mac went on to say that most people care more about the meaningless than the meaningful. I thought about this, and especially who was making these comments, a man who cares nothing for money or things or recognition. Mac just wants to work, care for his animals, and love his family. Mac was born in the wrong century.

Mac moved back toward the workbench and the hoses, guzzling out of the oversize coffee thermos he carries everywhere. “Does it hurt not eating for so long?” he asked.

“My stomach aches—sort of a dull pain. And I’m tired. I want a quick fix—a Pop-Tart or fudge pop or something. But I’m seeing . . .”

“You’re seeing comfort isn’t always a friend.”

“Yeah, meals consume me—the idea of them, the eating of them, the cleaning up of them.”

We just sat in silence for a few minutes. He gave a few hard tugs on the wrenches and I looked out his office windows at the blue sky. I was beginning to feel awkward, so I asked, “Mac, what do you mean comfort isn’t my friend?”

“Comfort is tricky. I think in some way comfort releases us from seeing ourselves. We never see backstage, past the lights and makeup. We never have to face our true selves, to really evaluate our lives. Most people are idiots, dumber than a bag of hammers. They never really look at themselves.”

“I’m just hoping my life will take a turn for the better.”

“Russ, you don’t have it that bad, but I know what you’re saying. You just want to do something that’s honest to what’s inside you. I think that’s normal and good. You should let your strengths guide you, but don’t forget other things matter as well.”

“Right. Marriage, friendships, values—”

“That’s right,” Mac interrupted.

I told him my brain hurt and I needed to go to my office to think about all this. I said I was just coming in to admire his windows.

When I got to my office I read Psalm 34. I like David’s words in verse 8: “Taste and see that the LORD is good.” Cookies, chocolate, peaches—ohhh, sweet, juicy Georgia peaches. I miss tasting. I barely remember the feeling when my teeth puncture the peach skin and juice fills my cheeks and dribbles off my chin. I’ve never been grateful for these things. I’ve taken so much for granted.

We forget the taste when we are immersed in it—it’s easy to become thoughtless and unthankful for good things. The psalmist related these sweet tastes to Scripture itself: “How sweet your words taste to me; they are sweeter than honey” (Psalm 119:103). The sweetness of honey was a luxury at the time. It’s a statement about God himself—pure, sweet, and true. He is worth savoring more than any of the tastes of the world, from Rome to Paris, Tokyo to New York. The finest restaurants have nothing on him.

Hot Dogs and Brownies

Thursday, July 16, 1987

It’s evening. The streetlights are on now, and the chlorine in my eyes creates rainbows around their shine. A long beach towel is tightly wrapped around my little eight-year-old body, but my back is exposed and irritated by the frayed straps of the lawn chair. I try to find my shirt, but it’s lost somewhere among the chairs scattered about this side of the pool. I can’t really complain; after all, my dad hauled the chairs in and set them up for us. The water is just a few feet in front of me, but I can’t dangle a toe in it. My chicken legs barely reach the ground. Other kids are swimming the lanes in front of me, pulling and kicking, cheered on by boisterous parents and sugar-crazed pals.

My friend Michael is to my right and Jason is to my left. They are older and swim in the twelve-and-under age group. None of us have another race for a while, so we venture to the snack table. We buy some food with the money our folks gave us and wander back to our chairs. We suck down an avalanche of Nerds. We chase them with a dozen Pixy Stix.

Mom usually works the candy table or helps line kids up for their races. Dad sometimes sits upstairs helping keep the official swim meet score, while other nights he plays tennis down the hill and walks up to watch our races. It will be another hour before my last race, the freestyle relay. After the candy we eat our main course: hot dogs and brownies, juice boxes to drink. My sister, Sherry, and her friends are sitting in some chairs behind us. They giggle a lot and we enjoy razzing them. These swim meets mean everything. Possibly, quite possibly, our free relay will win and I’ll receive a blue ribbon tomorrow morning at practice. I’ll return home a hero and tack the new ribbon to my bedroom wall.

My world is small, bounded by Oakland Road and Paden Drive. This world revolves around the pool before me and the tennis courts down the hill. I never think about where the other swim team comes from or whether they have problems in their neighborhood. A skinned knee is a tragedy in my world. I play with friends and do cannonballs into the deep end. I build forts and watch movies. I am loved well but not conscious of it.

Day 5

Friday, September 17, 2004

Every movement is calculated and nothing is quick. Rushing to stand unleashes glittery blackness in my eyes. Strategy is key. I find myself holding on to things and leaning against walls more. There is rarely a moment when I’m not conscious of the fast and the reasons for it. While a discontentment with my job is growing, so is gratitude for my home. Our house isn’t much—a modest ranch on an acre—but I get teary when I pull into the driveway. My emotions have been a bit volatile the past few days, welling up at Oprah, Celine Dion songs.

About seven months ago, a few months before our wedding, Kristy and I began looking at houses. We eventually narrowed our search to a price range and a stretch along Braselton Highway. My mom lives at one end of Braselton, while Kristy’s folks live at the other. We thought somewhere in between would be nice.

I’d driven by this particular neighborhood hundreds of times. Finally, I pulled in. The homes were nice—ranches and two-stories on decent-size lots with bunches of pines in the backyards. Kids were riding bikes and playing tag football in the front cul-de-sac. An elderly couple walked hand in hand out of their driveway for an evening stroll. Toward the back of the neighborhood the street curved right and a ranch sat off the road with acres of forest as a backyard. The driveway turned into a side-entry garage and a front porch had room for a couple of rocking chairs. Trees lined the left and right of the property, and a huge stretch of Bermuda grass welcomed me. I stopped my truck. “I like that,” I said aloud, sort of hoping the Lord was listening.

There was one problem; the house wasn’t for sale.

I kept driving and turned around in the back of the neighborhood. When I drove by again, I stopped and just stared at the house—stuck on it. I felt like the Lord was speaking to me, a voice in my heart, a nudge: “Put a note in the mailbox.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I responded. “I’m not doing that.” So I drove toward the front of the neighborhood, rehearsing in my head all the times I’ve heard people use the phrase “God told me”—“God told me to quit my job”; “God told me to break up with you”; “God told me to tell you that you are supposed to give me your house.” You can’t beat it. You can’t disagree unless you tell the person you spoke to God after they did, and God told you that what he told them was just a joke. As I drove back up the hill and passed the elderly couple, still holding hands, I thought about history, all the mess made by people beginning arguments, policies, even wars with “God told me.”

Just before exiting the neighborhood onto the highway, I felt another nudge: “Trust me. Put a note in the mailbox.”

I stopped the truck. “This is crazy. Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll put a note in the mailbox, and I don’t have to tell anyone about it when nothing happens.” I turned around, drove through the neighborhood, back past the sweet old people. I ripped a scrap sheet of paper and wrote,

Hi,

I was just driving through your neighborhood and love your house. I’d be interested in buying it if you are interested in selling. Let me know.

I signed the note with my name and phone number.

Two days later the owner called. Kristy and I looked at the house the following week and bought it a few weeks later. At our closing the owner told us she was about to get married and was going to put it up for sale in a couple of months. She said she kept looking at my note thinking it was some sort of real-estate agent scam. She’d thrown my note in the trash can and gone to watch some TV. Ten minutes later she got the note out and read it again, only to throw it away again. Back and forth she went; then finally she called. We settled on a fair market price minus the real-estate agent fees we didn’t have to pay. This left Kristy and me enough money to put in hardwood floors, have a sweet honeymoon in Hawaii, and still have some money left over for any homeowner emergencies we might experience.

I always say money doesn’t mean much to me, but really I do care. I care about what money can do. I want to provide for my family—better than I do now. I want Kristy to have the choice of whether to work or not. People say money ruins a person, but I know some wealthy people who are good and seem quite happy. Maybe the saying should be “Money can ruin a person.” That sounds right. I’ve also heard money can’t buy happiness, but one time a family member gave me six thousand dollars, and I was really happy. For months I was happy. I could be stuck in Atlanta commuter traffic on a hot August afternoon with no air-conditioning, with a wool sweater on, and if I thought about that money, I was happy—really, really happy; like how you feel when you jump in a swimming pool or when your grandfather hugs you. But now, a couple of years later, I’m not happy about that money—grateful, but not happy. I need more to be happy. I’m always thinking, if only I had x amount, I’d be okay—then I’d be secure.

A couple of weeks ago I found out how much money my friend makes. It was a staggering number, some three times my salary. I immediately slid into envy and jealousy. Ever since then my focus has shifted from the blessings and provision I do have to stuff I can’t afford. I think about the safer, nicer neighborhood. I remember the windows my office doesn’t have. I suppose I like money because all that stuff—the house, the car, the vacation—really promises me freedom. If I can gather enough, I won’t have to work two jobs or answer to anyone. I could hire people to do things for me, and I’d be free to enjoy the things I love. At times I honestly believe that money would quench this ache for purpose because money would free me to pursue whatever I wanted without concern for income.

Discontentment has been eating at me all day, and I went to sleep covered in it. In the morning it was still there. I had my morning V8 and began my slog south on the expressway. While commuting, right thinking slowly arrived: Life is about more than stuff. Stuff corrodes. One hundred years from now, Bill Gates will be as poor as you. Money can’t bring contentment or purpose. Money can only propel purpose that already exists.

This brought to mind the apostle Paul’s revolutionary words: “I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything. I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is with a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little” (Philippians 4:12). Paul knew a secret most people try to buy. Paul had tapped into a life that wasn’t controlled by the flow of money and things. Paul wasn’t American.

I thought about being in Europe the summer after my sophomore year of college. I didn’t have anything—no net worth, just a bag full of smelly clothes—and I sat relatively satisfied and happy on a sidewalk in Italy eating an ice cream cone. From my seat, I could see hippies selling bead necklaces for survival. They had the necklaces showcased on a blanket in front of them. They were napping in the sun, drinking wine, and enjoying each other’s company—breathing in the breeze coming off the Mediterranean. They lined the streets in community. They lived poor, yet they were free in many ways. The hippies seemed happy. Maybe they were acting. Maybe they had drunk too much wine.

Day 6

Saturday, September 18, 2004

We sat in a corner of the lower level, baking in the sun. Not a cloud in the sky. Before us was a great nation of rowdy fans, some of them refined, others from the backwoods. It was Saturday in Athens, Georgia, 90,000 people in 90-degree heat. Bunched together, stacked on top of each other, sweating and cheering and high-fiving. We were focused for a fight. Many people were wearing headphones, listening to Larry Munson call the game. Others were quiet and focused, seemingly in prayer. I was carefully allocating and distributing my energy throughout the game. I was light-headed—bright sparkles covered the players. I was sweating V8 through my pores, probably losing another pound or two, while drowning my system with overpriced concession-stand bottles of water. Halfway through the first quarter the south end of the stadium belted out, “Geor-gia!” The north end responded, “Bull-dogs!” Back and forth, back and forth. Louder each time. Building. Echoing. Resounding. Glitter and blackness. The glory of Georgia. It was surreal. Almost transcendent.

Most people are full of chicken or ribs, if the beer hasn’t dominated their bellies. Usually I’ve devoured a few plates of tender chicken smoked over New Jersey hickory wood and a side of Southern potato salad. I usually don’t grow light-headed when I stand to cheer. Usually I’m able to stand upright and not sway. It was as though I was watching the game around the game. Why do we love this game so much? Why do we give ourselves to the boys in red? The key words were being yelled and sung. They were the themes holding the fans to the field—anthems of battle, redemption, victory, and glory. I started to think maybe we love all of this—all of this red and black or whatever your colors are—because we were created for these themes, not necessarily these colors.

The Bulldogs eked out a win over the much-smaller school, Marshall. Any win is a good win, they say, but Bulldog fans like and expect massacres over such schools. Kristy and I wriggled through the foot traffic talking about our lack of defensive pressure up front. We then sat in traffic on the surface roads and held hands as we drove. When we got home, Kristy went to bed alone, and I settled into my leather chair in the den, the echoes of screaming fans still rattling around inside me.

God, thank you for today. Thank you for the taste of a victory and celebration.

I sat quietly and began to softly sing a song I’ve known for years. It was the moment of connection I’d been trying to force for days, an infusion of faith I couldn’t manufacture. A transcendent moment. I’ve had moments of great clarity over the past week, but this was different. This was a taste of celebration in its purest form. It was the flash of life I needed, life multiplied, as a blind man can hear.

I sang to the Lord. The words seemed quite true for today. I sang that he is why I live, why I move, why I breathe. That he’ll be the song I sing forever.

I got up from the leather chair, took a shower, brushed my teeth, and laid my head on my pillow.

Day 7

Sunday, September 19, 2004

I can’t see the end from here. It’s nowhere in sight, and that is sort of the point of today—Quit looking ahead, Russ. Quit worrying about the next 33 days and live in this day. I miss most of life because I’m living in the next meal or the next day. I miss what is here, now, what is before me. So easy to be here, yet be there.

I cut the grass today. I also cut up a tree with a chainsaw—manly things, but not really things you should do when you haven’t eaten in a week. There are some things that shouldn’t be operated during an extended fast. Chainsaws are one; dogsleds may be another. Even before all the manly activity, my energy was sapped. I now weigh 164 pounds—down 6 pounds, 14 pounds from my threatened cutoff weight—but I felt fierce as I operated the chainsaw. Even so, after slicing through a bunch of limbs and starting into the trunk, my fierceness turned to exhaustion. An additional V8 didn’t help. I’ve been drinking gallons of V8. My routine has developed into 32 ounces of juice and a V8 in the morning, more juice around noon, another V8 and juice in the afternoon, then a third helping of the evil vegetable juice and more fruit juice around seven o’clock or so.

The tree I cut down fell last night in a wicked storm of rain and wind. The winds hit around seven and picked up through the night. Kristy and I didn’t hear the tree fall right outside our window. The tree was simply blown over—uprooted. In the morning I woke up, went outside, and stared at the tree. He was alive yesterday—straight up. I looked at his limbs and his shiny leaves. For years he stood beside my driveway, giving shade for people to sit in and offering his branches to climb. Now he was about to be my firewood for the winter—a treacherous turn of events. He needed something more to hold him upright, something to make him resilient. I guess he never wasted time with those unseen things. I guess he focused too much on the shiny leaves, and when the storm came he buckled—collapsed.

I kept staring at my fallen comrade, strangely saddened. I don’t think this should be our future. God wants us to stand, to proclaim his greatness in the midst of suffering. In the Bible, Colossians 2:6-7 says, “And now, just as you accepted Christ Jesus as your Lord, you must continue to follow him. Let your roots grow down into him, and let your lives be built on him. Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught, and you will overflow with thankfulness.” Notice, Paul wrote, “Continue to follow him. Let your roots grow down into him.” Rooting in isn’t some weekly mandatory religious experience in a building on Sunday morning. It’s life. It’s living with our identity wrapped in God’s grace and righteousness. We need something beyond shiny leaves, success and vanity. Affluence and struggle will both blow against us. Impatience will swirl, and unbelief will howl, but if we are wrapped in Christ’s love, our roots will shoot deep—deep they’ll run, through the shifting soil.

Day 8

Monday, September 20, 2004

Today was fine. I didn’t hike in Yosemite or meet Jennifer Aniston, but neither did a flowerpot fall on my head. I don’t need Yosemite, but I want something more than this. However, there was one bright light today—a hope for the future. I had my interview at Walk Thru the Bible. I arrived at their building and toured the facility with a couple of editors. They showed me the magazine and book departments, the workrooms, and the film and editing rooms. They then walked me into the fund-raising department. Just as we turned the corner, a tall, preppy-looking man stepped out of his office. I thought I knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure. He spoke first. “Hey, you help out with the high school students at my church.”

“You go to Crossroads? Sorry. Russ Masterson.” I extended my hand.

“Yes, I heard you teach last week at the high school gathering. I was there early to pick up my son, Ryan. You’re a gifted communicator.”

“Thanks. I don’t get to do it often, but I love it.”

My innards were dancing summersaults and cartwheels. My mind was racing. Are you kidding me? This could be a huge plug. He’ll put in a good word about how eloquent and insightful I am. What are the chances that he hears me speak the week before my interview? This is a God thing. This is it! The two editors and I met in a conference room for about an hour. They asked me questions about past work experience, about seminary, and about writing. They asked me what books I like and what I hope to write in the future. I felt pretty good about the interview until they asked me whether I had any questions. I should’ve played it cool. I should’ve thanked them and taken the door. I hesitated at first, then blurted out, “Can you tell me why I should want to work here?” It sounded right in my head, the moment before I verbalized it, but once it was in the room it felt arrogant and ungrateful, like I had so many options and they should be lucky to have me.

While they were silent, perhaps perplexed by my direct question, my mind was busy blaming the fast for such stupidity—making me so blunt when understatement was probably needed. Then they talked for a few minutes about their large readership and getting the experience of writing on a daily basis. On my way out they handed me a three-page article and requested I edit it and fax it to them. So I shook their hands and headed back to my windowless office. Once there, I pulled out a red pen to make changes, cuts, and additions. An hour later I felt pretty good about it. I waited another hour, looking it over again, and then faxed it off.

Pancakes and Bacon

Sunday, May 29, 1994

Our tent barely stands. The rain pounds it. The big, floppy structure shakes with each rumble of thunder. Water leaks in through the floor; a small creek rushes beside my sleeping bag. I hate the thought of being wet while sleeping—poke my eye out instead. There are four of us in the tent: my mom; my sister, Sherry; my buddy John; and me. We are all awake. I think the whole campground, our entire group of 50 or so friends, is awake, lying, listening, waiting. John and I create horrible scenarios about the tent trapping us inside while a rush of water washes us into the lake below. We think this is hilarious—any 15-year-old would.

The storm isn’t letting up, so finally John and I decide to make a run for it. To the car we will prevail! We stand at the door, ready to unzip it, with Mom and Sherry calling us sissies. They are just bummed they didn’t think of it first.

“John, you ready? We have to go up the hill, through the woods. Remember Mom’s SUV is the green Blazer. I’ll jump in the driver’s side and unlock the doors.”

