Belabored Chapter 5: Bonny and David

     "Who, being loved, is poor?” – Oscar Wilde

            Tanya and Chuck took the baby to the playground yesterday. That’s another thing – I’ve got to stop calling her that. Poor child keeps reminding me she’s not a baby, she’s three and a half (that half really means a lot to her), goes to the potty all by herself, even picks out her own clothes.

 I’ll be 40 next month, and Jessica will almost certainly be my last child. It’s hard to let go of the concept of my own fertility. Makes me feel old. When I moan about it to Dave, he smiles and says he loves every wrinkle, something no woman wants to hear.

            The way Tanya tells it, Jess took off for the swings like a rocket the minute Tanya unhooked the straps on her car seat. I guess that’s when the diaper bag fell off the back seat, spilling its contents all over the grass. Oh, that’s right, I’m not supposed to call it that. Jess wants me to call it her “big girl bag” now that she’s out of diapers. Whatever. It still comes in handy to carry snacks and juice, and makes for a nice dumping ground to shove things in when I run out of room in my purse, which is most of the time.

Apparently, I neglected to remove the coin filled baby bottle Colleen Caspar gave me last Sunday for the pregnancy center’s fundraising drive. I stuffed it into Jess’s bag and forgot all about it. It must have rolled under the car or something, because when Chuck repacked everything, he didn’t see it. Dave and I went back to the park to search for it, but no luck. Some undeserving kid probably has a nice chunk of change in his piggy bank now. 
I'm so mad at myself. The pregnancy center works on a shoestring budget, and we could have used that cash, especially with Christmas just around the corner. Colleen had even stuffed some paper money in there.

            Dave says I have to let it go, and he’s right.

            “Earth to Bon. You in there, Bon?” my husband jumps into my reverie. I look up from the onions I’m slicing for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Don’t ask me why, but Dave loves creamed onions.

            “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, Hon. Just thinking about the baby bottle again. I know, I know. It’s over and done with, but still.”

            He smiles indulgently and starts cutting up the carrots I hand him. My husband’s the first to admit to being a consumer rather than creator of meals, but he’s more than willing to help out. We have some of our best conversations under the fluorescent light in our antiquated kitchen. It’s on Dave’s long to-do list to hang the new one I picked out, but given his level of handyman expertise, maybe I’m better off waiting.

Suddenly, I catch a distinct twinkle in his eye.

            “Dave Gullickson, what’s up with you?” I say with mock suspicion.

            “Oh, nothing that a kiss from a ravishing woman can’t get out of me,” he teases.

            “Oh, yeah? Well, if I see one, I’ll send her right over.”

            “Now, that’s enough of that, Mrs. Gullickson – oh, Lord, how I wish I could’ve given you a more normal name!”

            I agree, but I’ll never tell him that.

            “Listen, I took you for better or worse, for richer or poorer. If I had wanted a guy named ‘Smith,’ that’s who I’d have married. So let’s get off of the name subject and tell me what’s up with the Cheshire cat grin?”

            “Alright, alright, you wormed it out of me. It so happens that today was a banner day. I’m about to show you something that I have a feeling is gonna make you forget all about the pittance in that bottle. Now, all I need is that kiss so I can show you what I have in my pocket.”

            Every once in a while, I like to catch Dave off guard. I know he won’t expect me to lunge at him with my eyes full of onion tears. So that’s exactly what I do.

                                                                        ***

“Whoa, woman, give a guy a chance to protect himself!” I snort when she grabs for the letter. Actually, it’s a “paid in full” hospital bill for a longstanding debt she incurred before we were married. When she reads it, she breaks down in tears – real tears, not from the onions – and hugs me so hard I almost disgrace myself.

            The bill goes back to when Tanya was five or six. The poor kid had broken her arm and needed surgery to have it set right. Bon’s insurance has always been lousy, and she still owed almost two grand when I married her. I’m not Sir Galahad, but I try to do what’s right. Getting Bonny out of debt comes under that category.

