Be Still, My Caffeinated Heart

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my over-caffeinated thoughts.

Earlier this year I woke up one morning with the flu: nausea, body ache, and my head feeling like it was filled with bricks. I had to stay home from work, so late in the morning I was sitting in bed with my laptop, scrolling through the news, and came across an article stating that caffeine withdrawal is now classified as a mental disorder in the latest and fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (or DSM-V for short).

I am not writing this to debate whether or not caffeine intoxication or withdrawal needs to classified as a mental illness. I am writing this because it serves to demonstrate the impact of how something so normal and relatively harmless can impact us in negative ways when taken too far, and how easy it is for me to take something  too far. The symptoms of caffeine withdrawal include nausea, body ache, and a head feeling like it is filled with bricks. And it turns out that it was what I was dealing with that particular day and not the flu.

I was finishing my master’s program and working  full time and doing family life, and had been living on coffee and coke zero. Things had settled down and I had been having some difficulty sleeping, and so the day before I had randomly decided to stop drinking caffeine immediately. This turned out to be a very stupid decision. I knew I would get headaches that night; I anticipated those. I did not anticipate feeling so miserable the following day. I had not considered how much caffeine I was drinking on a regular basis.

According to the Mayo Clinic*, moderate and healthy caffeine consumption is 400 mg a day or the equivalent of 4 cups of coffee. And by 4 cups, they mean literal 8 ounce cups. I don’t know about you, but the last time I had an 8 ounce drink of anything was probably when I had the McDonald’s orange drink in my happy meal. Our coffee maker at home supposedly makes 12 cups of coffee per pot, to which I scoff; we get 8 of our coffee mugs out of it, max. Most coffee shops don’t serve anything smaller than a 12 ounce cup; the Starbucks 8 ounce “short” is not listed on their menu and has to be specially requested. Furthermore, I usually take my morning coffee to go in my travel mug, which holds 16 ounces. I fill that up again at the office before I head out for the day into the community, so there’s another 16 ounces, which means that by 11am I’ve hit the ‘moderate’ level of consumption. Then add a 16 ounce coke zero (or two), a cup of coffee with a friend, and then a couple of mugs at home to help get my studying done. You can see where the math takes me.

It is well documented that heavy caffeine consumption can impact mood – irritability, excitement, nervousness, restlessness, and insomnia, all of which can look like anxiety. Anxiety fuels worry, which fuels fear, and before you know it, what I’ve ingested into my body can have a profound impact on my spiritual state of mind. This isn’t earthshattering news; it’s just that while I’m quick to recognize these truths in a drug addict, or an alcoholic, I’m less likely to see it in the mirror and my own more culturally acceptable, "less harmful” forms of addiction. And if I am anxious about some stressor already and turning to comfort foods – coffee, desserts, snacks – as a coping mechanism, how much more could the effects of those comfort foods amplify my symptoms of anxiety or depression?

It is good to cast all our cares on God, and He is often gracious to meet us in that place, but perhaps He would also like us to take better care of our bodies in the meantime and practice that often overlooked and less warm-feeling  aspect of the fruit of the Spirit, self-control? I like to compartmentalize my spiritual well being from my physical well being, but I don't really see that segregation in Scripture. What if, in addition to praying “Lord, I surrender my anxiety and restlessness to you”, I also work to cut back on the stimulants? What if the cure to my spiritual apathy may have more to do with going to bed by 10pm than I’d like to think? What if a huge solution to my stress is to spend six days a week being busy and one day a week truly resting?

Be over-caffeinated in nothing, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.



My venti mug: 20 ounces of comfort at a time.

 

* http://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-living/nutrition-and-healthy-eating/in-depth/caffeine/art-20045678

The Fear in the Foyer

If you come to Kentucky for a visit, you will see that the front door opens from a large cement and brick porch and into the foyer. The entryway of our house has this beautiful marble tile and the staircase to the second floor is hardwood. The walls are painted a lovely cream color with white trim. There is a half bath straight ahead, next to the staircase; and there is a coat closet. The other day, as I turned the corner from the living room to head upstairs to get something, there was also a four foot snake. I know it was four feet long because all 48 inches of it was stretched completely out as it had begun the slow climb, slither, whatever you call it, up the stairs, presumably towards warmer weather in the bedrooms (shudder). It was not a thin, ropelike, wisp of a snake. It was a thick, hefty, mottled black snake with cold black eyes. It was so large and looking so out of context that my initial thought was “Why would Jain put a fake snake on the stairs as a joke? That’s not like her.” A millisecond later I realized that was a preposterous idea, which left me with the very unpleasant and almost equally preposterous conclusion that a live, python looking fellow was somehow and inexplicably lounging on the stairs in our foyer. I didn't shout. I didn't jump back. I stood very still and weighed my options.