I unzip the tent and we take off. I look out over the lake, unable to tell where the lake ends and the rain begins. All is liquid chaos. We sprint up the hill through the rain. Halfway up the hill I feel John slapping my shoulder. “Dude, look!” To our right, the next camping spot over, a man stands battling the elements. The Ellen family has several tents over there and the dad of the pack, Bill, is standing behind his tent in the storm. Bill’s arms are stretched out wide, holding one tent pole in his left hand and another in his right. He stands with his chin high, a slight grin on his face, the smile of rebellion, refusing to let his beaten tent collapse in the storm. We finish the sprint through the woods, laughing and yelling at Bill. He was still holding the tent up the last time I looked out the window before falling asleep.

The morning brings cool temperatures, and I get up early and sit by the shore. The lake is pristine, smooth as glass, wide open before me—perfect. But life isn’t perfect. My parents divorced, and the girl I like cares more for another boy. And I’m not going to be on the starting squad for our basketball team. But this lake is perfect, the air is cool, and the sun is shining. It was a rough night, but this is a good day. Mom wakes up shortly after and begins cooking breakfast on the little Coleman stove. We all sit around talking about the storm, eating piles of crispy turkey bacon and stacks of chocolate-chip pancakes smothered in cinnamon cream, maple syrup dripping off our plates onto the ground.

Day 9

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Two nights ago Kristy made banana bread. She set it on the stove and walked into the other room. Once I was sure she was out of sight, I stood over it smelling it, breathing in harder and harder, trying to bring bits of bread in through my nostrils. Maybe that doesn’t count as eating. Strangely, at times food has the allure of a stapler or coatrack. It’s like I’ve forgotten about a place I once lived in, unable to recall the language and land. The banana bread was the exception of the last few days. This is a bizarre world to live in since most of my life food has triggered a strong, primal urge in me.

My body is getting rid of the excess waste it stores (I’ll spare you the ugly details), and with it my weight is plummeting. My pants are now baggy. I was hanging around a meager 162 pounds for the past two or three days, but this evening the scale registered 160. Ten pounds gone since the fast began! The 160 that are left don’t look adequate. Most people are happy about losing weight, but most people didn’t grow up being called String Bean and Bones. In the eighth grade, a bully, a big, dumb boy the size of a dump truck, called me a Somali. The dump-truck boy probably didn’t know who the Somalis were, but they had been on the school news that day because of the hunger issues in their country.

People shouldn’t be so vain, but I am. We all know we shouldn’t beat ourselves up over what we look like, but that doesn’t stop our brutal assault. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to not care about this. I wish the vanity would disappear with the pounds. I hope the sacrifice will starve the vanity to death. Unfortunately a measure of our significance comes from what we look like, or how good the person on our arm looks. Our culture engrains the priority of physical beauty into us. We are bombarded by images communicating that value comes from the shape of your hips or the proportions of your face.

When Kristy was a sophomore in college, she transferred from one small college in northern Georgia to another. She was sad to leave her former school, but her desired major wasn’t offered. She arrived at her new alma mater, and while she kept busy during the week, the Friday and Saturday nights alone were reminders that her life was not as it should be. She began to think she wasn’t able to make friends because she didn’t look good enough, her thighs weren’t thin enough, or long enough, or something.

Kristy started taking laxatives every day to digest food quicker in hopes of losing weight. This became a daily practice and an obsession. Her life was unraveling, so she decided she would fast and pray about the issue. Fasting wasn’t a great move for a girl struggling with body-image issues. Her fasts were more about starving herself and getting skinny than anything remotely spiritual. On top of the laxatives and fasting, she was exercising militantly, running mile after mile, giving her heart to the god of asphalt.

Women do crazy and horrible things for the hope of being thinner. Men fuel their fire with our obsessive attempt to maneuver someone “beautiful” into our arms, and hopefully our beds. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with physical beauty—nothing wrong with being skinny or trying to look good—but there’s something severely unhealthy about obsessing over it and needing it to define us.

One night, after eating nothing all day and running a swift and brutal five miles in 20-degree, icy weather, she took double the dose recommended on the laxative box and went to bed. Her stomach began cramping in the middle of the night. She didn’t have the strength to walk, nor the humility to wake her roommate for help. Barely hanging on to consciousness, she rolled out of her bed onto the floor. She crawled through her apartment bedroom, through the den, and into the bathroom. Just short of the toilet her arms and legs gave out. She lay still, cheek pressed against the cold bathroom tile, and she feared being found dead in this position in the morning. It was then she heard the voice of God, a loving correction in her inner being: “No, ma’am. This is not you. No matter how lonely, this is not the answer.” Love surged into her heart, and she knew everything had to change. She managed herself to the toilet, and then back to her bed. She closed her eyes, knowing God loved her in this mess she had created. The next morning the sun rose—a new day was given to her.

Day 10

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Today I was on my lunch break—without lunch, of course—sitting, watching some whispery trees dance with the breeze, jealous of their worry-free existence. And I know worrying is an absurd waste of time, yet I keep doing it. I worry about the coming days, the years ahead, and I doubt God’s goodness and sovereignty. I worry about everything I can’t control or cause. I’m told God has the whole world in his hands. He has everything under control. He knows what is best for me, but on days like this I doubt all these things. I want everything to happen now. I want to sail the world, yet I don’t know how to sail. When I was little I wanted to be a mountain.

In some small way I’m trying to be God. I want to know what he knows. I’m Adam all over again. Just this week I read where God tells us to let go of this attempt. Rather he instructs us to “Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need” (Matthew 6:33). Refuse the apple, turn away from worry, and embrace trust. “Trust in the LORD with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take” (Proverbs 3:5-6).

Toward the end of my lunch break, after the breeze ceased and the trees quit dancing, I drove back to work and found Mac in his office. He’d just returned from a job in a town in the Florida panhandle.

“How was Florida?”

“Hot. Sandy. I killed a possum on the drive home. I was hauling a ton of steel on the trailer, and the little guy just wouldn’t move out of the road. I was yelling, ‘Move, buddy; move!’ He just stood up on his hind legs and looked right at me.” Mac gave me a sly look and asked, “How was lunch?”

“Funny.”

Mac was turned to his computer screen working on a quote.

“You ever read Exodus?” I asked.

“One time, when I read the Bible all the way through. It’s been years. I’ve been reading Robert Frost lately.”

“You ever doubted the path you’re on?”

“What do you mean, path?”

“Like work and career.”

“You talking about purpose?” he asked.

“Yeah, purpose. You ever doubt it?”

“Sure, but I love to work, so I’m happy wherever. I’d never leave here. The bossman has been too good to me over the years. You know, we been buildin’ stuff together for twenty-some years. Anyways, what I do remember about Exodus is those Israelites were pretty confused.”

“Right, that’s what I was reading this morning. God didn’t lead them through the land of the Philistines to get to the Promised Land, though that route was shorter, because God knew they might change their minds and go back to slavery in Egypt.”

“Like I said, confused. Going back to slavery—amazing! People are amazing, marching back into oppression. They probably would’ve emasculated themselves over an itch.”

It felt good to remember I’m not the only person struggling with choices and life. People have been wrestling through life for thousands of years. Mac turned away from his computer and faced me. I was leaning against his tool chest.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

“Make of what? Emasculating yourself?”

We both laughed. “No, what do you make of God taking them the long way around?” Mac asked.

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. I was thinking, and Mac was waiting. He never turned. I had his full attention.

“Mac, I’m just wondering if I’m in Egypt, or whether God is taking me the long way around.”

Day 11

Thursday, September 23, 2004

Mac and I spent the afternoon in the warehouse counting massive steel underpinning brackets that go under the foundations of buildings. The weather was brilliant and all the loading dock doors were up. Huge fans circulated above our heads—fans with a picture of a big donkey stamped across each blade. The warehouse is the size of a football field and a slight layer of black dust covers everything. It’s dingy and nasty. I blow black snot after being out there. Mac and I spent most of our time counting, but we talked a little. Sometimes you have to dig to get anything good out of Mac. You have to warm him up. Otherwise he just works, fast and hard. After an hour of counting and little conversation, I asked him, “Mac, do you remember what Egypt was like?”

“Hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch, I bet.” He added, “My daddy used to say that.”

“For real, Mac.”

“For real? I’ve never been there.”

“In the Bible; Egypt in the Bible, Mac.”

“Yeah, I remember. The Israelites made bricks, tough labor. I think Exodus says their lives were bitter, right? Pharaoh killed their baby boys; then God killed the Egyptians’, which I’ve always had a problem with.”

“Problem?”

“Well, you’re going to be the preacher, Russ. What do you make of all the plagues and stuff?”

I thought through what I could recall of Exodus 8 and 9—a series of intense events aimed at the Egyptians for the purpose of convincing Pharaoh to let the Israelites go. I learned in seminary how each plague was a symbolic message about the shortcomings of one of the Egyptian gods. It took the Passover, God striking down the Egyptians’ firstborns, to finally get Pharaoh to consent. After counting a few more brackets and trying to remember all the notes I took in my philosophy of religion class, I finally attempted an answer.

“Well, God certainly wasn’t afraid to kill people. The Old Testament clearly portrays God picking sides and shows the detrimental repercussions of opposing him. I think it’s easy to leave the conversation there and just point fingers at God and complain about his behavior, forgetting whose world this is.”

“Well, I’ve certainly done that at times.”

“Me too,” I continued. “I wrestle with all this, God’s actions and stuff, probably because I have a hard time fully embracing the extremity of what occurred when Adam and Eve chose to rebel.”

“Right, and all the rest of us are screwed because they screwed up,” Mac said.

“Well, yes, sort of. We are born this way—selfish, self-absorbed. And we all do shameful things. There are no innocent people.”

“Now, I do believe that,” Mac added. “I know I’m screwed up. I’ve lived long enough to know ain’t nobody a saint, even some smiley preacher on TV who’s always trying to tell me I have all this good in me. There may be some good in there somewhere, but what’s real evident is there’s something wrong with me.”

“That’s what my professor was saying—when we live that way, we harm others and create injustice in the world. He said throughout the Old Testament God suppresses evil, and upholds justice, through annihilating people who do evil and take pleasure in it.”

Mac had moved on to another bin of brackets. “Well, I have no problem with that. You always get what’s coming.”

“I have no problem with it either,” I agreed. “Except I don’t want what is due me. I do wonder about the fairness of such extreme actions by God.”

Mac was thinking. Finally he replied, “Yeah, but you would make a similar decision. If my goat ate one of my chickens I’d hit him with a shovel.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning if you walked out of Walmart and saw a five-year-old little girl being beaten by a grown man there would be no question that you’d have to stop it. The good in you would demand you to stop it.”

“You’re saying I’d call a cop.”

“I’m saying you’d do something.”

We went on counting brackets, and I kept thinking. Mac was saying the same thing my professor said: sin deserves justice—it always has and always will, and a loving being always has wrath toward sin, by nature and definition. God righteously does this; the good in him does this. His character being fully just demands action. We think this is overboard, but we forget that sin is horrible. It’s not pleasure without effects. It eventually causes depression and hurt. It creates wounds that ache and rot people from the inside out.

In the Old Testament, we see sin being demolished by floods and plagues and battles—horrible things really. But in the New Testament, after the coming of Christ, the frightening characteristics of God in the Old Testament seem somewhat subdued by his forgiving, gracious qualities. In the Old Testament, the people of God were tools used by God to demonstrate his justice, thus they fought battles and destroyed rebellious people groups. But in the New Testament (and today), the people of God are tools used by God to demonstrate his grace. So we serve and love.

God was brutal—plagues and wars—and rightfully so. I don’t know whether he still wipes people off the face of the earth at times, but this I know: for those who confess they are screwed up, he wipes the tears from their eyes.

Day 12

Friday, September 24, 2004

I had a couple of extra hours between work and a meeting I needed to attend downtown, so I drove over to the Walk Thru the Bible offices to pray. I pulled into the lot; most of the employees were gone. I parked in a spot facing the front of the building and began praying. I prayed for the organization and the people who interviewed me. I then thought about the Old Testament story when the Israelites came out of the wilderness and approached the walled city of Jericho. God told Joshua to lead the people around the city seven times; then the walls would fall and the city would be given to them. So, being the zealous person I am, I got out of my truck and began walking around the building. At first, all I could think about was the calories I was burning, the muscles being eaten away from my femur bones. My weight was holding around 159 pounds—nine pounds from my failure to finish this journey.

I walked around the building once, twice, three times. On the fourth lap I remembered that the former president of Walk Thru had written the book The Prayer of Jabez. It was a short read about asking God for more territory and opportunities. While I’m certain the author never intended it this way, many people loved the idea that they could turn God into Santa Claus. The book sold millions, often to people mistakenly trusting and hoping in a jolly, red-clad God.

I read the book the semester after I graduated from college, a month after my delicious steak at the Porterhouse. I had graduated a semester early, so I decided to go overseas for the few months, serving the youth in a small church in Scotland.

I arrived in Buckhaven, a small town on the North Sea, in January—the middle of winter. It was dark, bitter cold, and I couldn’t understand anybody due to their thick accents. At first I wasn’t even sure it was English. They could easily understand my long Southern drawl, but I couldn’t comprehend any of their choppy dialect. Slowly, I settled in and began to realize my responsibilities there wouldn’t take up nearly the amount of hours there were in the day. The short days meant the sun came up around 9:30 a.m. and set around 3:30 p.m. I’d have meetings at the church in the evenings, so I would work out in the mornings.

One morning I woke up and walked the 30-minute trek in the frightful temperatures to the neighboring town, to a small health club that charged me four pounds to work out to their jarring techno music. I walked back after my sets and reps. The day had warmed somewhat, so I unzipped my heavy fleece a few inches. I watched a travel show during lunch, and then I went up to my room to be a hermit. I climbed into my North Face sleeping bag and sat at the little desk in my bedroom, the lower half of my body in a blue cocoon. I started reading Scripture; then I decided I would type out some thoughts. Slowly those thoughts turned into paragraphs, and the paragraphs into a page. I had written a devotional! I then wrote another and another. And the next day I did the same. I started writing five devotions a day. I would write them and then read them aloud, tearing up at my insight and prose. I thought I was Max Lucado.

I read The Prayer of Jabez one afternoon after working out to the techno and eating lunch with the travel show. I immediately began to pray Jabez’s prayer. It was so simple. All I had to do was pray the sentences and God would bless me. I prayed the prayer for months, asking God to let the devotions end up in the hands of a publisher, but that never happened. It never happened because my devotions weren’t good. The writing, along with my time as a Scottish hermit, was more about me learning to write than me actually getting anything published. God wasn’t interested in extending my territories the way I expected, though I prayed for it repeatedly. He was more interested in teaching me something and helping form a skill inside me.

As I walked around the Walk Thru building, having already learned that the prayer of Jabez doesn’t work like a vending machine, I still figured it couldn’t hurt to try. I put my quarter in and pressed Fanta Grape: “God, enlarge my territories! Open the door for me to work here, Lord.” I kept thinking, The guy wrote the book in this very building; it sold a kajillion copies. Surely God would hear. I finally finished lap seven. The walls didn’t fall down. The editor didn’t walk out the door with a submarine sandwich and a job contract. So I got back in my truck and left.

Despite praying more and reading the Bible more than I ever have, I still don’t feel like I’ve made a spiritual arrival during this fast. Silly, I know, but I did think I’d make a great leap into the realm of the spiritual giants, experiencing some angelic connection to God, walking on a cloud while hearing harps. A man of faith I’d be, or so I thought. Rather I feel more full of faults than ever before.

Kristy is also fasting a day here and a day there during these 40 days. Yesterday she fasted, and at the end of the day when we were tucked into bed she said she was a little let down. She said she didn’t have a grand spiritual experience. The connection was not increased. I guess some people do have these grand moments, miraculous things occur, wonder and revelation rain down, but I’m guessing most of us want a burning bush and never get it.

Earlier today, during lunch break, I went to get my allergy shots. The office was closed. I always forget they’re closed on Fridays. So I returned to the elevator and arrived just as three women with bags of food stepped off. They were bags from Maggiano’s. Italian! Pasta; marinara; chicken parmesan, my favorite. I walked onto the elevator, into a cloud of delight. For three floors I was trapped with the goodness, a party in my nostrils. It was simple pleasure, strangely spiritual.

On my drive back to the office, I thought about the Scriptures, about us being a sweet fragrance to God: “Our lives are a Christ-like fragrance rising up to God. But this fragrance is perceived differently by those who are being saved and by those who are perishing” (2 Corinthians 2:15). In the Old Testament the sweet aroma God enjoyed was from an animal sacrificed for forgiveness, but in the New Testament, God enjoys the sacrifices made by people with the hope to know him better. I thought about Kristy’s day of fasting, a sacrificial day without a burning bush; but perhaps she was a sweet fragrance.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Wednesday, April 11th, 2001

“I’m from America.”

“Korea.”

“From Canada.”

“India.”

“France.”

“I’m from Australia.”

“South Africa.”

I’m 21, a recent college graduate, soon to return home for seminary and work after four months of church service in Scotland. My time in Scotland was good—lonely but good. I started writing there, using my solitude to hone the craft, but this is better. People are better. The weather is better. It was bitter cold in Scotland. Dark, wet, and cold. Stay indoors. I’m now at L’Abri, a study retreat center in southern England. The massive manor home is on a large countryside estate an hour south of London. Pastures and trees—a lovely setting for days of practical work and in-depth studying on culture and faith.

It’s dinnertime and I sit at a round wooden table with six people, each person from a different country. We are together, yet separate; different, yet the same. Our facial structures differ, as do our accents, yet we are all coming into adulthood, trying to make sense of our lives and the God who we believe desires to guide them. It’s my second day at L’Abri. I’m relishing the moments of togetherness, surrounded by people my age, and hearing others wrestling with themselves and with the Lord. I’m not alone in this.

The dining room at L’Abri is large, with 40 or so people comfortably eating and talking, a lit candle and fresh flowers at the center of each table. Each meal is guided with a discussion question. Tonight’s is “How have you seen God guide your life?” No one speaks at first. Then slowly the vaults crack. The answers aren’t rote or easy. People speak about the feeling of wandering and confusion, unsure of their next step and what it is they want to give their lives to, yet there is a trend, a guiding hand that is spoken of, a Father.