            “Oh, Dave, what a great Thanksgiving present!  I’m so glad this is where we were headed!” she squeals as I kiss the top of her head. That’s something I do often, since I’m 6’2” to her 5’7”.

            She’s referring, of course, to the unforgettable conversation we had the night she asked me to marry her. You heard that right. Bonny’s no shrinking violet, and she knows what she wants. Oh, my lips popped the question, but Bon brought it to the table.

She opened the subject by asking coyly, “Dave, where are we headed?”

Her attempt at subtlety amused me, so I decided to tease her.

“Why, home, of course,” I responded with a rogue smile.
            “Dave Gullickson, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about!” she grumped, mock hitting me on the shoulder as she did so. That’s a mannerism I find endearing; I joke that she should find a support group to help her kick the habit.

I looked her right in the eye and said, “We’re heading for the altar. We both know that.”

She smiled, then frowned.

“What’s the matter, Bon?” I put to her. “I just asked you to marry me. Why doesn’t that make your day?”

“Oh, it does, Sweetie! Nothing’s the matter. It’s just, well, we’re not exactly setting the world on fire with our salaries. Are we gonna be able to make it with kids and all?”

I pulled her close – well, as close as the bucket seats in my 2005 Honda Civic would allow. I bought it new when I got out of college and landed my first real job in graphic design. It’s getting a little long in the tooth now.

“We’re gonna be fine,” I assured her. In the back of my mind, I was having a lot of the same reservations she was, but I knew we loved each other, and that would make penny pinching a little easier. I’m not one of those romantics who believes love conquers all, but neither do I think wealth makes for happiness. Too often, I’ve seen just the opposite. Look at Hollywood.

So we tied the knot, and part of the package in my mind was Tanya’s outstanding medical bill. I told Bon not to worry about it anymore, and took over the monthly payments she had been struggling to make. I added a little extra whenever I could, and after three and half years, the deed was done.

“Dave Gullickson, you are the sweetest, most wonderful man who ever walked the earth!” she crows as we continue prepping for Thanksgiving. As usual, I chop and she cooks. My idea of haute cuisine is my signature tuna salad, the secret ingredient being just the right amount of wine vinegar, but the girls don’t want to have that every night, so I humor them by pretending to enjoy the amazing meals Bon turns out. My jobs are things I can’t get into too much trouble with, like peeling potatoes and tearing up bread for stuffing.

“That’s what they tell me,” I say in response to her gushing. “So how was work today?”
“Oh, it was good. A little sad. A woman came in today with her husband. They’re

looking for hope ’cause they just found out their baby’s gonna be born disabled. May

 never walk. They don’t know where to turn, so they came to us.”

“Man, that is sad. I can’t imagine what we’d have done if that had happened with Jess.”

“Or Tanya, for that matter,” she reminds me.

“Oh, sure, of course, but I mean, I wasn’t around then, so I’m just thinking of Jess.”

“I know what you mean, Sweetie. Anyway, we referred them to some agencies that deal with their child’s disability and gave them a few pamphlets. We told them we can help them out with diapers and things like that, clothes even, if they need it. I don’t think they’re gonna take us up on our offer of counseling, not that we have much to say that could cheer them up at this point, but we just hope we can steer them away from abortion.”

“Y’know, Bon, I’d like to know what you could say to keep them from going that route. I mean, you know I'm not for it, but in all honesty, what a burden.”

“Well, the good thing is they’re religious. They attend a Catholic church and their priest actually sent them to us. Works out better when ministers don’t try to tackle these sorts of problems long term. They can’t be experts on everything, but this is all we do, day in and day out. We know who to connect them with, the mountains they’re gonna have to climb. We don’t just say, ‘Don’t abort; God doesn’t like that.’ We come alongside them and stick with them.”

This is Bon’s passion, but for me, it’s just part of our bread and butter. But I do know this: I meant what I said to Bon. I wouldn’t want to know how I’d react if something like this came my way. I consider myself a God-fearing man, but this is one trial I’m glad He didn’t see fit to send me.

I guess my eyes are starting to glaze over because Bonny changes the subject.