Jain was on the back patio, napping in our hammock. She does not care for snakes. At all. When the kids were quite young, we took them to the Nature Center, and the staff had a corn snake out for the children to handle. Before we could say a word, four year old Courtney had the thing draped all over her like a -- well, like a feather boa. “Mommy, look!” And poor Jain was paralyzed against the wall 20 feet away, with a squeaky and almost hyperventilating “That’s so…so…sweet, honey! My -- gracious, what a big girl!”

I knew for her to see this snake in her home would be a really bad idea, so I quietly went to the garage, grabbed my grill tongs – the ones with the long handles – and walked back to the stairs. Pinching our visitor a few inches behind his head, I picked it up. It coiled all around the handle of the tongs. I wasn't scared. Honestly, if I didn't have the tongs I would have very likely picked it up with my bare hands; I've watched enough Steve Irwin to feel confident in doing this. I took it outside and gave it a toss into the woods. And then I had to decide – do I tell Jain about this when she wakes up? I decided that it would be best to let her know that it had happened, lest a snake reappear at any other time. She was not happy, to say the least. However, a thorough search of the house demonstrated that there were no other reptiles anywhere and also showed that the unwanted guest had most likely made his way into the house via the main water valve hole, a 4 inch diameter cut in the  wall of the entryway coat closet. It is now duct-taped to discourage any future trespassers.

I tell you this story because not 24 hours later I was carrying a basket of craft supplies upstairs for Jain, when suddenly a wolf spider crawled out from among the papers in the basket and perched right on top of the stack, staring me down. It was the size of a silver dollar, and I yelled, dropped the basket, and smashed the spider with I-have-no-idea-what-was-nearby-within-arm’s-reach. That basket could have had priceless family heirlooms in it, and it wouldn’t have mattered; I still would have slammed it to the floor and obliterated whatever was in my way.

The Incredibly Evil Wolf Spider (Potens Mali Lycosidae): actual size

During our first year of marriage I dreamed one night that a large blue arachnid, much bigger than my hand, was slowly descending from the ceiling right above me, and that I was powerless to do anything but watch. I tried to move but couldn’t get away. However, in reality I was twitching and moaning, and woke up my beautiful bride, who out of sheer concern (do you see what’s coming?) placed her hand on my chest to wake me up. I jumped out of bed, threw her across the room and tore the covers off the mattress because I knew, I felt it!, I KNEW beyond the shadow of a doubt that a huge spider had just landed on me and we weren’t going back to sleep until I found the cursed thing. This past spring while driving I nearly slapped myself a concussion when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an itsy bitsy on my forehead.

Jain is afraid of snakes; I am afraid of spiders. While there are dangerous examples of each, we are very aware that our individual reactions to the ones we encounter are completely irrational. It would be cruel for me to demean Jain because of her fear of snakes, and it would be hypocritical and rude for her to tell me to “just get over it” when confronted by a spider. Instead, we give each other grace. We’ve learned to face and work through the fears together.

What then, about the other fears that pop up in the entryways of our lives? What about my fear of failure? What about your fear of rejection? Or the fear of isolation? Or the loss of control? These fears show up in places both common and unexpected and always at inconvenient times: an argument, a date, before an important interview, in the midst of affection and sexual intimacy, in the middle of working on a project, while driving to work. I am painfully aware that most of the conflicts in my relationships are based out of irrational fears that we each hold onto. The fear may be grounded in a genuinely hurtful encounter from the past, but it has grown out of proportion to any present context and is frequently misdirected in the present relationship. My marriage is the microcosm where this is most apparent, but I see it in relationships with family, with friends, with my boss, and even with complete strangers.

These fears, however irrational, are much more damaging than spiders and snakes. So we need to be open to facing them, dealing with them as they are, and moving through them into healthy communication and wholeness. But it starts with me giving you a lot of grace for your fears, because I certainly have mine. So rather than judging each other, demeaning each other, or patronizing each other, may we bear with each other in love, allowing for each other’s faults, and forgiving each other just like we long for forgiveness. And may we lovingly speak the truth, calling out our fears for what they are, confessing them to each other and encouraging each other in steps towards fearless relationship.

The Black Racer (Coluber constrictor priapus) of the Southeastern United States
As adults, these snakes can reach up to 60 inches in length.