Toward the end of the meal I get up from the table. I pull Ivan and Beatrice from two other tables and we go into the kitchen to prepare to serve the dessert we made during the afternoon work hours. We baked several hundred chocolate chip cookies—hours of flour and sugar. The clean-up team is clearing the dinner plates, and a few people are pouring everyone glasses of cold milk. Ivan stops in the middle of the room and speaks. “Attention! Tonight we not only have normal-size chocolate chip cookies; for this special night we also have the largest cookie ever to be cooked at L’Abri Fellowship, perhaps in southern England, maybe in the world.” I enter the room holding a wide cookie sheet covered with a perfectly round golden cookie, maybe two feet wide. I hold it high. Proud.

We all grab cookies and dip them into tall glasses of milk. Our questions about life and God don’t go away. We still don’t know what tomorrow holds. We don’t know when we’ll marry or what career path we’ll end up on. We are found, yet still lost, paralyzed at times, and blind still others. We are grateful though confused.

Day 13

Saturday, September 25, 2004

I systematically worked the blower across the grass, holding the ten-pound device, walking like a granny. A few leaves have begun to fall, so Kristy and I were both out enjoying the beginning of autumn colors and cool days. After about 15 minutes I was out of breath, so I took a seat on the front porch. In the purest sense I’m dying, starving to death, yet still alive. In order for my body to run it needs energy, and if there is no food the body will feed on itself. The muscles, the few I do have, are becoming lean and weak. The image in the mirror isn’t much. For the moment, I seem to have lost the ability to lift a Lego. Yet in a weird swing of the pendulum, in the next moment I feel as if I can hoist a walrus. I can’t really explain this, but there are surges of fatigue, inspiration, and even strength within me. I realize I’m not the man I was two weeks ago, but there’s still life in me.

Kristy came over to where I was and took a seat. I was glad she did. We haven’t really been connecting lately. The lack of sex hasn’t helped. We tried one time—successfully I might add—but I just don’t have the energy for it.

It was as if all the food I hadn’t been eating had accumulated as a wall between the two of us. I don’t think the wall was gone, but at least we were able to talk to each other from the opposite sides.

“You think we’ll always live in this sort of neighborhood?” I asked.

“What sort is that?”

“A starter neighborhood. Small houses. Or do you think we’ll end up in a nice house like your parents?”

“We’ll probably end up in something bigger, but I think wanting it is stupid,” Kristy replied.

“Stupid?”

“Wasteful. You know, what’s the point? What good does thinking about it do?”

“It’s toil. Like in Ecclesiastes?”

Kristy remembered. “Yes, that guy was the richest in the world, and he said it’s all toil.”

“Kristy, I know you don’t, but I think about money a lot. I know Solomon’s words, but the bottom line is I still want more money.”

“Why do you think about money?” Kristy asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Don’t get defensive, Mister. Really, why?”

I was honest. I seem to be more honest lately, less masquerading. “I probably want more freedom. To call my own shots. To be in control.”

“What do you think that’s about?”

“Probably me trying to be God. I think I try to play God, wanting to control everything about my future. I think usually food covers up all these raw, ugly motives, and I never have to see them.”

“Russ, all I know is it’s not worth dwelling on money. We’ll be fine, and the people who tend to obsess about money are not the kind of people I want us to be. They all seem pretty preoccupied.”

I know Kristy is right. She usually is. And I know my life isn’t that bad. My house is pretty great, actually. And I know what Mac told me: “Other things matter.” My situation could be worse. I could be in massive debt or have fins for arms or no big toe to help me balance when I play kickball. I have a good home, a paying job, and a lady to hold. Sounds like a country song.

Day 14

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Seeing yourself clearly isn’t always pretty. We see rats and webs, poor motives and selfish concern. The last few days I’ve been neglecting to use my mealtimes as time with the Lord. I was busy. My laziness and apathy astound me. I create two to three hours of extra time per day and I tend to fill it with errands. Lies fill my mind: This fast is meaningless. God doesn’t care about you, your life, or this fast. In my disbelieving nature I entertain these lies. I give them their voice. I give them a megaphone. Truth matters because it takes back the voice. Prayer matters because another voice enters the fight.

We went to my family’s lake cabin today. I retreated to the back bedroom as my family grilled hot dogs—the juicy jumbo ones, my favorite. These dogs are not your ordinary hot dogs. They are Hebrew Nationals—all beef. The company is Jewish; their slogan reads, “We answer to a higher authority.” There’s a side of me that sees those hot dogs and desires to chow down on half a bag of them. Then there’s another side of me that desires no food, not a single bite of any of it. These two distinct sides of me have become clearer these past 13 days—the lines that usually blur are crisp. It’s easy for me to focus on the hot dogs I’m not eating or the meal I’ll engulf on day 41. It’s easy for me to miss the journey while looking at the finish line.

Three years ago, after I finished my time studying at L’Abri, I took the train north to London and boarded a British Airlines flight back to Atlanta. It was May, but the weather was gray, cold, and overcast. I sat in the window seat and looked out over the runway—planes leaving, others coming, grayness covering it all. I would soon be home, seeing friends, driving again, looking up and closing my eyes as the sun warmed my face. I had been living under such gray for so long I couldn’t get my emotions to attach to the realities coming. I loved my time at L’Abri, but I wasn’t sure if my time in Scotland really meant anything, if it impacted people, or if any of my writing mattered. I sat unsure of many things, the past and the present. I breathed in and out. I closed my eyes and God’s love spoke to me. “You are not alone in this. I have blue skies for you.” It’s easy to become consumed by regret of the past or fear of the future, to analyze or plan till you’re stuck in the gray. But this promise—you are not alone in this—changes everything.

I thought about Psalm 84, about the Israelites journeying through the mountains to the City of God: “What joy for those whose strength comes from the LORD, who have set their minds on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs. The autumn rains will clothe it with blessings. They will continue to grow stronger, and each of them will appear before God in Jerusalem” (Psalm 84:5-7). They sang their way through the hills. Every step mattered. The words proclaimed into the wind mattered. The journey wasn’t wasted.

Nothing is wasted.

The only life we have is the present. I believe that easily on beautiful days, though I think it’s also true for gray ones. “You’ll never be here again, so don’t miss it,” Mac says. Living in the past or future only produces paralysis in the present. We should let the past teach us and the future motivate us, but live in the now.

After taking off out of London those years ago, I reclined my window seat and watched a movie. Later I ate a small piece of rubbery chicken and fell asleep with my head slumped against the window. I woke up somewhere over Virginia, sunshine in my eyes. I rubbed my eyes and blinked till my contacts got situated over my pupils. I looked out the window. There were blue skies as far as I could see.

Day 15

Monday, September 27, 2004

I read the e-mail this morning.

Russ,

Thanks for applying to Walk Thru the Bible. As you know, our interviewing process is thorough and we look at a variety of factors for hiring. It’s our decision to move ahead with another candidate. Again, thank you and God bless.

Ms. Nice Editor Lady

I thought about replying and telling them the prayer of Jabez didn’t work. Perhaps I’m praying it wrong. Maybe I need to reread the book. When I read the e-mail, I heard, You don’t have what it takes. You’re just not good enough. I went numb and looked at a wall for 40 minutes. I hate that I can’t get over this. I keep struggling with the same issue, the same distrust of a good God who I doubt has a plan for my passions and gifts. It’s all selfishness and disbelief, an amazing amount of each of those. I have a plan and a picture and God isn’t cooperating. I feel like I’m upholding my end of the bargain. I’m working my network, searching, submitting resumes, and giving honest interviews, and still nothing.

I know the weight of “What am I going to do with my life?” isn’t mine to carry alone; it is also God’s. But I forever resist fully surrendering to his sovereignty and timing. Instead, I live out my plans and ideas. I’m told this time of waiting is for my benefit, for the formation of my character. I’m told God cares more about my person than my position. The apostle Paul penned this: “We confidently and joyfully look forward to sharing God’s glory. We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love” (Romans 5:2-5).

I remember in The Shawshank Redemption when Andy and Red are in the cafeteria talking about hope. Red says hope is a dangerous thing to a man inside the walls of a prison because it is an illusion, eating at the man about something that will never come to be. Andy thinks the opposite. Andy says the blessing of hope is the key to living in prison. True liberation comes from a hope birthed within. For Andy, hope is life. But still, Red has a point, for hoping in an illusion is foolish. Hopes should have some measure of certainty, or else those holding them are delusional.

I remember being four years old and my parents giving me a shiny red Schwinn bicycle. I ran upstairs to my bedroom and put on my battered Bugle Boy jeans to protect my knees and a long-sleeved G.I. Joe shirt to guard my elbows. We didn’t wear bike helmets back then, so Dad said we should start off in the grass. Dad let me climb onto the seat as he held the bike steady.

“Russ, you ready? Hold tight and pedal.”

“Ok, Dad. Got it. I got it.”

“One, two, three.”

Off I went, pedaling and balancing, a little tipsy. Dad ran behind me and held the seat. Eventually I fell.

“Wow, Russ, that was great! Look how far your rode.”

I stood and inspected my limbs. Nothing hurt. “Let’s do it again,” I said.

We walked back up the hill and did it all over again. We did this for an hour. As I pedaled, Dad kept saying, “Trust me; I got you.” He said this even when he wasn’t holding on to my seat, even when I was halfway down the hill. Yet I trusted, knowing he had me even when he didn’t have me.

I mention this because I think God is teaching me to ride again, to trust him as Daddy. This is the concept of God that Jesus teaches as he prays in Mark 14:36. Jesus addresses God as Abba (or Daddy), rather than Yahweh or Father. God as Father is, for the most part, a New Testament thought. The general address of God in the Old Testament was Yahweh. The Old Testament is filled with massive respect and awe toward God—to the point that Jews didn’t dare speak God’s name aloud and wouldn’t write the entire name out. Intense reverence. So when Jesus, as a Jewish rabbi, prays Abba, he is introducing a new way to think about God.

In Romans 8:15, Paul says we can cry out to God calling him “Abba, Father.” He uses this term, Abba, conveying the idea of unreasoning trust, and connects it with Father, which expresses an intelligent comprehension of his character and our relationship to him. Unreasoning trust makes me think about pedaling that shiny Schwinn. I had raw trust in my dad.

The job rejection this morning did sting. It still stings. It feels like a wipeout did back when I was four—a knee made bloody by asphalt. I pouted like a bratty child for most of the day, and Abba stood steady and gentle, fathering. He let me hurt and whine but engaged my heart, saying, “I have blue skies for you, my son.” Not much is resolved, but the sun still set, and I will lie motionless and unaware for eight hours. The sun will rise again in the morning. Another day will appear. Light and dark. Wake and sleep. Rhythm. It’s in the skies and the trees. It’s in the rise of the mercury and in the falling of snow.

Day 16

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

People have been finding out about my fast. Someone tells them, or they ask after I politely pass on a plate of chocolate chunk brownies with creamy toffee frosting. Later, somebody will e-mail me and tell me they are praying for me. Sometimes I get the feeling certain people think I’m fanatical, wondering if I’m the type to join a cult. I don’t think I’ll join a cult, but I do wonder what I’ll do with tomorrow. I wonder about God’s provision, about when Kristy and I have children, how I will provide for them. I don’t make enough money in my current situation. Something will have to change.

In Exodus 16 the Israelites needed food while in the wilderness, and God provided it. “The Israelites were puzzled when they saw it. ‘What is it?’ they asked each other. They had no idea what it was. And Moses told them, ‘It is the food the LORD has given you to eat.’ . . . The Israelites called the food manna” (Exodus 16:15, 31). Manna means “What is it?” Not a grand word, just reality. It was about a question, and “What is it?” wasn’t the question. The real question was from God to us. It’s the question he is asking me: Will you trust me?

If God provided for the entire Israelite people while they were wandering in the desert for 40 years, I figure he can provide for my family and me. If he can move a nation from one land to the next, he can move me to a new job. It doesn’t relieve me of my responsibility to search, but it does give me security in the search. Deuteronomy 8:3 states, “Yes, he humbled you by letting you go hungry and then feeding you with manna, a food previously unknown to you and your ancestors. He did it to teach you that people do not live by bread alone; rather, we live by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.”

God didn’t provide an easy path. He let the Israelites hunger, then provided manna for them as a statement of his provision for them. The Israelites took a few detours, by means of doubt and stubbornness, and ended up wandering for decades. It feels familiar when I read it. But God provided. Manna was there. There are many days I realize I’m in the desert, thirsty and sunburned. While in the desert himself, Jesus said, “People do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4). We are more than matter, more than a figure in a mirror. Our lives may rise and fall, but our hearts don’t have to; we can thrive while everything around us withers. We do not live by bread alone.

God loves to use desert times, seasons of solitude, stillness, and suffering, as the means to communicate to people who are usually deaf to his whispers. I prayed the prayer of Jabez thinking that enlarging my territories meant immediate comfort, forgetting that the Israelites had to go through the desert to reach the Promised Land. We hate the difficulty, but he embraces it. Finally we aren’t consumed with our feeble abilities. Finally we can hear what really matters in life. Again, Mac’s words resound: “Other things matter.” In desert times our hearts open. I hear the whispers. It’s been too long. I hear them around me, showering and giving. The voice is loving, familiar each time, without a hint of condemnation. I hunger for now, but more territories will come eventually.

A Big Mac and Fries

Wednesday, June 9, 2004

The short windshield wipers on the Jeep can’t keep up with the downfall of rain. We are hungry and see the illuminated golden arches ahead. I can’t believe I’m pulling in to eat this stuff, but there’s nothing else around. My stomach is theirs for this dinner. While sitting in the drive-thru line, Kristy and I review our directions and our map of the island. It’s pretty much a straight shot up the coast of Kauai to the resort community of Princeville. The line doesn’t bother us; not much can. We’re on our honeymoon, rejuvenated from four days of pampering at the Four Seasons on the Big Island of Hawaii. It’s been a crazy few weeks—bachelor party, bachelorette party, final details, family in town, rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, wedding, huge reception, endless hellos and thank-yous, a limo ride, a first night, a long flight, a plush few days at the Four Seasons, and now this—McDonald’s.

I would’ve never guessed Kristy would be the girl sitting next to me for this ride. For most of my life we were just friends. People would mention the possibility of something, and we’d shake our heads and make a face like we tasted a lemon. Truth is, I always thought her a bit out of reach. When I see her sitting next to me, studying the directions, waiting for her burger, I see the grace of God. Unmerited favor behind a seatbelt. I worried for years about this empty seat, yet it all fell into place. It just sort of happened, a mixture of intentionality and Providence. We order burgers and fries, ice-cold Cokes. We organize our food in our laps and turn onto the two-lane highway, the rain still pounding, and we drive up the highway to a paradise we can’t see till morning.

Day 17

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

At lunchtime I walk in the neighborhood beside the Baptist church just down the road from our office building. If I have a few extra minutes before needing to be back at work, I crawl into the backseat of my truck, curl up, and sleep. I started keeping a pillow in the backseat. Today I needed to burn an hour before meeting Kristy and some friends at a concert, so I drove over to the Baptist parking lot, settled my truck up under some maple trees, rolled the windows down, and crawled into my backseat. I dozed off to the leaves beginning to fall.

After the nap I met Kristy at the concert venue—an outdoor amphitheater surrounded by tall trees and green leaves. The band was a Christian group who’d recently had some pretty big hits. We probably wouldn’t have bothered going, except some friends invited us. I was bored during most of the concert, unable to really connect with any of the songs, absent altogether, tired and wishing I were sleeping in the backseat.

Toward the end of the concert the lead singer said he recently wrote a new worship song. He said he wanted to sing it with us. He told us about the moment when the words came to him and the synergy he felt as his band created the melody. He said he felt God in the creation of this new song.

So he began, and we followed. After a verse or two its similarity to other songs gave us confidence to sing out. Which raised the question in my little busy brain: why create a new song with pretty much the same words and pretty much the same meaning as all the other old songs? Our hymnbooks and radios are full of treasured songs already. Do we really need another worship song?

As the band led the song, I wrestled with this question, for I too rearrange words in different patterns and rhythms for people to embrace. The cynic in me said this is just our consumeristic drive—another song, another album, another book, another blog—same words in a different arrangement. I wondered if the whole thing is simply us building self-exalting empires disguised as ministries alluding to God. I wondered if the whole thing is about the need for people to have something new to sell. Or a grand attempt to get people to like them.

Then the Lord reminded me of the Psalms. It’s the 80 pages in the middle of my Bible. It looks like it’s probably the longest book in my Bible. There are 150 psalms. Not 22 or 47 or even 93; 150! They are praises, poems, and laments to the Lord. Most of them have similar words, communicating similar themes. Many are penned by different authors or sometimes the same author in a different season of life.

So why not 7 psalms? I think we could condense the majestic themes into 7, or maybe 23. I could definitely whittle it down to under 40. But God wanted 150. Perhaps some of us need all 150 to finally get the message. I think the writers needed to write all 150 and probably many more. I know I needed 150 to get the point about new songs—that we need new verses and voices.

We are a forgetful people. In my circumstances I forget God’s faithfulness. In my blindness I can’t see his hand. I doubt, while he strategically waits. This waiting room I’m in feels like a prison when perhaps it is an overlook. The blue Smokies are before me, and I have a choice. I can be saddened as I see all the places I’m not, or I can appreciate the beauty of it all.

We need to be reminded again and again of God’s goodness in a different way, with a different chorus and a different line. We need a new song on our radios and in our hearts. The vital things in life need to be resaid. The vital things in life need to be resaid.

Day 18

Thursday, September 30, 2004

I’m slowly learning to take pleasure in V8, the mix of tomato juice full of finely cut, almost-gritty vegetables sliding down my throat. I have to fight not to appear like a chemo patient. Ashamedly, I catch myself sliding in comments of desperation and need when I’m around people. The shady part of my heart whispers, Use the fast as an excuse. You’re tired; tell them you’re tired. They will be sympathetic. They just ate a six-inch sub; you had some grape juice. You deserve a break. Tell them!