“Listen, let’s not talk about work. We have so much to be thankful for. Two healthy kids, a nice home, one less medical bill, thanks to my wonderful husband, good jobs where we make a difference – oops, there I go again, talking about work!”

“You do good work, Hon,” I reply, then turn my attention to hacking up celery for the stuffing. 

“No, Sweetie, it’s gotta be minced fine, like this. Remember how I showed you last year?” Bon says, smiling indulgently and taking the knife from my clumsy hands.

Belabored Chapter 1: Tanya

“It’s not time to worry yet.”

 – Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird

“Tanya, honey, are you sure you need more potatoes?” Mom asks with emphasis on “more” and an eye on my protruding gut.

            Since I loathe being reminded about my weight, I answer with a resounding, “No, I probably don’t need more, but I did want more, and thanks for embarrassing me in front of the whole family.”

            With that, I haul myself up from the table and stomp out of the kitchen, ignoring her apologies and pleas for me to stay. I thump up the stairs to my room and slam the door. I throw myself onto on the bed and swing my size 10 feet onto the comforter, taking great pleasure in not removing my shoes because that annoys Mom.

I refuse to let tears come.

My shirt is high-waisted, and when I lie on my back, I can see how flabby my stomach is. It literally ripples like jello. We read an article in my ecology class about how whale blubber can be boiled down to make oil. I don’t know about whale blubber, but I bet my belly fat could power a whole village for about six months. Mom’s advice about the potatoes has brought all that up, so I do what I always do when I get to feeling awful about my body – I mentally compare myself to some of the massive girls I go to school with. Lucy Draper must weigh 250 pounds and carries herself like an orangutan. Somehow it makes me feel better to envision her in the dress she wore last year to the junior prom – a flowery nightmare that accentuated every bulge.

“Tanya!” Mom’s apologetic voice interrupts my mental image of Lucy swinging her tree trunk arms on the dance floor.

I start to respond, then remember how much it bugs her when I play deaf.

“Tanya, please answer me!” she begs, her footsteps getting closer to my door.

Why should I make things easy on her, when she causes a lot of my appearance problems to begin with? She’s always trying to save money by taking me to the thrift shop. What 17-year-old girl in 2017 America wants to shop in second hand stores? I have a hard time finding clothes that look right anyway because my scrawny shoulders are way out of proportion to my mega-hips.

Mom loves to tell the story of how Aunt Fran almost died having my cousin, Sam, because her hips are narrower than the gate Christians have to squeeze into to make it to heaven. That’ll definitely never be said of my hips! When I see myself in the mirror, my body looks like a light bulb (the old-fashioned kind my stepfather hoards, not those corkscrew shaped deals).  I’m only about 30 pounds overweight according to the doctor, but the BMI charts the gym teachers keep shoving at us every year say I’m obese. Obese! It’s a little disheartening when you’re not even out of your teens, and the powers that be declare you a whale just because you’re too short for your weight.

Mom tries the knob on my bedroom door. I smile, thinking of her irritation when she jiggles it without success. 

“Alright, Tanya, that’s enough. Please open the door!”

Jess screams from the kitchen, “Mommy, do I hafta eat my peas?”

Mom thinks she’s good at multi-tasking, but she gets distracted easily. Even though David answers my sister’s whining with, “It’s OK, Bon, I’ll take care of her,” Mom can’t leave it alone.

“Yes, Jessica, you have to eat two spoonfuls, just like always! You know the rule!” she bellows, instead of letting David handle it.

She lowers her voice but continues speaking frantically through the door.

“Tanya, I don’t wanna play this game with you. I know you can hear me, and I need you to open this door!”

“Fine!” I bark. I rise from the bed and turn the knob to detach the lock with as much defiance as I can muster.

Belabored: Opening Quote, Endorsement and Prologue

Faithful readers, thank you so much for your patience as I worked (with the invaluable help of my tech mentor, Angela Schans) to set up a Facebook page dedicated solely to posting excerpts from my novel, Belabored. The following quote, delivered poignantly by one of my favorite actors, Jimmy Stewart, sums up the purpose of the book:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other. Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by     

           Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

I chose this as my theme quote because many believe the goal of reversing the runaway train of abortion in this country is a lost cause. Perhaps it is, but I want to go on record as doing my part to shed light on the inhumanity of this particularly cruel form of murder, and on how the institutionalization of this horrific practice has affected the generations of children who have been raised in the post-Roe v. Wade culture.

So, without further ado, Belabored!

                                                                Endorsement: 

“Real people with complicated lives are the ones who wrestle with abortion decisions. The challenges and victories and their ripple-effects come alive through this compelling novel.”

      

          – Karen Hess, Executive Director, AlphaCare Pregnancy Center, Philadelphia, PA

             

Prologue: Tanya

“Love is a fruit in season at all times, and within reach of every hand.” – Mother Teresa

          I sit frozen on a hard chair while I wait for my visitor. My eyes are practically swollen shut from the barrels of tears I’ve cried over the past few – what? Hours? Days? Months? I don’t even know what day it is, let alone how long this has been going on.

My chest and belly ache from racking sobs. Though my stomach’s empty, I fight against perpetual nausea. It even hurts when I go to the bathroom. I wonder if this is the start of a UTI.

            He comes in. His dark, wavy hair is tamed back in its usual pompadour-ish way. My grief fog lifts for a minute, and I think for the thousandth time how someone needs to take him aside and bring him up to date on current trends.

He’s gained weight since I last saw him. His head looks precarious topping off that pear-shaped build, like somehow it might just topple off those skinny shoulders and land on the floor next to those gargantuan, smelly feet of his.

His clothes, as always, reflect a tight budget and even narrower fashion sense. At times I’ve been embarrassed by his lack of style. Yet, today he carries with him a strong presence that somehow I never noticed before.

He sits down across from me and leans forward.

            I don’t look at him, but instead keep my eyes on the paint-chipped floor. Slowly, he raises my face and offers me his handkerchief.

Who carries a handkerchief these days? I find myself thinking ironically, followed by, What am I, crazy? Who worries about nonsense like that at a time like this?

“How ya doin’?” he asks.

            “What do you want?” I choke out.

I pick at a piece of loose skin around what used to be one of my fingernails. It’s gnawed and swollen and starts to bleed. I hear Mom’s voice in my head.

Oh, Tanya, honey, you’ve bitten it down to the quick again! Oh, Sweetheart, you have such pretty hands, if only you wouldn’t bite your poor little nails!

            Without thinking, I wrap his clean, white hankie around my bleeding finger. I wonder if he’ll recoil or say something cute like, “Just keep it.” But if he noticed, he doesn’t let on.

            “I came to talk to you,” he replies softly.

            I sneer.

            “There’s nothing to talk about. My life’s ruined.”

            His voice doesn’t waver as he responds, “Oh, no. Your life’s just beginning. And I still want to be a part of it.”

            “Yeah, right!” I smirk. “Well, that’s not funny. It’s – it’s – it’s cruel!”

            “Tanya, don't you get it? I know what you've done, and I still want you in my life."

             He pauses, then adds, "Whaddaya say?"

I Am Solomon

The Problem

King David’s son, Solomon, was both the richest and poorest king who ever walked the earth. He possessed both the wisest and most foolish head to ever wear the crown. He experienced greater pleasure and deeper despondency than any sovereign before or since his time.

I am Solomon.

Like this fortunate king, I enjoy various trappings of success, and have been richly blessed with numerous mountaintop experiences. I've raised two sons who are functioning well and responsibly. I graduated college in high standing, have held an array of responsible jobs, and enjoy respect and praise from many colleagues. I'm also a published author.

And like Solomon, I'm struggling to keep myself centered emotionally and spiritually. At times I find it difficult to lovingly detach from hard issues that friends and family are experiencing. I allow myself to become overloaded by my own problems and those of this sin-sick world. Empathy is one thing; being bogged down and immobilized is quite another. The easiest (and default) way for me to cope with obstacles that seem Herculean is  – you guessed it –to resort to my idols of food, sleep and entertainment.