My arms feel like Jell-O—like I’ve been carrying bathtubs or telephone poles—and my weight has dropped another two pounds. I thought about those two pounds throughout my day. I’m not sure where they left from, yet their departure brings me sadness. I do want them back. I’d write them a letter if I could mail it to them. While I’m writing, I’d also write to my shoulder muscles. I’d like them back also. Perhaps they’re both at the beach together thinking about the bones they used to cling to.

I thought I was over this body image thing. I thought I left this in college, and then I thought I left it earlier in this fast, but then today comes, and more vanity comes out from hiding. It was stowed away in my heart, behind the part that hates all this sacrifice. I tell myself to have more faith, but it feels like I’m talking logic to a sugar-crazed boy at a monster truck rally.

There is something wrong in me—that even in a holy endeavor there is all this disbelief and anxiousness. I’m bent away from right thinking and living, bent toward self-absorption, pride, and doubt. I believe Adam and Eve did exist, not just because I uphold the legitimacy of Scripture but because the story is in me. The story is my inner reality. Unfortunately for others, sometimes it’s my outer reality as well. I think Adam and Eve ate of a fruit God asked them not to, but I don’t think it matters whether it was an apple or a fig, or maybe even whether or not I can necessarily prove this story to be historically true. I believe it because the proof is in me. The story is alive in me. What was created in Adam is alive in me. Wonderfully, something else is also alive in me, a power greater than this sin.

Romans 5 is glorious on this matter:

When Adam sinned, sin entered the world. Adam’s sin brought death, so death spread to everyone, for everyone sinned. Yes, people sinned even before the law was given. But it was not counted as sin because there was not yet any law to break. Still, everyone died—from the time of Adam to the time of Moses—even those who did not disobey an explicit commandment of God, as Adam did. Now Adam is a symbol, a representation of Christ, who was yet to come. But there is a great difference between Adam’s sin and God’s gracious gift. For the sin of this one man, Adam, brought death to many. But even greater is God’s wonderful grace and his gift of forgiveness to many through this other man, Jesus Christ. And the result of God’s gracious gift is very different from the result of that one man’s sin. For Adam’s sin led to condemnation, but God’s free gift leads to our being made right with God, even though we are guilty of many sins. For the sin of this one man, Adam, caused death to rule over many. But even greater is God’s wonderful grace and his gift of righteousness, for all who receive it will live in triumph over sin and death through this one man, Jesus Christ.

Romans 5:12-17

Day 19

Friday, October 1, 2004

I lifted the 24-pack of V8 and placed it in the cart. I piled some bottled water on top of it. I had just finished walking and praying in the neighborhood by the Baptist church and was still hoping to get a backseat nap squeezed in before needing to be back at work. I headed toward the front of the grocery store, seeing two of the 18 checkout lines open. I picked the one that seemed shorter, while constantly monitoring the other one. The nagging thought ate at me: You picked the wrong line. The other line began moving fast. My temperature rose a degree each time their line shimmied forward. The lady two people in front of me had coupons. She was digging around in her purse for more of them! People who arrived after me in the other line were already driving out of the parking lot. I was stuck. Committed and hating it.

The lady with the coupons then began asking questions about the bananas. Who has questions about bananas? I wanted to grab one and shove it in her eye socket. I formed reasons why this horrible lady should be tied up and left in the ice cream freezer. And why the incompetent cashier should lose her job and starve like I am. Just short of grabbing a knife off aisle three and stabbing everyone in the place, I realized they were not the problem. I was the problem. I was my own problem. My impatient heart, not the horrible coupon lady, created the impatience in me. I was the awful one, these thoughts, this impatience and hatred toward people who had done nothing wrong.

At first I blamed the fast. I blamed my lack of energy. But I knew the fast only revealed what was always there. I took a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Then I picked up a People magazine to pass the time. I turned to catch up on the latest candid pictures of celebrities—the ones with the famous people eating, jogging, shopping . . . living. I find an embarrassing amount of pleasure seeing George Clooney on his motorcycle in Italy or Brad Pitt eating an ice cream cone on a sidewalk in Paris. I tell myself George and Brad would never hold up a grocery store line or pick the wrong line to check out. I pretend I’m their friend. That we would shop for a dinner party together and wait in line laughing and carrying on about our wine collections. George and I would ride the Tuscan countryside, and Brad would teach me to be cool. We’d be every guy’s envy and girls would line up to be with us.

I put the magazine up and moved my items to the conveyer belt. I stood and thought about the random celebrity pictures and why I love looking at them so much. The reality is I view them as having a privileged life, a whole life. They appear to be content and satisfied, having things figured out, living on purpose, doing what they love. They have the life I want. It’s envy for sure—another poison to taint my chance at contentment in my own life.

I paid for my V8 and water and attempted to leave the thought—If I were only like them, those in the magazine . . .

When I got back to the office, I found Mac on the forklift in the warehouse. “Mac, what’s up?”

“Pullin’ orders, busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest.” He turned the forklift off and took a long gulp from his coffee thermos. He looked happy to take a break.

“Mac, you ever wish you were famous?”

“Not a chance. That would be horrible. People bothering you all the time. You couldn’t let your dog crap in someone’s yard or walk around naked.”

“You walk around naked?”

“No, but my point is, if I wanted to, I could. On the farm I could paint the house naked if I wanted to.”

“But, Mac, wouldn’t you like the recognition?”

“Nah, I don’t need any recognition. I know who I am. The simpler the better. Life’s easier that way.”

“Did you ever wish to have someone else’s life?”

He took another sip of coffee, gathering his thoughts. “My first few years in construction, back when me and the bossman worked for Mr. P. He had a long German name or something. Anyways, I’d be on the job site, building a bridge usually, and Mr. P would come check on the site. He’d get out of his nice truck, trying not to get his alligator-skin boots dirty. For a while those boots looked real good, but then I started to see all the responsibility of trying to keep them clean. I saw that Mr. P. had problems too, just different ones, and from my view, they seemed to be bigger than mine. After seeing all that, I’ve been just fine.”

“So you don’t get envious of other people’s lives?”

“Not really. I guess when you’ve accepted who you are, all the great things and all the horrible things about yourself, and you’re living the life given to you, there’s little time to be envious. Russ, all that comparison crap is wasted thought.”

Day 20

Saturday, October 2, 2004

Halfway. I stand on a summit, yet there are still another 20. I still wonder about the condition of my body—if I will make it. My weight has stabilized at 158, and I’ve miraculously had no headaches. I wonder if the man who usually resides in my head and chisels on my skull has moved to my heart. I wonder if he is chiseling away at my faithfulness and resolve. I do desperately hope God is moving on my behalf, that my life might have purpose, but I’m not sure it’s for me to know. This might all be about trust and not so much about purpose. I still don’t mention all my inner concerns and battles to Kristy. I don’t want her worrying or sensing the deep instability that she is attached to.

I remember when I bought Kristy’s engagement ring last year. I walked out of the store with the little box tucked in my pocket. Every few steps I’d glide my hand past the pocket to make sure it hadn’t fallen out. I carefully placed it in my passenger seat, making sure I buckled it in, glancing down at it every 30 seconds as I drove home. It was a treasure I could hold and move. I could manage this thing more than any treasure I’d owned before, more than my truck or my education, and definitely more than my faith. Faith is difficult like that. It can’t be tucked in your pocket or buckled into your passenger seat.

Faith can’t really be obtained, only received. It’s given by God—accepted by powerless people. “God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it” (Ephesians 2:8-9). We are God’s because of grace through faith, not grace plus faith. And the faith is a gift of God, so we don’t walk around proud about our commitment or accomplishment. No pride means there’s no reason to be judgmental, and we have everything to be grateful for. The Bible says we are dead people who do not seek God unless drawn by his grace. Ephesians 2:1 says we are dead in our disobedience. This means, even while we might do good things, we have a sinful nature at work in us. We are bent toward pride and selfishness. We love control and independence, and we fight surrender and trust.

Last year I stood on the shores of my family’s lake property with a long pole saw, cutting high limbs that blocked our view of the water. And would you believe the entire time I was out there, approximately half a day, I never once noticed one of those grand trees grow? The same is true in my relationship with Kristy. I’ve never seen it grow in a day’s evaluation—barely in a week’s. And if I were a farmer with a straw hat atop my head and crops behind my house, I imagine the same would be true—these things take time to grow. We do things regularly to help the crop, but the harvest comes with time and patience.

For years, a yearning to grow spiritually governed my behavior yet condemned most of my eventually imperfect disciplines. I woke up each morning seeking to fulfill certain expectations or rules, hoping to have managed all my sin and become exactly like Jesus by evening time. The rules and the conquering of them became the way in which I gauged my spiritual growth and my righteousness. The rules were the basis for determining how I felt on a given day—valued, loved, accepted. If I’d failed in some measure, I’d feel not-valued, not-loved, not-accepted. This way of faith was all about control. It was a spirituality of self-management. But it was so easy to fall into, and still I catch myself doing it, because the rules feed my pride, which wants to control something, while a gift of faith gives me nothing to control.

Faith with a tape measure begins as merry motivation, but it becomes condemnation over time. After living with this constant evaluation of my faith and the frustration that any tree would feel—if trees could feel—I have decided to rest. I’ll just be. I’ll let the rain nourish my roots and the sun feed my soul. At times I’ll absorb new nutrients, and at times, I’ll soak in the goodness I already know. And I will keep my yellow tape measure on my workbench, not next to my Bible.

Heavenly Chicken

Thursday, October 21, 2004

I weigh 150 pounds and haven’t eaten in 40 days. I could go another couple of days if someone offered me some money. It’s all forgotten at this point. Food was a life ago. In fear of shocking my system with some overly processed food, I steam some broccoli and toast some bread. It’s not exciting. Not any more tasteful than V8 and grape juice, but it’s solid. It requires chewing. Kristy wants to ride over to the mall to look for a book at the bookstore, so I place my two pieces of lightly toasted bread and some broccoli in Tupperware and climb into the truck. I nibble as we drive. My jaw stretches and pushes. Awake, O sleeper. The food crushed by my teeth and mashed with my tongue slides down my throat, a lone cannonball into my stomach. Everything works. Everything is happy.

My phone rings while I’m in the truck outside the bookstore. It’s my aunt and uncle from Seattle. They welcome me back into the world.

I have more toast before bed and eagerly fall asleep, anticipating tomorrow as if it were Christmas. I wake up and toast more bread, eating it with jelly this time. I ration myself. Every hour, something more substantial. By lunch I’m ready. My friend Tim picks me up. We drive down I-85 and exit at Pleasant Hill Road. We turn into Chick-fil-A. I order one chicken sandwich—one glorious chicken sandwich! Buttered buns. Lightly breaded chicken. Tender. Perfect. I pull it out of its wrapping. It’s steaming. It’s been too long. I open my mouth wide and bite into it. It’s more than I remember it being. Pure goodness, divine—this restaurant, this sandwich.

Day 21

Sunday, October 3, 2004

My face is breaking out—pimples everywhere, the hills of the Appalachians across my forehead. My shoulder bones poke up—little humps in my polo shirts. My collarbone has nothing hanging from it, but simply dips toward the south. It’s all so seventh-grade all over again; deathly thin, frightened to take off my shirt in the gym locker room. This whole weight thing has been a leash, holding me back, controlling my thoughts. I’m living in this physical concern rather than a spiritual realm full of transcendent hopes. I’m sure four months ago when we got married, Kristy didn’t plan on having a husband that looked like a seventh grader, yet she says nothing negative, never a joke or a comment, only generous words. She loves unconditionally. I could grow a slimy lizard tail out my spine and she would still love me. She doesn’t care about rippling chest muscles or unsightly pimples. She just wants the same sort of love in return.

When I was a freshman in college, Rollerblade brought a bunch of their skates to our campus and let students borrow them for the afternoon. The campus swarmed with reckless college kids zooming down hills and holding on to the back of cars. Bloody knees were as familiar as smiling faces. I snapped on my skates, remembering my years of roller-skating in elementary school when winning the grade-level race was the assured path to fame. It had been years, but I was fast then, and I supposed I would be smooth and sturdy on these blades now. I stood ready to zoom, but I wasn’t fast . . . or graceful. I was floppy and jerky. It was different from roller skates and new to me, but it got better a couple of hours later. Once I’d mastered the Rollerblades, lacing up and walking in my sneakers felt foreign. I mention that because when I asked Kristy if she wanted to date me, in essence, we both snapped on Rollerblades. We’d never done this before, converting a great friendship into something more, and we were floppy and jerky at first, but soon we were graceful and swift.

Our culture has most of this wrong, the whole relationship thing. Our divorce rate is evidence. I recently met a girl who was planning to get married. She was from India but her family had moved here when she was 12. I asked her about her fiancé, who was also Indian, and she said they met through a friend. Things went well, and they kept talking and dating. She said they soon introduced each other to their families, and then it was out of their hands. The families took over from there. She said this is how Indians do marriage—semi-arranged. Her parents made their assessment of him, and his parents made an assessment of her. The two sets of parents met and talked, assessing each other and the character of the family. And once the parents blessed it, the marriage date was set. I asked her if it felt forced upon her. She said she loved the idea that she could bring someone she was interested in to her family to make a wise decision. She said she liked that the decision wasn’t made out of emotions; it was about character, something that lasts. She told me neither of them had warped expectations of each other or the marriage. She said it was about compatibility and character. She said that’s why her culture’s marriages last.

American culture says fall in love, let it ravish you, and anything short of that hurricane isn’t love. Our culture shouts for us to take the plunge into the deep end. Perhaps that works for some couples—the 50 percent that don’t divorce. My story with Kristy isn’t one of hurricanes and falls. I don’t think I’ve fallen anywhere. I’m too rational for that. I do think the water was the perfect temperature that day and we began a slow dance into the waves. Kristy was waiting in my truck. We’d spent the weekend at my family’s lake house, and it all seemed to make sense. I opened the truck door and slid onto the seat. Before turning the key I looked at her. “So what do you think about dating?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

“All right, then.” I cranked up the truck and drove back toward the city.

We began to transition our relationship from friends to more than friends. It was new territory for us. We’d never done this together, the conversion of a platonic relationship into something with romantic and long-term interest. After a year or so of dating, I knew we either needed to get married or break up. It didn’t make sense to just keep doing what we were doing, not when we both wanted to marry and have families. And I knew I didn’t want to break up, but I also wasn’t sure of what exactly it was we had. It wasn’t that what we had was bad or anything short of good; it just wasn’t Hollywood.

My primary understanding of what love was came from the movie screen, a man and a woman, usually immensely good-looking, who each can’t stop thinking about the other person. They have magnetic attraction to each other that consumes their thoughts and actions and lusts. I wondered if this lack of Hollywood intensity meant I didn’t love her, but the more I thought and read about love and looked at couples who had endured life together—marriages that last a lifetime—I understood love to be both an emotion and a decision.

Dating in general was very frustrating to me. It seemed so unnatural, attempting to be together but not. Separate lives but not entirely. The physical thing was always a frustration, attempting to keep purity a goal when everything in you is driving you to have sex. I knew waiting was worth it. I knew the more intimate people became, the more clouded their reasoning was about feelings toward another. Some friends of mine had fed their lust, warping their decisions, staying with and even marrying girls that they didn’t like talking to. They couldn’t pull the trigger to cut the relationship off, and people could badger them about it, but they ended up marrying, resenting their wives and hating themselves, all because the sugar was really sweet when they were 22 years old.

All I knew was there was this godly, compassionate girl who was good at everything and wanted the same things out of life. I found myself wanting her opinion on everything in my life, and I wanted to share all my life with her. I’d be at the car wash or the pharmacy wishing she were beside me, wishing we could talk about everything and nothing. Many of us are waiting for a tidal wave of love to engulf us when maybe we should just wade in for a sweet swim. What I’m trying to say is, we should marry a friend. Romance may birth a friendship, and that’s okay, but we better make sure we marry the person we like to talk to, because marriage isn’t an unending series of orgasms. Marriage is an unending series of conversations.

Day 22

Monday, October 4, 2004

Several years ago my cousin’s husband, Chad, dragged me out of our vacation condo to model some outdoor running shoes for him. We drove west past the resorts and parked in the dirt alongside a two-lane road. We hiked through high grass and a jungly forest to a pristine coastline. He handed me some running clothes and shoes and told me to run up and down the lava rock shoreline. Waves were crashing against the black rock, shooting water up over our heads. The sun was shining. The air was warm. The water sparkled on the rocks. Rainbows appeared and disappeared with the mist.

Chad wasn’t shooting me because I was handsome or a dandy runner; he dressed me up and had me run because I was long and lean and willing. After about 50 sprints we took a break. We sat on the rocks and looked out over the ocean toward the island of Molokai. My cousin Claire disappeared behind a huge boulder for a few minutes. After she was out of earshot, Chad looked at me and in a profound voice said, “Russ, listen, and write this down if you need to. Don’t ever—never, ever, ever—marry a girl who won’t pee in the woods.”

I immediately knew this was some great advice. It was practical—real. I thought about it the rest of the Hawaii trip, and I told my friends the advice the next year at college. It made sense—you want a low-maintenance life, marry a low-maintenance girl. You want hassle and a headache—marry a girl who won’t pee outside. Sure, it’s just a sign, but a good one. The last thing I want is to be sitting on a pristine shoreline somewhere and have to leave after ten minutes because the wife has to pee and there’s no porcelain around. And I don’t think anybody really wants to be this person, the demanding girl dragging down the experience for someone else. So at some point, even if you’ve never peed outside, I think you should.

I also learned some relationship advice in church, from the story of Isaac and Rebekah. Abraham was old and desired to find a wife for his son Isaac. He called his servant, his head of household, telling him the local Canaanite women were evil and not “pee-outside” women. Abraham asked him to travel back to his own region to find a girl. The servant traveled and prayed, asking God for success. “May it be that when I say to a young woman, ‘Please let down your jar that I may have a drink,’ and she says, ‘Drink, and I’ll water your camels too’—let her be the one you have chosen for your servant Isaac. By this I will know that you have shown kindness to my master” (Genesis 24:14).