The Danger Zone

One need only read a few verses of Solomon’s Book of Ecclesiastes to realize he was in a bad way. Although he displayed great patience and perseverance – not to mention humility – in constructing his kingdom, his disobedience in later life caused consequences which remain to this day.

Thus, we find, despite myriad achievements and blessings, he fell prey to great depression in later years. The words “vanity” and “grasping for the wind” appear repeatedly in the 12 chapters of Ecclesiastes; I stopped counting after finding 20 references in the first four chapters alone! Over and over, the king identified his greatest joys and accomplishments as vain, or futile.

I submit that the reason Solomon’s world view and reign veered off course can be traced back to two little words in 1 Kings 11: but (v.1) and therefore (v.11).

He pretty much had the world by the tail, but he allowed unbelieving wives and concubines to get inside his head and into his bed. Therefore, like many a smitten lover, wisdom notwithstanding, he subrogated his priorities to please the object(s) of his affections. The result? Idol worship, disillusionment, and disaster.

My idols may not be made of wood and stone or even flesh and blood. Mine prattle at me from TV screens and beckon from the kitchen.

How do your idols ambush you?

The Conviction ... and the Cliffhanger

The way I figure it, if the wisest, richest, most powerful king the world has ever known could get himself into so much trouble that within a generation of his death, his mighty kingdom would be reduced to one-twelfth of its size, perhaps I’m not immune to the but-therefore phenomenon, either. My epitaph might read something like this:

"Thea had a lot of writing talent and loved the Lord deeply, but she loved food and leisure a bit more than her God. Therefore, she wasted much time catching z’s and gorging, to the point where she became a diabetic heart patient, and had little time or energy left for living, let alone exercising the gifts God bestowed upon her."

Heaven forbid!

Therefore, as of this moment, I’m taking back my mental and physical health and kicking Satan to the curb (with the giant boots of almighty God, not my own flimsy footwear). Stay tuned for my next post, in which I’ll explain a major decision I’ve made which I believe will help me stay accountable with my time, and fulfill one of God’s major purposes for me.

In Defense of Fits and Starts

The Temple

"'Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,'

Says the Lord of hosts.

'Who are you, O great mountain?

Before Zerubbabel you shall become a plain!

And he shall bring forth the capstone

With shouts of Grace, grace to it... The hands of Zerubbabel have laid the foundation of this temple; his hands shall also finish it... For who has despised the day of small things?'"

  ~  Zechariah 4:6,7, 9, 10 ~

The preceding verses quote God's challenge to the Jewish people who were returning to their homeland after 70 years of captivity. Their house of worship, the great temple in Jerusalem, had been destroyed by the Babylonians and, now under Persian rule, the Jews were being granted the opportunity to rebuild this most sacred of all buildings. The man charged with the responsibility was the governor of Judah, Zerubbabel.

Verse 10 is particularly striking because, in the midst of issuing a Herculean challenge, God refers to "small things."

The house of the Lord wouldn't be rebuilt in a day. It took seven years for King Solomon to build the first temple; realistically, then, the rebuilding process would likely take as long or longer. All things of magnificence and magnitude require much time, planning, expense and effort. 

And all massive tasks are accomplished one small step at a time.

Fits and Starts Explained

Another way of saying this is, big jobs often come together in fits and starts. One step forward, two steps back, as the saying goes. Construction crews have to pause projects when inclement weather interferes with man-made schedules. Illness sends the busiest of individuals to their beds, sometimes for prolonged periods, until God mends their ailing bodies. Disasters like September 11 and Hurricane Harvey sweep away dreams in a matter of hours, and exhausted relief workers and devastated homeowners have no choice but to deal with one catastrophic piece at a time.

Mueller’s Fits and Starts

George Mueller, the German-born pastor who preached and ministered in England during the height of the Industrial Revolution, is an excellent example of fits and starts. As a young Christian, he aspired to be a missionary. As every door in this arena closed to him, he sought instead to preach. Unsure of himself, he at first memorized others' sermons and merely recited them to his long-suffering congregation! 

His efforts to live a holy life too often yielded just the opposite, and he became discouraged. All this time, however, God was shaping this imperfect vessel, teaching him the value of a life devoted to prayer and Scripture. During a period of illness when Mueller was "laid up," so to speak, he took time to study the Bible with a fellow believer. This period of respite and contemplation proved most profitable, for it shaped his beliefs and laid the groundwork for the rest of his ministry.

This extraordinary man's life of service hinged on the word of God and prayer, prayer, and more prayer. Mueller went on to launch the Scriptural Knowledge Institution, which led him to establish the schools and orphanages for which he is best known. Because he took time to seek the Lord's will on his knees, he was ready when God placed in his heart the idea of creating safe, loving homes for countless orphans who otherwise would likely have been abused in workhouses. 

Conclusions

Two of history’s most remarkable mega-projects – the Temple in Jerusalem and George Mueller’s orphanages – emerged from humble beginnings. Displaced people returned to their homeland after decades in captivity, and proceeded to lay one stone on top of another until the Lord’s house was restored. An immigrant preacher threw open his door to thousands of disadvantaged children, teaching them to revere the God he served. Spurning setbacks, these trailblazers relied on heavenly wisdom to accomplish stunning feats.

Amazing how fits and starts can turn into faits accomplis.

Work Consulted

Pierson, A.T. George Müller of Bristol: His Life of Prayer and Faith. Grand Rapids: Kregel Publications, 1999.

Quicksand

The Blessing and the Curse

Summer vacation can be an amazing time of refreshment and rejuvenation. It can also be a time of intense idleness and aimlessness. Summer 2017 has been for me an interesting – and somewhat frustrating – combination of both.

I hit the ground running in June and pounded my way through about two-thirds of my annual three-month vacation, reasoning that, since I’m privileged to have this much time off every year while most of my cohorts are muddling through from nine to five, it behooves me to make my down time count.

To that end, I plugged away at writing endeavors; started teaching a Bible study; redoubled my prayer life; chipped away at house and organizational projects; ramped up my health maintenance; and spent quality time with some dearly loved but oft-neglected quality people.

But now I feel like I’m floundering in quicksand. For the last month or so, I’ve been having great difficulty structuring my time, which almost always goes hand in hand with giving in to my “besetting sins” of overeating, oversleeping, and overindulging in entertainment. Even as I write this, something dangerous is wooing me from the refrigerator – something which will tease my taste buds into wanting MORE, and ultimately send me stuffed and sleepy away from the keyboard and into slumber land or the abyss of entertainment.

The Siren Call

I can usually see the train wreck coming. I wake up early enough (54-year-old kidneys see to that), but feel overwhelmed by the need for more sleep, regardless of the number of hours logged with my mattress. I think about my to-do list, and feel unwilling to tackle even the smallest task. Or, conversely, I have little on the agenda, which provides all the more reason to take it easy.

I give in to the siren call of the sandman, and two or five hours later (yup, I can be an Olympic sleeper when time permits), I wake up disgusted and demotivated. Inevitably, this late start coincides with minimal or no time spent planning the day with the Lord, which leaves me feeling unwashed and undressed, so to speak – i.e., generally ill-prepared for whatever the next 24 hours will hold. And make no mistake: on days like this, some unforeseen crisis or challenge will inevitably arise like a hailstorm, pummeling me with choices and calls for action requiring alertness that comes, not from excess sleep, but preparation.

The Worldly Causes

I’ve managed to identify some of the reasons I’ve gotten off track.

For one thing, as anyone who works in education knows, the beginning of each school year is like starting a brand, new job. New classes, new schedule, new faces, new everything. The anxiety starts to creep in towards the end of July, and is pretty much off and running by mid-August. The harder one tries to pretend September isn’t coming, the faster the belly butterflies multiply.

Also, as I mentioned in a recent post, I allowed myself to become discouraged about the prospects for having my novel published. Fear not; I don’t plan to rehash that worn subject! Suffice it to say, figuratively speaking, I slammed the book shut and locked it up tight, daring anyone (myself included) to try to wrestle the key out of my clenched fingers. The closest I came to revising or even just revisiting the text was when I posted one chapter online to illustrate a point.