As he finished praying, Rebekah came out with her jar. The servant asked for a drink and Rebekah gave him water and offered to water all his camels. The Scriptures say Rebekah was a very beautiful girl, but that was a bonus, not the prayer of the servant. He wasn’t searching for someone attractive. He knew he needed someone with character. Someone who wasn’t afraid to get dirty and serve, someone who could walk through sweetness and bitterness. The servant knew this was the girl to return home with, but he didn’t know if she would go. Leaving would most likely mean never seeing her family again—no holidays or meals together. She wasn’t moving to Houston. There were no airplanes. If she said yes, she was gone. Yet Rebekah was eager. All the camels and gold nose rings and bracelets she was given didn’t hurt. Abraham knew how to woo a girl for his son, and the girl knew to say yes.

Day 23

Tuesday, October 5, 2004

I’m exhausted—like I just swam the Atlantic. I feel tired all the time, and I can tell Kristy is getting tired of my being tired. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell. I feel utter physical exhaustion, yet my spirit soars at times. Usually it’s reversed. Usually I’m bounding and full, yet lethargic in all things spiritual. For once I’m not cold of heart, though the rest of my body is freezing. I bundle up like my granny, walking around my house looking like an Eskimo, fleece or down covering my entire body. I run a heater under my desk all day long, and then I come home and make a burrito of myself on the sofa. This is because my metabolism has slowed down, causing my blood flow to slow, resulting in less body heat. Kristy loves this, pointing out that I’m experiencing her reality of living with a man who loves air-conditioning. We can now use the same amount of blankets at night, when before it was always lopsided. She with her mound of blankets, as though she’s in the Arctic, and me with a sheet, as though I’m in the South Pacific.

Mac got back from Puerto Rico today, a shoring job along a water inlet. His flight arrived just before lunch, so he was standing in my office by early afternoon.

“Hey, slim.”

“Right. You look tan.”

“Only my arms and neck—a man’s tan. How are things here?”

I started to talk about some work projects, but he interrupted me. “Man, it’s a furnace in here.”

“I know. I’m freezing. Everywhere I go I’m cold. Kristy is loving it. We finally agree on a temperature for the thermostat.”

“Yep, that can be a tough one. The lady walks by and punches it up. I walk by and punch it down. Never-ending at our house.”

“Do you get frustrated with her?”

“Sure, but not over temperatures. But we live together, so, yes, we get frustrated with each other.”

“Do y’all argue?”

“I’ve never raised my voice at her. I’m sort of proud of that. In 24 years, I’ve never raised my voice.”

“So what’s the key? I’m only four months in. What’s the key to a good marriage?”

“I guess everyone has his own answer. For us, clear expectations have been the key. I’ve never expected her to be my everything, and she never expected me to be hers. We figured neither of us could live up to that, so we never allowed ourselves to believe it or even try it. We just love each other, share life, and look out for each other.”

“And how do you do that?”

“We’re old school. She cooks and cleans, and I do everything else. She works now, but that’s all her choosing. Russ, it doesn’t matter how you set it up. You just have to do it together. Oh, and none of it works if either of you are selfish. All the vows and expectations and intentions, all the church involvement in the world—it’s all worthless if you’re selfish. If you love yourself more than her, it won’t work. Man, you’ll argue over milk and sex, or the lack of either. You’ll argue over money. It can be endless.”

“Yeah, we learned in our premarital counseling that most divorces are caused by money issues.”

“I believe that, but money isn’t the enemy. Selfishness is.”

Mac moved out of the doorway and took a seat by the filing cabinet. “Do you remember when my wife was kicked in the face by the horse last year?”

“I remember. That was a horrible day, I’m sure.”

“You got that right. I was in Florida on a job, twelve hours from here, and I get her call. She’s wailing, shouting that the horse kicked her in the face. She was saying her face was gone and blood was everywhere.”

Mac stopped for a moment, as though he were going to sneeze or cry.

“Russ, I was twelve hours away. Helpless.”

“What did you do?”

“I did the only thing I could do. I ran to the truck and drove north. I didn’t look back. I told her to call 911, and I called my son to get over to the house.”

“What did you do on the drive?”

“I couldn’t do anything. I made phone calls and waited for news. I didn’t know if I’d reach her in time, and I had all these regrets, times when I’d been stupid, insensitive, and selfish. Times when I said something or didn’t say something. And I hated it because I couldn’t control any of it.”

“Did you think she was going to die?”

“I didn’t know; nobody knew for those first few hours. I was in south Georgia before I got news that she’d be okay. But those first few hours were rough. I would’ve traded everything for her. Now that she’s fine and life is back to normal, it’s easy to lose that right perspective, but I try to remember it all when I find myself ignoring her to go fix the pasture fence.”

Day 24

Wednesday, October 6, 2004

When Mac is out of town he stays in Super 8 hotels. He drives right past the Hampton Inn, never slowing a bit, to go miles farther down the road to the Super 8. He then wrangles with the cashier on duty to get a lower price. Last year Mac showed up to the dealer training in Puerto Rico out of breath. It was about 7:30 a.m. and the bossman noticed.

“Mac, why are you so sweaty?” the bossman asked.

“Oh, just been out walking; running some as well.”

“Do you do that every morning?”

“No, not always.”

“You know there’s a fitness room here at the hotel. Nice place, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m not staying here.”

“What? Why not?”

“I found a Super 8 down the road.”

“Mac, are you kidding? I’ll pay for your room here.”

“I know.”

“How far is the Super 8?”

“Six miles.”

“About ten minutes in the car?”

“Oh, I didn’t rent a car. I figured I’d just walk it.” All week Mac walked six miles in the morning and six miles in the afternoon to attend the meetings.

Usually, when in the United States, he backs his truck up directly in front of his motel room door. He then meticulously checks and double-checks the trailer and every toolbox, tugging and pulling on them till he is satisfied. No equipment will be lost on his watch. One of my coworkers who has spent weeks with him on the road thinks Mac leaves one of his eyes out there as well. Mac brings in a small bag with a few things, such as clothes, his journal, and a book. He showers, dries off, and puts on gym shorts. He then spreads his towel out on the carpet and does 100 push-ups and sit-ups. After standing and stretching his arms out wide, he climbs into bed to read a classic like Huckleberry Finn or Moby Dick. My friend said that on his first trip with Mac, the Super 8 didn’t have any rooms with two beds, so Mac slept on the floor. My friend told him he could sleep in the bed with him, but Mac told him, “I don’t sleep with live men or dead women.”

My friend said he’s never once heard Mac get up, but that every morning when he awoke, Mac would be sitting in the truck with his thermos full of coffee, writing in his journal. On one trip my friend decided he was going to wake up before Mac. He set his alarm, and every morning, no matter how far ahead he set the wake-up time, Mac would be sitting, sipping coffee, writing, waiting for him.

Trendy Chinese Food

Thursday, June 1, 2006

We are standing on the curb at P.F. Chang’s restaurant, waiting for Ethan and his wife. Kristy is calm. I’m a mess. My armpits are sweating, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to eat a meal. I fear diarrhea will take over and I’ll spend this crucial hour alone in the bathroom. They would leave the dinner meeting saying, “He’s nice, but he seems so preoccupied.”

Ethan is an associate pastor at a large church in Atlanta. He oversees the student ministries, and they have a pastoral position open as a minister to college students. I sent my resume in, but I was hesitant about the church. It’s a prestigious church, lots of members, in an affluent area. I wasn’t sure if I’d fit in—if I’d be enough. Two weeks later they called me to set up an interview, so on a Tuesday I left my windowless office to drive into Buckhead and up the driveway of the Church of the Apostles. Since my first interview, I have been thoroughly—and politely—interviewed by the church administrator, given essay questions to answer, preached at a service, and had a two-hour phone conversation with a psychologist in Texas who profiles people’s personalities and histories. Now we are here, trendy Chinese food. This meal is a chance for Kristy to ask questions of both Ethan and his wife, Lori. I can only assume it’s also a chance for Ethan to meet Kristy and make sure she isn’t a nut. I’m also certain he’ll be noticing my every move in this social setting.

We sit and order—sweet and sour chicken with brown rice for me. I’m self-conscious, aware of my every word, syllable, grunt, breath, shifting of my eyes or elbows. It’s all calculated, considered and debated in my busy brain before being seen by the others. The four of us talk about our childhoods and our experiences at seminary. Fortunately, there’s never a lull in the conversation, and I’m able to eat my dinner without 17 dashes to the bathroom.

Kristy and I work our way through the questions we have about moving to the city and taking the position. It’s a little surreal to me, to be so close to something that looks so good. Yet I’m guarded. I’ve been through so many job searches, networking lunches, and interviews. I try not to care too much, though a hope lies within—a readiness to exit the waiting room and begin adding to the beauty of the world. We finish our food and break open our fortune cookies. Mine says something about wide-open fields, but I’m too scattered to take it in.

Day 25

Thursday, October 7, 2004

My ribs stick out. My shoulders are even bonier, and my underwear hangs from my pointy hips. I’m fragile. Last night I was naked in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, my starving body begging for some attention. I stood and looked at my body. I grew sad, not for what I’ve lost but for how much I’ve cared for something that can fade so quickly. My only escape from my desire for beauty is beauty: the beauty of the illuminated sky, a magnificent cello piece, or the idea of redemption gives me escape from this preoccupation. In that beauty I’m not worried about what I look like, weigh, or what the person on my arm looks like.

I think about Kristy and her battle with bulimia during a dark semester in college, and I realize, while I haven’t become anorexic or bulimic, I too struggle with the desire to look a certain way. A few days ago I read the story of Rachel and Leah, both daughters of Laban. Rachel is beautiful, but the Bible points out that Leah turns no heads. A man named Jacob comes along and sees Rachel. He speaks with Laban and agrees to work for seven years to marry her. Jacob loves this girl and gladly works his years. After the seven years Jacob tells Laban the agreement has been reached, and he wants to lie with his new bride. So Laban throws a huge party, most likely getting Jacob drunk, and walks Leah into his room. Jacob wakes up in the morning to find he had sex with the wrong girl.

Now, can you imagine your father seeing you as such a hopeless case that he feels the necessity to trick a man into marrying you? Can you imagine a culture so shallow that what you look like has so much importance? Of course you can. I can.

This ancient story shows that obsession with physical beauty, to have it or hold it, is not simply an American problem. It’s a problem most people battle. I wish it weren’t a problem for me. I wish I were more like Mac. Maybe he has his mirror moments, but he appears not to be preoccupied by his appearance. His hair is usually messy, but he doesn’t seem concerned about it. At first I thought Mac avoided company dinners and birthday parties because he was insecure in some way. But lately I’ve begun to think it’s just that he leaves little room in his life for superficiality. The truth is, much of our socializing, looking at each other and shaking hands, is surface level. Mac would rather take a walk with you through the woods.

I look in the mirror and see the same thing Kristy saw in her dark days—an imperfect surface.

“What do you remember about that semester in college?” I asked Kristy.

“I remember a feeling of hopelessness, believing lies about beauty, being brutal to myself in the search for it.”

“Where were all those feelings coming from?”

“Back then I had no clue. Now I know it was all about validation, approval from people, a certain waist for them to see.”

“Right. We believe pretty people are happy and good, so we want to be prettier.”

“It sounds simple, like we should recognize the tendency and get over it, but for me and most of my friends it’s a constant battle. The pressure to be thin and pretty is always there.”

“Kristy, you know I’d rather you be a bit overweight and not be freaked out all the time about every calorie. I just don’t think real women look like what we see in magazines. I mean, think about it. How many women do you know who look like what all of you are brutalizing yourself to imitate?”

When I was 12 years old, Johnny from the down the street showed me a Playboy. I can still see the women’s bodies in my mind; the images are fading, but they’re still there. This beauty quest has its effect, not only on women but on men as well. In an image-driven culture, where beauty is promoted more than substance, pornography becomes more prevalent. It’s all a downward cycle—a bullet to the head—looking at unrealistic images, then wondering why we’re unable to be turned on by a spouse who is naked and eager.

I read somewhere that 92 percent of women in our culture think they are overweight. So two centuries ago, when plumpness was attractive, 92 percent of women would’ve been content. I’m no magazine ad myself, especially not on day 25, but we all know our bodies are slowly falling apart. We all know we are different shapes and can do only so much with what’s been given to us. And most of us don’t have perfectly proportioned faces. If you stare at mine long enough you’ll see my right eye is a little smaller and lower than my left.

“I have just felt so inadequate for much of this fast, especially when I look in the mirror,” I said, continuing my conversation with Kristy. “I know the feeling is there because of growing up so skinny.”

“Well, that’s the feeling that created my bulimia—the feeling of inadequacy. I think it’s the feeling that drives most harmful addictions. It’s all shame and sin.”

“Adam and Eve and that stupid apple.”

“Yep, that stupid apple.”

Adam and Eve covering themselves with fig leaves was a reaction to knowing something of shame. We’ve been covering ever since. We know the chorus, the refrain, the echo: You aren’t enough.

In the New Testament, the Greek word for beauty is kosmos, alluding to the harmony in which the earth works with the universe so there may be life. True beauty is about creating life through harmony and unfading magnificence. It’s about accepting a power that stems from the unconditional love of God. This love creates what we really desire—validation. But as always, we must receive this love, let it nestle a home in our hearts—pulsing out to every part of our beings. I am losing the body I built and loved, now weighing only 154 pounds; 16 pounds of muscle gone—4 pounds left to lose before ending this fast—yet I feel I’m gaining freedom from it all.

Day 26

Friday, October 8, 2004

I gained two pounds in one day, without a pizza or a banana—no food at all! It doesn’t make sense, yet it’s true. I’m pretty sure it’s not water weight. It’s existential or transcendent or something, perhaps miraculous. Perhaps it’s the gift I need to revel in another day to finish this fast. I’d love to know God’s plan for the next 14 days—to know if I make it or if I fold. But God never tells me these things, so I unfortunately settle to worry. When I was single, I worried I’d never marry. Then, in right timing, a friendship turned into a flame and we married. I wasn’t ready before and would’ve been overcooked later. But all of God’s timing while I was being prepared and cooked didn’t feel perfect when I was in it.

The before is always the more difficult part for me. If the grand Orchestrator would only tell me the plan before, I’d be more content. I’m sure the endearing Father in him would love to lean over and whisper the certain path in my ear, yet his wisdom knows I’d grow self-sufficient—without trust or faith—the very things that make life life.

After my time in Scotland, I headed to L’Abri, taking a plane to London, then a train an hour south to Greatham. I stepped off the train and into rural England. I called for a cab but got no answer, so I asked for directions and began walking. After an hour of dragging two suitcases up narrow roads, past farmhouses and fields, I spotted the street sign and the huge English manor. Meadows stretched from beside the home toward a forest. An old schoolhouse and stables also sat on the grounds. I walked in the front door and checked in with a young lady from Sweden. She told me all visitors are expected to help with the practical tasks involved in living at the manor. So the day is split into two halves, one for study and one for work. She said I would meet individually with one of the theologians a few times during my stay. She then showed me to my room and said dinner would be served in half an hour. Rick, one of the theologians on staff, came by at dinner and made an appointment with me.

I showed up at 9:00 the following morning and knocked. “Come on in,” I heard from inside. Rick was in his study, sitting in an armchair on the other side of an Oriental rug. He had a pen and notebook in his lap. “Good morning, Russ. Take a seat.” He motioned to a green corduroy couch—definitely something I could nap on.

“So, tell me why you’ve come to L’Abri.”

“Well, I grew up hearing about this place from my best friend’s dad. It always sounded like something I’d like to try. Then I graduated college early and decided to spend a semester in Scotland before going into seminary, so I was in the area.”

“What were you doing in Scotland?”

“Serving the youth in a small church.”

“Is that what you want to do—youth ministry? You mentioned seminary. . . .”

“That is the question—what to do with my life. I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I’d like to study during my couple of weeks here, and I think I want to study God’s will.”

“Well, there’s a nice, easy topic for us to talk about.” Rick went on to tell me about his personal journey of wrestling through his purpose, the way God slowly led him through young adulthood, education, bad jobs, finding a wife, and eventually here. He said he wasn’t always confident at every turn, but each turn came in its time. He went on to talk about the three wills of God.

“Russ, there’s all sorts of writing and lectures I’ll assign for you to study, and there’s a million thoughts about God’s will for our lives. But for me, I haven’t found anything more sound than the idea of the three wills of God.”

“Right. I’ve heard of this: the moral will, the personal will. What’s the other one?”

“The sovereign will, sometimes called the providential will of God. The teaching says this sovereign will of God is the grand themes—God’s purposes for humanity and the world apart from humanity’s ability to alter them. They are purposes like God’s glory and supremacy, the idea that redemption comes through God’s Son.

“The moral will of God is the dos and don’ts,” Rick went on. “It’s the parameters God puts on our lives for our well-being.”

“Like bumpers on the sides of a bowling lane?”

“Yes, exactly; the boundaries guide us forward. And the third will of God is the personal will of God. This is the will we all wrestle with, because we can’t read about it in the Bible, nor do many of us get some grand revelation from God about our future.”

“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for that.”

“Me too, but usually it doesn’t happen, so we live our lives the best we can in line with the moral will of God, allowing God’s grace to be our sufficiency, letting it lead us to desire the sovereign will of God to occur in our lives. When we do that, the personal will of God begins to play out in our lives without much force from our end.”

“Like a guarantee?”

“Sort of, but not a guarantee away from difficulty or suffering, just a guarantee that God will guide your steps as you seek him and make decisions.”

“So what part do I play in making decisions?”

“You still make decisions; you just seek wisdom before, during, and after. Russ, spiritual maturity isn’t always hearing God before a decision. Sometimes it’s making a decision in faith. We don’t want to rush decisions—rarely will patience be a mistake—but we also have to recognize that God works through our decisions. So it’s all about, at every stage, preparing and making decisions with open hands.”

“Whatever you want, God.”

“Right. Whatever you want, God.”

Rick had me read the story of David. Rick said to read it remembering that even clarity can become a god. David penned many psalms while being pursued by King Saul. David hid in caves, praising God and sometimes wondering when God would deliver him. Before David became a threat to Saul’s throne, he was a mere shepherd. One day Samuel the prophet declared David would be king, but David’s future wasn’t paved with royal meals and comfortable lounging. David knew discomfort, pain, and struggle. It’s a story about God leading someone the long way around.

David became famous in his victory over Goliath, but I don’t think David was sure how the battle would end. The story says he picked up five stones from the creek to use in his slingshot. David knew his past successes fighting off beasts that preyed on his sheep, and this Goliath was another beast. But he wasn’t sure God would bless his first stone to take the giant down; maybe it would take three stones. David grabbed five stones just in case things got messy, because David knew living in faith doesn’t mean giants always fall quickly.

During my study times at L’Abri I would read and listen to the lectures Rick gave me. Then I would walk through the meadows surrounding the manor home.

I’m not much of a man of prayer. I think more than I pray. During this fast I’ve been monitoring my prayers. I started with fierce prayers, trying to twist God’s arm, badgering him to see things my way. But I no longer feel right marching before God and ordering him around, as though I know what’s best for my life and everyone else around me. I’m trying to be more open with it all.

Day 27

Saturday, October 9, 2004

Weight: 155 pounds. I can now see day 40. Half of me loves this, but the other half still wants to quit and eat at Sizzler tonight, vowing to myself, and to the buffet, that I’ll never do anything insane like this fast again. My fear of failure taunts the two halves of my heart, creating friction, conflict, and inner turmoil.

I wrote a book last year. It was about living a backward life—humility is greatness, weakness is strength, dying is living—you get the point. I showed it to a couple of close friends, and they liked it, so I sent it to some literary agents and editors at publishing houses. I used an Excel spreadsheet to keep track of who was open to reading it and their responses. Surprisingly, most of the agents and editors were willing to read the query, but that pleasant surprise was matched by demoralizing rejection. Months and months and months later, I continued to get rejection e-mails. Every few days another one showed up in my in-box. My 57th rejection came today. Half of me—the side that wants to go to Sizzler—despises the failure, but the other half rises up to rally a fight.

Mac walked into my office just after I deleted today’s rejection e-mail. He doesn’t know I’ve written anything. Few people know.

Mac was bubbly. “You miss me?”

“Mac, you ever failed?”

“Well, there’s a conversation. Sure, I’ve lived.”

“You’ve lived?”

“Meaning of course I’ve failed.”

“Sorry. Everything you touch is a success. I’ve never heard of you failing on a job site.”

“There’s usually lots of failure before you get to a solution. My all-time biggest failure was back in 1983. I was young and opened a gas station with a maintenance shop in north Florida. It flopped and it stung.”

“Why’d it fail?” I asked.

“I don’t know; otherwise I could’ve prevented it. I just know it didn’t work. Even afterward I couldn’t pinpoint why it failed, or I would’ve tried again. I hate failing. It was a good location, good shop. I’m not sure. I lost a bunch of money and felt worthless.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I let it sting till it quit stinging, then moved on with my life.”

A coworker came in and asked Mac a question about a product. He began answering the question, and I faded out of the conversation. I thought about what it must have felt like to save up tens of thousands of dollars to build and open a shop, then to stand there day after day without any business.

Mac turned back toward me when the coworker left. “This reminds me of an article I recently read about James Dyson. He’s the guy from Great Britain, invented the bagless vacuum cleaner. It’s all engineering—fascinating. He built something like 5,271 prototypes before he got to the one that worked. His vacuum has been selling like wildfire in the UK. Now he’s selling them in the States. He tried to sell the design to some US companies awhile back and they all rejected him. Now he has their customers.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting.”

“I think it’s also interesting nobody writes about the person buying the vacuum cleaner,” Mac added.

“You mean we have to succeed?” I asked.

“No, I mean we should do more than just consume. We should create something. I hate that the gas station failed, but I would’ve hated even more if I never tried. Russ, you know I don’t like to overspiritualize things, but I’ve come to believe the greatest offense to God isn’t failure—it’s doing nothing with what you’ve been given. Some people’s greatest stories are what latte they ordered at Starbuck’s. It’s just not a good story.”

I didn’t say anything, and Mac could tell I was thinking about my story.

“Russ, don’t you remember when God was taking the Israelites the long way around? Remember, he was with them in the desert, a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night.”

“Sure, I remember. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. You’re the preacher.”

He did know, but he walked out of my office and down the hall. He loves a good exit. I knew what it meant. It meant our risk, and even our failure, is in the context of God’s goodness and sovereignty.

Day 28

Sunday, October 10, 2004

I keep thinking about Mac’s gas station and James Dyson’s vacuum cleaner. I also think about the rejection e-mails I keep receiving. I know I have to go through this to get where I want to go. I know rejection can form character if I allow it. But what if James Dyson’s 5,271st prototype had failed? What if the next one after that had failed? What if his next 5,000 had failed? At what point is he delusional? It seems even perseverance is a risk—because what if it’s all failure? But we have no choice but to take a risk if we want to accomplish anything above collecting welfare checks.

As I thought about the gas station and vacuum cleaner, I realized risk exists because ignorance exists. We don’t know what’s outside our view, and we certainly don’t know tomorrow. In the New Testament, James wrote, “Look here, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we are going to a certain town and will stay there a year. We will do business there and make a profit.” How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone. What you ought to say is, ‘If the Lord wants us to, we will live and do this or that.’ Otherwise you are boasting about your own plans, and all such boasting is evil.” (James 4:13-16). We have two choices: attempt to control everything and thus worry, or let go of things and thus live in trust.

Raw risk and trust are interspersed throughout the Bible. Joab faced the Arameans on one side and the Ammonites on the other. He looked at his brother and said, “Be courageous! Let us fight bravely for our people and the cities of our God. May the LORD’s will be done” (2 Samuel 10:12). Esther broke royal law to save her people, risking her life if the king didn’t like what she said. Thus, before walking into his presence, and perhaps into her death, she said, “If I must die, I must die” (Esther 4:16).

I think there are many reasons to play it safe. Wisdom may be one; providing for life or family is certainly another. Avoiding debt is always a good reason. But I’m learning it’s never okay to hide from risk because of fear. Risk isn’t rebellion against wisdom. It’s rebellion against fear—the fear of what people think or fear of the future—and fear should have no place in our lives.

Shadrach and his buddies were sentenced to death in a fiery furnace. The prideful king thought they’d cave in, but they defiantly stood before him, declaring, “the God whom we serve is able to save us. . . . But even if he doesn’t, we want to make it clear to you, Your Majesty, that we will never serve your gods” (Daniel 3:17-18). God never promises comfort or safety. In fact, the New Testament is filled with words about persecution and trial. It’s as though they are all shouting, “You want life to mean something, to have purpose? Then risk something!”

In Matthew 25 Jesus tells a parable about a master who gives three men different sums of money to invest. The first doubles his money. The second, the same. The third man, given the least amount of money, buries his money and returns with the original amount. The master goes into a fit of rage and blasts the man for his laziness. The man feared the wrong thing. He feared losing the money and being a disappointment, when he should have feared doing nothing.

Part of me doesn’t want anyone to know I’m even looking for a new job. If they don’t know, they won’t ask me about it, and then I won’t have to tell them about all the close calls. But I realized this morning, like a revelation from God, that failure may be a comment on my abilities, but not on my value. I have to separate those two things. We can learn from our failures, but we shouldn’t link them to our value. We have to go somewhere else for that. I suggest finding a love that is unmerited and secure even past failure or death.

Cold-Cut Sub Sandwiches

Thursday, August 3, 2006

The house is hot, small, and cramped. It’s an old place, a 1920s Craftsman bungalow in historic Grant Park, just south of Atlanta. Our home in the suburbs sold quickly. We put it up for sale the day after Ethan and the church in Atlanta hired me. It sold in two weeks, and we were scrambling for a place to purchase. People and investors are gobbling up the homes in this neighborhood, but we found this beat-up place and made an offer the following morning. We knew this little house would require a load of money and work, but we were ready for the adventure.

The house is about 15 minutes from the church in Buckhead where I am now working. I’ve been there a month or so and things are great. I stay up at night unable to fall asleep, my mind racing with thoughts and dreams for the ministry. I feel as if a dam has been released, and the waters are rushing.

Three of my new college students help us carry in our furniture. The Atlanta heat is near 95 degrees, and the humidity is sucking the water out of our pores. The temperature in the truck is over 120. It’s the sort of heat and work that demands you forget about everything else in life. Nothing else exists except this furnace, the furniture that ages our backs, and the convoluted walk up the stairs into the house. After unloading half the truck, we sit exhausted on the floor of the back bedroom; a room that will hopefully, years from now, have a child to live, play, and sleep in it. We are tired, but we have another three or four hours of heavy lifting ahead of us. Our stomachs are empty, needing fuel. Kristy walks in and hands me a grocery bag full of frigid Gatorades and cold-cut sub sandwiches. Energy. We eat quickly, wanting to finish the job, so the students can have their Saturday back, and so that Kristy and I can begin to organize this new life we’ve been given.

Day 29

Monday, October 11, 2004

I’m sleeping a lot, and the person I love the most is getting the least of me. I take my noontime nap under the trees with my pillow in the backseat, but I’m still tired when I get home from work, frustrated from traffic, and needing a nap to survive the evening. Kristy has been waiting for me but is forced to wait longer. I set my alarm for 30 minutes or else I’ll sleep till morning, though our bed wouldn’t be a bad place to spend 14 hours. We bought our bed in Birmingham after exhausting stores in Atlanta. It’s a sturdy mahogany bed, something we’ll have for 50 years. I spent months roaming around in furniture shops and viewing online stores. I do this with most material things—I research and search. I contemplate and debate. I spend enormous amounts of time thinking about things. I like nice things. I’m seeing how easy it is to let my life become a sequence of purchases and to believe these purchases will make me happy. It’s silly, I know, but I do it. I get preoccupied.

In Matthew 6 Jesus said you can’t serve both God and money. The word money in the Greek is mammon, which means more than just money. It speaks of money and other material things. Jesus’ main point in the passage is logical—things don’t last. They tear, rot, rust, and ruin. I’m not sure where my treasured red Schwinn bicycle is now. Perhaps it’s somebody else’s bike—somebody else’s junk. Materialism is a beast that always needs feeding. It’s scary, really. We can live our whole lives hoping for the next thing, getting it, tiring of it, and pushing the hope ahead. It’s a nasty accumulation cycle.

A month before my 16th birthday, my mom and sister hurried me away from my 97th viewing of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off to look out the front door. There in the driveway was my first real possession, the item that defines a boy—a truck. A shiny gray Toyota four-wheel-drive truck. I walked around it, mesmerized by its good condition and long truck bed. As a 4WD truck, it stood high, but not high enough. Within a few weeks I’d bought bigger tires. I called her the Greyhound.

My truck was no young ’un. She was a 1985 model, and soon her age began to bother her. Her engine began overheating, and eventually she died. When my truck died it felt like a part of me died. I knew this wasn’t healthy—a truck shouldn’t have such power. But it did. I was what I drove, and when it was gone and I drove a forgettable little coupe, I felt less cool, less of a person. Consumerism had created a link between a material thing and my personal value.

The loss of my truck probably hurt so badly because I was 19 and needy, looking for something to prop up my personal value. I knew God but not his love; and when we lack love and the validation it breathes, we try to fill that void with jeans and laptops and trucks. We embrace the line that we are what we buy because we don’t know who we are, and yet we are left with regret when we finally realize everything we buy has no power to give. Days pass and we busy ourselves with things, but the void is still within. We innately know we should be living for more.

I think the lesson in this is for us to refuse to treasure things that can’t love. Things can entertain us, clothe us, and transport us, but they can’t love us. Thomas Merton, the great 20th-century writer on spirituality, penned, “The secret of my full identity is hidden in Him. He alone can make me who I am, or rather who I will be when at last I fully begin to be. But unless I desire this identity and work to find it with Him and in Him, the work will never be done. The way of doing it is a secret I can learn from no one else but Him. . . . If I never become what I am meant to be, but always remain what I am not, I shall spend eternity contradicting myself by being at once something and nothing.”

Day 30

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

I left the office around noon to drive to Peachtree City to meet with two wealthy businessmen venturing to finance the start of a church—a possible job opportunity for me. I’ve known both the men for years through the same friend, Heather, whom I met my freshmen year of college. The first businessman, Brian, is her dad, a friendly man who owns a large commercial construction company. His company builds schools and police stations and office buildings. The second businessman, Jacob, is my age. He doesn’t flaunt anything, values everyone, and at a friend’s party recently, we talked about what we want to do with our lives.

I took the elevator up to Brian’s corner office, windows all around, looking over acres of trees. On Sundays, Jacob and Brian had been driving into downtown Atlanta to attend a satellite of North Point Church, which is a huge, cutting-edge church north of Atlanta. Brian and Jacob said they wanted to start a satellite campus of this church in Peachtree City, aiming to be the location for people who live south of Atlanta. North Point was the kind of church most young pastors would kill to work for. I felt fortunate just to be in a conversation with them. They said they were thinking about calling the church South Point. They asked me my plans, and then what I thought it would be like to pastor a satellite campus. I had no clue but rambled on for 15 minutes anyway.

They then took me across town, back to a business park and a building being renovated into an auditorium—a facility they were considering. The exterior of the structure was finished, while outside, stacks of materials sat with construction workers reclining on them, taking their lunch break. We nodded and walked in. Three guys in khakis and golf shirts and one guy in jeans and a T-shirt gathered around a set of construction plans. They looked up from the plans to greet us.

One of the golf-shirt guys spoke. “Brian, Jacob, good to see you guys.”

Brian smiled and hugged him. “Great progress around here. Chuck, this is Russ Masterson, a friend we wanted to bring by to see the building.”

Chuck motioned to the job foreman. “I’ll let him show you around.”

He started walking to the far end of the lobby, the place half drywalled, a thin layer of white dust covering everything. “I’m Brad Thompson.”

“Brian Wynn.”

“Russ Masterson.”

“Jacob Marson.”

Brad took us around, showing us the lobby, the coffee shop area, and the auditorium. Brian and Jacob would ask him questions, and occasionally they’d ask me a question—sort of a walking interview. I felt light-headed the entire time, hoping not to appear distant or incompetent. The lack of food for a month wasn’t combining well with the clouds of drywall dust. Jacob and Brian didn’t know I was fasting, nor did I tell them. We finished our tour and rode back to Brian’s office. I thanked them for their time and drove toward my windowless office. I rolled my windows down and blasted U2. The leaves were changing—golds and reds and yellows making their yearly speeches. “Beautiful Day” played through the radio, and the autumn wind whirled through my truck.

Day 31

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

I saw this coming, and I should’ve done something or said something about it. I should’ve brought it up, confronting it before it exploded. The wall of food, the barrier between Kristy and me, fell on me today. I built the wall, and then I suffered its existence. It’s not that I’m some horrible husband; I’ve just been walking alone. Kristy and I talk and even pray together, but I’m not letting her in. I’m closed off and often cold. I’m doing life alone when we’re supposed to be doing it together. I knew I was doing this, but I never had the strength to change my walk of independence.

I walked into the house and set my backpack next to our bed. Kristy was in the den, reading. I sat next to her on the couch. She spoke first. “How are you?”

“The usual. Unsure if this tired body is going to make it.”

“What’s your weight at?”

“As of this morning, 153.”

“Russ, you have nine days left. I’m really beginning to get nervous about this. You don’t want to cause some permanent harm to your body.”

“I know.” I ran my hands through my hair. “It will be fine. How are you?”

Kristy started to respond, then didn’t. She looked down at her book. All of a sudden the suppressed tension joined us on the couch. Her eyes started watering. I asked what was wrong.

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure I should even mention it.”

“No, really, what’s going on?”

“Well, it’s just that I get none of you. I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I didn’t know you would be here, but not here.”

“I know. It’s just, I’m in this and tired. I’m sorry.”

“Well, why can’t we talk more? You get home and sleep or read. I mean, I know, I’m not doing a great job here either. I’m not really sure what to talk to you about.”

“Kristy, this isn’t your fault. This is my fault. I know I’m still giving other people my attention. I know I’m neglecting you. I guess I know I can do that and you will still love me. I’m sorry for all this.”

She nodded and we hugged. Her tears finally faded away, and she said, “Let’s just do better about connecting every night.” We talked some and prayed together. We connected for the first time in weeks. For once it didn’t feel as though I was on my own journey, away from her, wrestling with God and our future. All this, the fast and the concern over the future, is as much about Kristy as it is about me. It’s about creating a life where I am fulfilled and she can flourish. Hopefully a life where one day she can choose whether she wants to work and how many kids she wants to have.

Kristy’s tears really bothered me. I hate that I’ve neglected her, all in the name of spirituality. It’s all so backward, and I’m not sure how to reconcile it. It just seems wrong. It’s unfortunate our loved ones often get the worst of us. We pour ourselves out all day and leave nothing for them.

Kristy and I have never fought, not once. We’ve disagreed at times, but neither of us are fighters. She buries issues, and I reason my way around them. Eventually they surface, a minor explosion occurs, and then, thankfully, we talk our way through them. This process seems to work fine as long as we are both willing to own up to our crap. Today—this sorrow—was my doing. It’s mine to own. I apologized, and in great liberation I will sleep tonight. There will be no pestering regrets on my pillow, for I know Kristy keeps no list of wrongs.

Kristy won’t harbor this fault of mine, bringing it back up later. This gives me freedom to live, screw up, apologize, and try to love better. I’m learning how to do this, how to be a husband, how to care for another person more than myself. It’s not easy, but I know she needs me. She needs me to create security for her, through my stability and love for her. She needs to know my love toward her isn’t based on her rights and wrongs, and it will be there despite circumstances or feelings.

Day 32

Thursday, October 14, 2004

I didn’t own a house at the time, some six years ago—I was only 19—but if I had owned a home, this freezer would have exceeded its size. It was my job to get the ice cream from the back of this massive freezer into the freezers in the main part of the grocery store. I walked into the back of the store and opened the large metal door. The path through the freezer was crammed full of pallets. I’d have to climb. I wasn’t wearing much—shorts, T-shirt, running shoes, all abnormal attire for work in a freezer—but I was usually in and out of these back freezers so quickly I never saw any reason to bundle up. I crawled over the first two pallets of hams, over a third of popsicles, and a fourth and fifth of frozen pizzas. I made the turn at the back of the freezer and squeezed between racks, making my way down the back hall. I was almost to my ice cream when the lights went out. Pitch black.