The Other-Worldly Causes

Finally, I believe Satan himself is trying to incapacitate me. My very success in the early part of the summer is causing other-worldly warfare. Now, before you write me off as a highfalutin lunatic, consider the following words from the apostle Peter:

“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour” (1 Peter 5:8).

This verse in context clearly indicates that the enemy is on the lookout for believers, staking his claim wherever he finds Godly obedience. Peter knew what he was talking about. Shortly before Christ’s crucifixion, the Savior strongly cautioned His rookie disciple (whom He referred to in this instance by his given name, Simon) to be on guard against Satan’s schemes, lest he disown Jesus. Sadly, poor Simon, AKA Peter, was caught up short despite the Lord’s warning, and did deny Christ as predicted.

If you need more evidence, check out Job's story, most of which is dedicated to the proposition that Satan can and does target individuals who strive to please the Lord. It’s neither pompous nor egotistical to take a lesson from this book, which merits 42 chapters of God’s attention; on the contrary, it is prudent and wise. While Satan may not consider me important enough for him to attack personally, he has plenty of minions he can assign to do his dirty work. The point is, the more growth and willingness he sees on the part of God’s children, the more resources he’s likely to devote to derailing them.

The Root Causes

When I ask myself why I might have made Satan’s hit list, strong reasons come to mind. First of all, my prayer life has expanded exponentially since I a) combined forces with my dear friend, Tina, many years ago to pray on a regular basis, and b) committed to pray weekly with a dedicated group of believers in a church setting.

The simple act of prayer can be compared to the military strategy of suppressive fire (also known as covering fire). I’m not an expert, but as I understand it, one goal of this game plan can be to deflect enemy fire from one’s comrades by making oneself a target. This seems to me a major by-product of prayer, as when we bring others’ concerns before the throne of grace, we simultaneously bring the ire of Satan down on ourselves.

My aforementioned prayer partner, Tina, has set up prayer schedules with nearly a dozen women on a regular basis. She also spends time in worthwhile pursuits such as signing petitions and keeping herself and other believers up-to-date on world happenings that impact the church at large. A true intellectual, Tina finds her greatest enjoyment in praying and studying God’s word in the company of other saints. When I consider that both she and I are encountering mega-angst at the moment, I have to scratch my head and ask if it’s just coincidence, or if powers and principalities in heavenly places might, in fact, be gunning for us. Since we have been joining our voices in prayer consistently for many years, it seems logical that Satan would have every reason to come after us.

In addition, my Bible study is having a broad impact. The participants are drawing closer, forming a contact list so they can support one another. They’re investing in reliable translations of Scripture with solid study notes. They’re trying to memorize the names of the books of the Bible, in order, so they can more efficiently follow sermons and teaching materials that reference this most important of all documents. Why wouldn’t the ruler of darkness want to thwart a thriving ministry like this, and its leader in particular?

The Antidote

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. Also we have come to believe and know that You are the Christ, the Son of the living God,” Simon Peter proclaimed boldly in John 6:68.

Interestingly, Peter’s declaration of loyalty came on the heels of Jesus performing a miracle in which He multiplied a small amount of food to feed multitudes of people. After performing this physical wonder, the Savior went on to explain the spiritual implications:

“Jesus answered them and said, ‘Most assuredly, I say to you, you seek Me, not because you saw the signs, but because you ate of the loaves and were filled. Do not labor for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to everlasting life, which the Son of Man will give you, because God the Father has set His seal on Him” (John 6:26-27).

Jesus was calling out His audience for being satisfied with a food fix, when what they needed was a spiritual fix. I see this as directly relevant to my situation. Rather than narcotizing myself with physical pleasure which never lasts, I’d do well to seek out the One who can fill the real, underlying hole in me, and keep it full permanently.

Only then will I begin to emerge from the quicksand.

Stay tuned for part 2 of this topic, entitled I Am Solomon