“Hello, I’m back here? I’m the Edy’s ice cream guy.”

No answer. Still darkness—not even a security light. Utter darkness. I couldn’t see myself blink. I didn’t have many options. I knew I couldn’t waste much time. It was well below freezing and I was dressed for beach volleyball. At first I was scared, but I began feeling my way back down the hall and through the racks. Fear slowly turned to anger—what a waste of 20 minutes! I drew a mental image of the pallets I’d climbed over and started retracing my steps. After crawling back over the pizzas I calmed down and had two thoughts, both worth mentioning. On my way up the pallet of popsicles, I thought, This will one day make an interesting story. Then, while sitting on top of the popsicles, I wondered, Does God care about this, or am I just passing time, making a few extra bucks?

I mean, does God care about ice cream? Or, thinking of my work today in the windowless office, does God care about construction products?

The ancient Greeks viewed manual work as a curse. Aristotle said being unemployed was good fortune because it allowed you to participate in a life of contemplation. He said it was that sort of life—a pondering one—that was the happiest. The Greeks saw work as demeaning, something to avoid, with nothing spiritual about it. The Israelites had radically different views about work. They saw all work, manual and philosophical, as part of God’s purposes for people. In Genesis we see God create work before the fall of man. First-century Christians adopted this same view of work, and in the Gospels we see Jesus labor as a carpenter before he becomes a rabbi.

Paul writes about work in 1 Thessalonians 4:9-12: “We don’t need to write to you about the importance of loving each other, for God himself has taught you to love one another. Indeed, you already show your love for all the believers throughout Macedonia. Even so, dear brothers and sisters, we urge you to love them even more. Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before. Then people who are not Christians will respect the way you live, and you will not need to depend on others.”

Recently I heard a sermon on this passage, and it’s helped my thinking about work. Paul connected the idea of love with work: Because you love people, you should work. We love the world by adding to the beauty of it, by not just consuming stuff but creating something valuable and maintaining the order we’ve been given. Paul says we shouldn’t be a drain on the common good. We should be contributing, not taking. And Paul isn’t speaking about church work. The impression I got growing up in church was, if you really love God, you will be a missionary or a pastor, but this isn’t right. All useful work is good work. Sometimes useful work is as basic as putting ice cream in a store so people can buy it and have a taste of goodness at the end of a tough day.

The wisest, most dignified man I know sits on a tractor and moves dirt all day long. Randy was my Sunday school teacher for years, and slowly he grew to be a mentor in my life. Randy’s tall and thin and tan from years of being on the tractor. He’s about 50 years old and was a farmer before starting a grading company. He’s now ready for another career, slowly earning a counseling degree at night. He’s been bankrupt, divorced, depressed, and is now the type of man I’d like to be—honest and kind.

Just after Kristy and I got engaged, I gave him a call. “Randy, have you heard? We got engaged.”

“Russ, that’s great news. I knew this would all work out.”

“Well, we want you to do our premarital counseling. I know you don’t do that a lot, but a buddy of mine is going to marry us, and I’d like you to counsel us and stand beside the minister during the wedding ceremony.”

“Let me talk to my wife about the counseling part, and let’s see what we can work out. It’s a real honor you would ask.” Randy is always saying humble things like that, but the reality is I’m honored he’d consider taking the time to invest in us.

Now, I was thinking he’d meet with us a handful of times a few months before our wedding, but the next week he called and said we should start coming over to their house on Sunday afternoons. So we did, and Kristy and I met with the Randy and his wife every Sunday for months and months. We would linger after our sessions ended, talking about the wedding plans and my upcoming graduation. I would ask him questions about his work, and while it was clear he didn’t adore his work on the tractor, he also didn’t see his time on his tractor as wasted. Randy said sometimes there’s work to do, and you do it, and you do it right, even if no one is looking. You do the work, you get it done, and then you get to go home to your family and sleep well at night. Randy said it’s an easy mistake to try to take something from our jobs that was supposed to be received before we started working.

When I’m with Randy it’s clear he doesn’t get his sense of value from his work, and he won’t be any more of a person when he climbs off his tractor for the final time. I know most of my unhappiness in my present job is due to my trying to gain value from something that was, to some degree, only meant to be sweated over.

Tacos and Mojitos

Monday, April 6, 2009

The sun is setting over the Pacific Ocean. Pinks and purples join the blue in the sky. A breeze rolls off the water and up from the beach onto the patio where Kristy and I are sitting. The waitress arrives, speaking Spanish. I look up from my menu. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course; too many Americans come here for me not to.”

“Great. What do you recommend?”

“The fish tacos and the mojitos.”

“Sounds perfect. For both of us.” Kristy is barely paying attention. The sun is putting on a light show in the sky; the colors are becoming more vivid. It all makes our Fourth of July fireworks shows look quite silly.

“Russ, this place is perfect.”

I agree.

The place is the little town of Tamarindo on the northwestern coast of Costa Rica. The roads are unmaintained, bumpy, dirt-and-gravel mixes, and the town is a blend of the sleepy surfing town it’s been for decades and the vibrant tourist town of today. The waitress comes back with our mojitos, a drink of white rum, sugar, lime, sparkling water, and mint. The hosts at our bed-and-breakfast, just a stroll down the beach, told us this was the best drink in town. I take a sip.

We start talking about how much we needed this break. Our baby, Josie, is now nine months old, staying with Grandma back in Atlanta. Kristy hasn’t really had an escape since she was born, and I’ve been running pretty hard at the church, loving every bit of it—teaching and writing, helping young adults navigate the issues of faith and life. Our plates are full but our cups overflow.

The pinks fade into the purples and the purples into black. The stars will be out to dazzle us soon.

“Russ, are you feeling a little . . . ?”

“Yeah, this drink is kicking my butt.”

We both order water, and soon our tacos arrive. The soft tortillas are stuffed with grilled tilapia and fresh avocados. We eat, finish our drinks, and walk back to our room on the beach.

Day 33

Friday, October 15, 2004

Kristy is late. And I’m rattled. She’s never late. We use birth control, but that’s never a guarantee. Apparently not! We’ve only been married for four months. I imagined four years before a baby. I have too much to sort through before I become a dad. I need to know what I’m going to do with my life before I bring a baby into it. We don’t know where we might live, and if we stay here, the house isn’t ready for a baby. It’s just that I imagined having things in order before bringing a baby along. I want to have things figured out, have some sort of direction.

And I don’t really like kids. I love my nieces, and I love hugging and twirling them, but I’m happy that we live in separate houses. They leave their toys and clothes everywhere. They can’t keep up with anything and always realize they want something as soon as it’s inconvenient to get it for them. They talk a lot, and I like quiet. They squeal, and I like serenity. I’m very even-keeled. When we’re on vacation, all living in the same house for a week, I escape to my bedroom to restore my sanity. I close the door and sit in the quiet, with no one climbing on me or bothering me. I don’t do anything. I just sit. And they do bother a lot—all kids do. It’s constant. Did I mention they kill the ability to travel easily? It takes forever to board an airplane or even leave the house, and it’s impossible to watch a movie.

It feels like the walls are closing in, and I have nowhere to run, nowhere to climb to or jump across. I will be squished. My freedom will ooze from my being, and all the things I love will disappear for the next 20 years. We don’t have enough money for a baby. I always imagined us in a financial situation where Kristy could choose whether or not she wanted to work once we had children, and I hate that I can’t give that option to her. It makes the timing of this like salt in a wound.

I feel rotten for feeling this way, to have such cynicism and negativity about the possibility of a new creation. And I know pretty much all this hesitancy is birthed out of my own selfishness. I don’t want to be all about another person yet. I don’t want to forget myself that much more. Most of my what-ifs are centered on me, my comfort, my security, my success. What if I won the lottery? What if I wrote a New York Times bestseller? What if the moldy cheese in the back of my fridge transformed into the largest diamond in the world and I could buy an island and drink cherry Coke every evening while the sun set? But what if all those what-ifs only increased my discontentment as they increased my self-absorption? What if a baby is a gift to move my heart to a better place? What if my what-ifs were replaced with the right what-ifs? What if I were kind to someone today? What if I listened to someone today? What if this child is the purpose I seek?

I say I want to teach and write. I dream of creating and ordering sentences in a way that sounds like a symphony. I know I’m no Mozart of words, but it’s still my dream. I want to join God in the process of speaking into the world and creating life. I thought I would do this with words, but maybe I’ve done it another way.

Day 34

Saturday, October 16, 2004

My weight has stabilized at 152 pounds—been there a couple of days. There’s less of me to worry, and a growing sense of my calling is calming me, but honest questions still fuel this fast: Why am I here? What am I on earth for? I’m learning God doesn’t just send preachers to give sermons; he also sends businessmen to start companies, teachers to love kids, and office workers to create order. And I know trying to be a businessman when I’m called to be a preacher is as pointless as trying to be a preacher if I’m called to be a businessman. This question—What am I on earth for?—is all about what God has put inside us.

Mac was in the office yesterday after being out of town the past few days. He asked me to help unload his truck. We ended up talking about these things.

“Mac, why do you read those old books?”

“The classics? Deep characters, conflict, a fight. I love a good fight. Did I tell you I got my brown belt last week at karate?”

“I’m not impressed. I still don’t think you’d hurt anybody.”

“Depends if they’re on my land. Or if they spit at me.”

“Well, as for the old books, what makes a story meaningful?” I asked.

“Like I said the other day, it’s gotta be about more than owning a nice car or buying a vacuum cleaner. The story has to be about something. You’ve gotta really want something.”

“Mac, what do you want?”

“I want to build things and go home. You know that.”

“How did you know that is what you wanted?”

“Those things found me as much as I found them. I just kept living and doing what was before me. I tried to make good decisions along the way, but I guess I want those things because they are true to me. That’s the key. It’s not that you define your own life. It’s about figuring out what you’ve been given, what you’re good at, and then expressing that. Could be building things or preaching sermons.”

Mac doesn’t see categories. He doesn’t see a line between spiritual and secular. I’m trying not to, but I grew up labeling music and movies and jobs—anything, really; even people—some spiritual and others secular. Vocations were divided: ministry for God’s kingdom, and secular work in the marketplace. I’ve always said Mac was born in the wrong century, and many of his thoughts on career are reforming in nature. He’s a Luther or a Calvin. During the Reformation in the 1500s Martin Luther and John Calvin taught that God calls people to any work that helps other people, no matter the trade. They taught that God gifted each of us, and our calling is about the expression of those gifts. They argued that a Christian could minister to people by making shoes just as well as serving Communion.

This continual wrestling over my purpose isn’t new. I’m nearing the end of a process that began my sophomore year of college. I was transferring to the University of Georgia and needed to pick a major. I thought about a career in church or ministry work, but I didn’t want to work for a church—that is, if I’d be happy working somewhere else. I figured that’s how churches get bad reputations—their minister quits caring at some point. I also loved other things. I loved the outdoors, so I decided I’d head in another direction until God stopped me. I chose to major in landscape architecture, and I began my core classes. I only made it a year before deciding to get a practical business degree, gaining confidence that I would be attending seminary after graduation. But for that one year, I felt as though I was off God’s grid. I felt God wasn’t interested in this sort of work so I was free to pursue and think about it devoid of him. So I would imagine myself opening a design firm and making lots of money. I dreamt of the residential and commercial designs I’d create and what life would be like. Famous people would probably hire me to design the gardens on their estates.

The label secular gave me permission to despiritualize my work, but if Mac and the Reformers are right, I should’ve included God in my landscapes as much as a preacher would in his sermons. Randy does this. He welcomes God onto his tractor. There’s not much spiritual application to moving dirt—besides doing it right—but even in that, Randy treats his customers with grace and respect. Randy’s always telling me he’s been praying for me. He says he prays all day, sitting in that tractor, talking to God. I guess it’s as good as a confession booth.

God gives each of us gifts, yet lots of people are stuck in jobs where their gifts go underused, so I can only conclude that finding work that fits our calling isn’t a right but a blessing. It’s a blessing even to be asking the questions. I need to remember that in many cultures work is only about survival, food, water, and fire. So if we never find a job that fits our gifts, if we make shoes or operate tractors but long to do something else, we’ll be okay. We can work that job in peace because work has value. I’m learning to do this sort of work, while still letting my gifts fuel and guide me to a job that will be a better fit. I want the following two questions to meet and marry in my life: what do I love doing, and how can I help people?

John Calvin said that in following your proper calling, “there will be no employment so mean and sordid . . . as not to appear truly respectable, and be deemed highly important in the sight of God.” I know if God calls me to make shoes, I should make the best shoes in the city. If I’m called to teach or write, I’ll do the best I can. And God will use my shoes or words to influence the world toward truth and love.

A few days ago, down in Peachtree City, Jacob and Brian ended our time together saying they would be moving forward to develop a launch plan for their new church. They said they’d be in touch with me in a couple of weeks, but I know I’m not the best person for their church, even if they think I am—which I doubt they do. They need someone with pastoral experience. They need a guy in his thirties with a family who can relate easily to people in a variety of life stages. I e-mailed Jacob this morning and told him about a pastor I recently met who is looking for a new opportunity and would be perfect for the job.

Day 35

Sunday, October 17, 2004

“Russ, wake up. Good news—my period. Russ, I got my period!”

“Great, honey.” I rolled over in the bed and looked up at her standing in her towel, fresh out of the shower. “Praise God for periods. What time is it, anyways? Do I have to get up yet?”

She said I had another 15 minutes until I needed to shower for church, so I pulled the comforter over my head, closed my eyes again, and exhaled. I thanked God—no baby. I know later in life, if we struggle getting pregnant, I’ll regret thinking and praying such things. We would’ve been fine, but I’m happy to have more time. I want to care for Kristy so much better than I do now. The last couple of days, with the looming possibility of a child on its way, I found myself daydreaming of a bigger house and land in the mountains—places for a kid to wander around, build things, and climb trees. I want to give these things to my family, room to grow and land to explore, places to become the people God wants them to be. I put this all in tangible terms, but I know that is a mistake. I know the things my family needs from me the most have no monetary cost. They need liberating things like unconditional love, support, and stability.

All this points to how preoccupied I am with mammon (money and things), yet I know the story of Solomon. He was the richest man in the world in his time—ships and horses and houses. Yet at the end of his life, as seen in Ecclesiastes, he becomes pessimistic about wealth and life. He has everything he could want, yet he stills wants. Death is nearing, and Solomon, with all his mammon, can do nothing about it. Even with all the money in the world there are some things he can’t control. He will still die.

When we first started spending Sundays with Randy, he told me his grading company might go bankrupt. He might lose his tractors and his home. He finished $125,000 worth of work for a client who was past due on all their payments to him, and now Randy was past due on all his payments to others. It didn’t look good for six months or so, but finally, the client paid him, and he settled up his debts. And yet, Sunday after Sunday, when we walked into his kitchen and I asked how he was, he said, “I’m blessed, brother.”

I wouldn’t have been so gracious and certainly not as grateful in the trial. I would have hated that I was in a hole and couldn’t control my ability to climb out. Money has everything to do with control. The land in the mountains and a yacht would be fun, but control is the real promise of money. If we could get some, we wouldn’t have to answer to a boss tomorrow. We wouldn’t have to worry about the mortgage or education expenses. With money we can be our own authority. And we love this—we love controlling our lives. We love being independent, but it’s all an illusion, and Solomon knew this. He knew you can have money and live in an illusion of deifying yourself over your own little world, but even then the end will come and you will see that you still aren’t in control.

Randy knew he might lose everything, yet still have everything. He knows of a wealth greater than bank accounts. He knows about relational and spiritual wealth. The apostle Paul seems to have had this sort of wealth. He had no accumulation of goods to speak of, but he had people—churches and friends and students. The New Testament is filled with his writings, words written by him to the people he loved. Paul wrote about money to his student Timothy:

Yet true godliness with contentment is itself great wealth. After all, we brought nothing with us when we came into the world, and we can’t take anything with us when we leave it. So if we have enough food and clothing, let us be content. But people who long to be rich fall into temptation and are trapped by many foolish and harmful desires that plunge them into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. And some people, craving money, have wandered from the true faith and pierced themselves with many sorrows. But you, Timothy, are a man of God; so run from all these evil things. Pursue righteousness and a godly life, along with faith, love, perseverance, and gentleness.

1 Timothy 6:6-11

The lesson is simple. If you get caught up in wealth—getting it or keeping it—the wealth or the pursuit of it will produce anxiety.

My friend Randy will die one day, as will you and I. We don’t like to think about those things, and I don’t even like to write it, but it’s everyone’s reality. I’ll try to make the trip to Randy’s funeral no matter where I’m living at the time. It will be in a big church with every seat filled. People will show up because he loved them well. People will be standing in the lobby and soaking the floor with tears.

What he has or doesn’t have at that time will not matter to him. He’ll pack no suitcase for his trip. And none of the people gathered will miss his wallet; they will miss him, a person who cared for them deeply. It will be a sad day for this world. I think Randy lives ready to die. He’s always telling people he loves them. He doesn’t let people leave him without those words and a hug.

Death is the great reminder that we aren’t in charge. I don’t think we’ll regret making financial plans or decisions, but we will see this all-consuming anxiety over money as waste. We’ll detest it for the moments it stole from us. We’ll take our last breath knowing the only things that matter are those that can never be taken away from us.

Day 36

Monday, October 18, 2004

I had a phone interview this morning with three executives at Student Life in Birmingham, Alabama. The company writes curriculum for student ministries and produces events throughout the summer for students to attend. They are looking to expand their publishing and curriculum departments, so they are looking for a marketing director. I saw the advertisement for the job on their website a couple of weeks ago. I sent my resume, and they called a few days ago to arrange a conference call. On the phone were the owner and several other top guys. They were interviewing me because I am a bit of a rarity—a young guy with a business degree, business experience, and also a seminary degree.

The interview started on a surface level but quickly turned to business theory questions and marketing philosophies—stuff I’d long forgotten or never cared to remember. I bluffed my way through most of the answers, throwing out key terms I remembered from my undergraduate business classes.

Over the last few weeks, my calling has become clearer, yet the criteria for jobs I’ve been applying for over the past few months has gotten broader and broader. I know I’m gifted and called to teach; whether that be as a writer, teacher, or pastor, I’m not sure. And in my desperation for something new, I’ve been leaving what I know is my calling. As the Student Life guys drilled me on direct-mail marketing and Internet promotion, some aspects of my future grew clearer. Each question they posed lit another step before me. The “still small voice” inside me was speaking: This isn’t for you. Patience, kiddo. I remained polite for the rest of the interview, but I already knew what they probably figured out—I have a heart for people, not business. I have a heart to teach principles, not oversee marketing plans.

I’m through trying to control all this. These 36 days have revealed my tendency to control and have guided me toward a life of surrender to a personal and wise God. My prayer has become “Whatever happens, happens.” I fully surrender. It’s not that I’m through caring. I still care. I’m just not letting that care consume me. For most of my life my caring has controlled me and created frustration because it hasn’t been matched with equal power. I’ve cared with all my being, but nothing in my being has the power to control certain circumstances around me. I’ve been trying to be the god of my universe, but I’m not God. I must rise above circumstances or I’ll always be a puppet to them.

I remember the promise: “You’re not alone in this. I have blue skies for you.” Peace arrives, for I don’t have to make everything happen. It’s no easy thing to quit playing God and let him be that for you, to place your cares in his hands. It doesn’t mean we quit living or making decisions, but it means we quit manipulating and worrying. Then we will be free to live for the things that can never be taken away from us. I’m seeing this is all about freedom.

I recently read about Jewish prisoners in the death camps during the Holocaust. The most horrifying memories these victims recorded were not starvation or violence but being treated as animals, herded as beasts to a slaughter. Most of these prisoners went into depression, yet in some, the human spirit prevailed. They could find freedom even in the loss of all control. They were free from their circumstances and what was done to them. Those prisoners, the ones who had prevailing spirits, lived for things that couldn’t be taken from them—freedom of spirit, freedom to think, the redemption of the inner person. They lived for ideals and ideas rather than circumstances. They lived for things that survive and give, whether in light or darkness.

Stuffed Duck and Spicy Apples

Saturday, May 2, 2009

I lift my glass of red wine. “Cheers. To great friends on my birthday.”

“Cheers.”

“Hear, hear.”

“It’s a good night.”

The sound of glasses clinking fills our area of the restaurant. It is a chic converted warehouse buried in an industrial area. The driveway leads by some empty buildings and up an old loading ramp. The valet receives your car, then drives out of the warehouse to park. The ceilings are 40 feet above us and the lighting is dim. It’s all a refined industrial look. The wall facing the city is all glass, buildings sparkling from a couple of miles away. Our table is in the back, and soon the seats fill. Friends from around the city join us around the table, twelve of us total. We order drinks and food, appetizers for a few, and red wine for most. We talk about getting older and share stories about the worries and fears we are beginning to conquer, but mostly we laugh.

My food arrives—seared duck stuffed with andouille sausage, rainbow carrots, spicy roasted apples with ancho chili honey on the side. The plate is long and rectangular. The duck is in the middle with the rest of the food properly balanced around it. I spear a piece of duck, dipping it in the sausage filling and spicy apples. We haven’t conquered life, but some of the trappings of young adulthood have lost their grip. In some ways we are gaining the perspective on life you can only grasp with years. I’m three decades plus now, working a job I love, living in a quaint bungalow with two beautiful girls—Kristy and our little daughter, Josie.

Day 37

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

“What do you do when you drive those long distances?”

Mac has driven all over the Southeast this month—constant movement, a wanderer wishing for his own land.

“I don’t know. Books on tape some. Radio a little. But I get tired of that, all the commercials and the crap people are singing. They sing things that just aren’t true. And I’m supposed to nod along. I don’t get it, so I turn it off.”

“So you just ride in silence?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t think I could do that. I’d get bored.”

“You’d only get bored because you aren’t used to being alone with yourself.”

“Maybe, but I feel like I’ve had 37 days of solitude, even while being around people. You got that loner thing going, though.”

“Being alone helps me remember I’m not the things I do. I remember I am somebody apart from the behaviors and actions. I’ve always felt a more secure sense of worth from being alone than from being with people. People think you have to go to a monastery in India to do this, but you don’t. You can do this in your car. You just have to turn things off.”

Sort of kiddingly, I said, “Right. We’re scared of ourselves, so we listen to our iPods.”

“You’re right. No joke. It’s scary facing yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people are scared of silence because they have to face themselves, their past, shame, guilt,” Mac said. “If they faced themselves, they’d have to do something with it all.”

I knew what Mac was talking about, but all my solitude had been conjuring up other issues. “I can see that, but when I’m alone, I just grow anxious about everything before me.”

“And what do you do about that?” Mac asked.

“I’m learning to let go. I’m learning I’m not God, and there are some questions I can’t answer, and other questions no person can answer.”

Mac started to leave, and then in ordinary Mac fashion he turned around at my doorway. “Russ, you don’t want to miss your life by never stopping to learn who you are and who you aren’t. I think you’ve done that nicely with this fast.” With that he walked out the door and down the hall.

I kept thinking about solitude and the things I’ve been learning and how hard it is to “get away” in our culture. Something’s always chasing us. I’ve been on a fast without food for 37 days and in a home without television or Internet for five months, yet still I’m bombarded with messages I can’t get away from—ideas coming from my computer at work, the radio in the car, and billboards on the road.

This is what my college degree was in—marketing, getting ideas into people’s heads. It’s a huge business. Ideas guide our behavior. Marketers think that if they can get you to believe something about yourself, you’ll buy their product. It’s probably how you came to buy this book. What we believe and the ideas we accept guide us. Bad ideas get people to fly planes into buildings. Good ideas get people to forgive their enemies. What we believe matters because beliefs guide behavior. What we believe can imprison us, create fear in us, or free us. It all depends on what we believe.

All these ideas—ones from classrooms and billboards and pulpits and sitcoms—shape our approach to work, thoughts on raising kids, taste in music, drive for success, and leisure activities. The air isn’t made of money or policy. It’s made of ideas. It’s the ideas behind the money and policies, behind the music and education philosophies. I think this is why Jesus came as a teacher and not a businessman or politician. The real war isn’t fought with guns and grenades. It’s fought with ideas. There’s nothing more powerful than a true idea.

The Pharisees wanted to stone a woman for committing adultery. Jesus essentially told them to drop their stones and go home. He said we are all broken and need healing. In his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus taught that spirituality isn’t in rules but is something that comes from within a person. He taught that we are all broken and all need love that is freely given from above to change our inner beings.

A friend of mine recently said, “I’ve never not been loved.” When she said this, I realized the greatest gift I received from my family wasn’t money or education or even encouragement; it was love. Love is the great idea. Love given—before actions. At 151 pounds, I’m loved. I’ve never not been loved. “I’m desperately broken but wonderfully loved” is the greatest idea I’ve ever heard. Unconditional love from a person, from God, changes everything. To know you can always come back is enough for a wayward child.

Day 38

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Some recognition is nice, but floods of it will warp us. We can become applause junkies, needing it for a fix while degrading ourselves. There’s nothing wrong with recognition, but needing it for self-worth is a waste. All this achievement and making something of ourselves in the world is really about us justifying our existence. It’s us convincing ourselves that we matter.

I realize my default outlook is to achieve my way into worth, and thus my identity becomes the sum of my achievements or the lack thereof. In high school when I played basketball, I kept two scores in my head: the one on the scoreboard that determined whether we won or lost, and the number of points I had scored. I knew if I scored 12 points my name would be in the paper the next day. I never would’ve admitted it then, but I loved having my name in the paper. I’d read it in the morning, think about it all day, sometimes for two days, and feel like I really mattered. But then the next game would come, and another 12 points would be needed. This didn’t stop in high school. I still catch myself hugging illusions. Satisfied for a while, then needing another 12 points. And through it all, haunting questions form:

What if I don’t perform or achieve?

What if I only score eight points?

What if the job goes away?

What if I never make x amount per year?

What if I’m never noticed?

Our justification for existence, for meaning, can’t lie in achievement because one day we will fail. Then the self-worth we thought was so secure will crumble, and devastation—or at least depression—will follow. Failing is inevitable, and if we decide to war with this dragon, we’ll only die of exhaustion. We are left helpless, unjustified in our existence. We are left only to find our worth outside ourselves. But this is the rescuing truth: our validity is found outside ourselves, and it isn’t earned. It’s given by the One who created us. Justification for our existence comes from the same place we find justification from our mistakes. It’s a gift from God through the completed work of Christ.

Being somebody when you are somebody is easy. It’s also unstable, because you have to maintain your somebody-ness. But what if you could be somebody when you are a nobody? That’s freedom. We are important because we are God’s creation. This brings freedom. If you know God and he knows you, then everything you do matters, even if there’s no earthly recognition. If you don’t know you’re important before you achieve, you will become a slave to your achievement or to the pursuit of it.

Day 39

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Not eating has become normal, but soon death will come if I continue in my new normality. I’m not excited about tomorrow. In fact, quite surprisingly, I’m indifferent. I know today is day 39, but I also know it’s one among thousands of my days. And these days should all gather together as pages in a story. Most of the time I think this story is an autobiography, that it’s about me, when really it’s about a divine Giver.

We should connect our lives with a larger story. I think we’re all in it. You just hope the Author breaks through, grace arrives, and you side with the protagonist by the conclusion. Perhaps our lives are just a sentence, maybe a phrase, in this grand tale. You add up the lines and get the chapters. Add up humanity and get a novel. There’s a story going on around us, and it’s not primarily about you or me. It’s the story of redemption, hope in lonely places, purpose in the unfavorable. It’s all so much like gravity—around us, working, affecting our lives without much awareness to it. It’s the power to rise above the dark clouds to the blue skies, to have meaning without recognition, to be before we do.

I’ve done nothing, yet I breathe. I’ll do nothing, yet I am.

I don’t know how my sentence in the story will work out—how many more times I’ll sit in the windowless office, how many times I’ll join the forever red caterpillar inching up the interstate, or how many more interviews I’ll have before a door opens. But it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.

Day 40

Friday, October 22, 2004

Three days ago I told myself I wouldn’t look again, but curiosity got to me this morning. I woke up, headed to the bathroom, and stepped on the scale.

150.

All my worry, and God provides; not with ease or comfort, but still he provides for the story. I really had no intent to make it to this day. I planned on quitting a long way back. Today I sat in the windowless office, checking e-mail and boxing up promotional binders. Nothing new, but I know something will change eventually. I’ll be fine till then. At the end of the workday I filed out the door and merged my truck onto the expressway, joining the line heading north. I felt a sense of freedom as I thought about joining humanity at the dinner table. Fresh expectation washed over me thinking about sharing a meal with Kristy, to lift our forks and raise our glasses together.

I know none of this was like building the ark. I’m no Noah. Neither have I seen a burning bush like Moses. But I do think I’m on the long way around, and during this wandering I’ve learned that the first question I must answer is not “What will I do with my life?” The first question is “Am I valuable?”

Home-Cooked Spaghetti

Thursday, October 14, 2010

“Daddy! Daddy! Stickers. Look.”

As soon as my toddler, Josie, could manipulate those little fingers to pull stickers off a sheet, she’s been plucking and mashing them all over. I’m often her victim. She likes to sit on my lap studying my long face, every crevice and hair. She’ll inspect my forehead and then move on to my jaw. She says affirming things while she studies. “Yep, yes, okay.” She doesn’t see any imperfections, or doesn’t care to comment on them. She just looks and pokes and pulls. And sticks. The Dora sticker usually ends up on my cheek, though sometimes I look down during a meeting at church and see one on my leg.

Tonight Thomas, our dog, is her victim. He’s a big, dumb lineman of a dog, a jolly golden retriever. He lies in the middle of the kitchen or wherever is the most heavily trafficked pathway at the time, hoping to steal a rub or hug. Kristy and I hate this, but Josie loves it. She climbs on him and slides down his rib cage to the floor. She lifts his floppy ears and whispers secrets in them. Tonight she is decorating him, stickers galore. After yelling for my attention, she places another sticker on his hind leg. He now has 16 stickers dotting his head, ears, legs, belly, back, and hind leg.

The radio is playing, and Josie sings out a few of the words from the Lady Antebellum song “American Honey” as she returns to the sticker sheet. I join in, humming along, unsure of half the words. I run the water and slide the remnants of spaghetti and salad into the garbage disposal. As I’m rinsing the dishes, I feel Kristy’s pregnant stomach, our second little girl, press against my back. She reaches around and puts another dish in the sink. She lingers and leans in, resting her cheek on the back of my shoulder. We both look to our right and see Josie standing, looking at us, a sweet smile of pure love on her face. And all the tight places in my heart are now loosened.

Acknowledgments

Thank you . . .

To Mom: for loving books and more importantly me, for making sacrifices and remaining strong when everything else was broken

To Frank Queen: for hiring me and fathering me at the right times, for running a great company with love and integrity

To Kevin Queen: for sending me to a writing conference before any of this was in sight

To Jordan Green: for reading everything I send you and replying to my hounding text messages, for being a priceless developmental editor and teaching me how to tell a story

To Will Kitchens: for your genuineness in a culture of veneer

To John Piper and Tim Keller: for your continuous studying and biblical insight that has formed much of my thinking over the past decade

To my community at the Church of the Apostles and in Atlanta: for walking with me and teaching me many of the things in this book

To Jim Reimann: for seeing something in my writing years ago and combing through this manuscript line by line fixing my atrocious grammar

To Chip MacGregor: for being an agent with the courage to stick with me over these past three years

To Tyndale: for taking a chance on this little book

And lastly, to my wife, Kristy: for loving me through all my failures and never once acting as if this was never going to happen

Share the Book

Here are a few simple ways you can propel the message of this little book into the world.

1. Leave a customer review of the book on www.amazon.com. Just go to the bottom of the book’s purchase page and rave your heart away!

2. Quote the book as your Facebook status.

3. Tweet something sweet about the book.

4. Review the book on your blog.

5. Use the book to start a book group with some friends.

6. Give the book as a gift, write about it in a letter, get a tattoo of 40 Days as a mustache—okay, maybe not that, but I am open to your ideas.

If you get a chance, come by my online home at www.russmasterson.com.

I’m honored you spent the past 40,000 words with me. May we one day share another story together.

Appendix: Practicalities of Fasting

In general, fasting is abstaining from food for a cause. Fasting is done in religions and cultures all over the world for causes that range from holiness and healing to peace and political power. Christian fasting differs from other forms of fasting in many ways. It includes the recognition that this world is not all we have and this world is not enough to satisfy our hearts. Christian fasting is birthed out of a sincere longing for God and his direct hand in your life or the cause for which you fast.

The life and work of Jesus brought a renewal to fasting, a discipline that had become a mere ritual. In this renewal, freedom in fasting was granted to the people of God. This allows us to form our personal fasting practice with a personal God. This will look different in different people’s lives. You can fast for one meal, 3 days, 11 days, 40 days, or anything in between. He may have you fast lunches for a week, fast a certain day of the week, fast during daylight hours, or fast during evening time. This is where you must seek the Lord as to how he would have you fast and from what. The motive in the heart is always more important than the details of the fast.

Health issues must always be considered before entering any fast. There are those of us who cannot abstain from food due to health reasons. If you have any medical concerns, you should consult a physician before beginning an extended fast. Those who cannot abstain from food can reap the spiritual rewards of fasting by abstaining from something else for a season in order to seek God—I feel television or other media outlets are most likely the next best thing in our culture from which to fast.

Juice fasts are the most common extended fasts, but God may call you to a water-only fast or an absolute fast. Absolute fasts should only be a couple of days in length and should also be monitored by a physician. In a water-only fast, you should also be monitored by a physician throughout the fast. In both water-only and juice fasts, you should constantly be drinking fluids to prevent dehydration. Some people choose to take vitamins to nourish the body during a fast.

I recommend the juice fast, which is the one I followed, because you obtain some of the nutrients and calories your body needs but still sacrifice solid food and protein, creating hunger and longing. In this fast the person abstains from all food, only drinking pure fruit and vegetable juices. The sugars and protein found in other drinks are to be avoided.

The type and length of the fast will demand certain adjustments to your lifestyle. Physical labor and exercise should be limited, if not suspended, during an extended fast to allow for the increased need for rest. Schedule adjustments are also needed to allow for increased times of prayer, worship, and the reading of Scripture. These times are essential for you to enter into a more intimate relationship with God during the fast. There will be periods during the fast when you feel exhausted, and others when your energy level will be high.

The last thing I want to mention is the proper way to break an extended fast. While fasting, your body adjusts to the lack of food; your stomach shrinks and your metabolism and digestive system slow down. (This is especially true in fasts longer than a week.) You can’t immediately return to eating normal food in normal portions. When breaking an extended fast, eat steamed or fresh vegetables for a couple of days. Then slowly return to the good stuff.

About the Author

Russ Masterson teaches and serves as Director of Young Adult Ministries at the Church of the Apostles in Atlanta, Georgia. He holds a Master of Divinity from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary and a BBA in marketing from the University of Georgia. Russ has taught and led young adults for the past ten years, helping them wrestle with theological questions, life purpose, and the freedom of the gospel. Russ lives in Atlanta with his wife, Kristy, his two little girls, and a giant lazy golden retriever.

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Table of Contents

Author’s Note about the Book

Before the Beginning

The Day Before

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Hot Dogs and Brownies

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 8

Pancakes and Bacon

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

Day 12

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Day 13

Day 14

Day 15

Day 16

A Big Mac and Fries

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Heavenly Chicken

Day 21

Day 22

Day 23

Day 24

Trendy Chinese Food

Day 25

Day 26

Day 27

Day 28

Cold-Cut Sub Sandwiches

Day 29

Day 30

Day 31

Day 32

Tacos and Mojitos

Day 33

Day 34

Day 35

Day 36

Stuffed Duck and Spicy Apples

Day 37

Day 38

Day 39

Day 40

Home-Cooked Spaghetti

Acknowledgments

Share the Book

Appendix: Practicalities of Fasting

About the Author