 

Poem

 

I saw a rainbow’s ghost today
And thought of you
Its echo against a cold stony sky
Took me by surprise on a sunless morn

Reminding me that no matter how bleak
Promises can still hold true
Sometimes you have to be looking
At just the right time
Sometimes we just don't look at all
-- 2010
 

Of Thoroughbreds

We are living in the "horse capital of the world". Kentucky is serious about horses. Driving around town you will see billboards for horse podiatrists, horse physical therapists, horse dentists, and customized horse trailers. We live on the western side of the city, and a mere mile from our house, four lane suburban sprawl merges into two lane country roads along which stretch for miles and miles the great horse farms that produce the champion racers. The grand barns and stables, the manicured lawns, and the rolling hills enclosed with beautifully symmetrical  parallel lines of endless fences, are quite the sight to see.

I know very little about horses or horseracing. There are two horsetracks nearby. One is called the Red Mile and is known for “harness racing”, where the jocky rides on a two wheeled buggy sitting with his or her legs straight out in front of him behind the horse. The other track is called Keeneland and hosts the traditional jockey rider horse races. Both tracks have betting offices. At this time, I have never placed a bet. If I did, it would have to be based on some arbitrary notion such as a cool jersey color or lucky number, or because I happened to like a certain horse’s name, because really, I know nothing about racehorses.

Each year in the month of September, Keeneland hosts the annual yearling sales, and this is an event that is open to the general public. People come from all over the world to purchase the next generation of champions, and for two weeks, each day at noon the auction starts. Prior to noon and during the auction, all the sales agencies are represented in the stables with all the yearlings available to observe. You can purchase a catalog of all the horses for sale, and then on the day that company will be at the auction, you can request to see that colt or philly. The grooms will walk the pony out for you to look at, and you can look as long as you want. Check the hooves, the stance, the gait, etc, because then the horse will be led to the sales hall. Outside the sales hall is the holding area where you can get a last look and size up your competition of other potential buyers. When the colt’s number is up, he is led into the salesroom, which is an amphitheatre style room with a beautiful half circle stage. The room seats perhaps a 1000 but only has 100 people present. The colt is led by a sales associate onto the stage, the MC reads his pedigree and credentials, and then the auctioneer begins the pitch at $500. Within seconds the bidding has jumped to $60,000, with experienced callers, older men in sports coats and ties, standing at the end of each aisle and barking when the next bid comes from the seats. $60,000 could easily become $175,000, and could even continue to climb. The right colt can sell for 7 figures.

What is so fascinating to me about this, besides the huge amounts of money being swapped in the course of an afternoon, is that a yearling is an untested animal. It has not raced yet. It is still untried, and in many cases is still being “broken” and trained. While it has been certified as a healthy animal, the value and worth of the yearling has nothing to do with its accomplishments. Its value is dependent completely upon who its parents are, and what the buyer sees as its potential. Last week a colt sold for $2.2 million, not because of anything the colt has done, but because its sire is a stallion named “Tapit”, and its dam is a mare named “Justwhistledixie”, both of whom have won races and/or produced race winning offspring.

The apostle John once wrote in a passionate exclamation “Behold! ("gasp" – I like to add a gasp) What manner of love the Father has granted to us to be called the sons and daughters of God!! For that is what we are!!” It’s not because of anything that we have done, or any inherit merit of our own. We are untried, unruly, and in many ways still being “broken.” And yet God, THE God of the universe, the One who made everything and in mysterious wonder keeps it all going beyond our comprehension, has seen fit to call us His dearly loved children. Our worth, our value is found in who He is, and our potential is determined by the buyer, Jesus Christ, who laid down his own life to pay the purchase price or “redeem” us from this world. In fact, He himself becomes our potential. Since potential is based on a possibility, I guess it’s not really potential any longer. Through Christ, I become a sure thing, a sure bet.

However, the reality is, even though I went and observed the auction, I still don’t know anything about horses. In walking around the horse park the other day, Jain and I tried to watch what the buyers were doing as they “window shopped” and examined the yearlings they were willing to bid on. To me, aside from color, size, and the temperament of the moment, one colt was pretty much just like the next. To my untrained eye, they all stood alike, walked alike, and had pretty much the same gait. I would not be able to determine a future champion to look at it. Likewise, I don’t know enough about horseracing to recognize the difference in the sires. Names like “Bernardini” and “Distorted Humor” mean nothing to me, but they mean a great deal to the people who are investing so much in the next generation. Jain and I picked out a fine looking grey filly, #885, and watched as she went through the whole process. She sold for a mere $50,000.

Likewise, John went on to say that the people in this world don’t recognize us as the children of God because they don’t know God. To the world, we may just be ponies, but that’s because they don’t recognize the name of God for Who He really is. They don’t understand the purchase price. But that doesn’t change our identity, nor does it change our worth. God sets my worth; Christ says my potential is in Him, regardless of what anyone else may say.

John’s ecstasy is exactly the point at which my thoroughbred metaphor falls flat. The reality is that we’re not just some economic exchange for God. We’re not simply property or even just his royal subjects (though His kingship is a critical point to remember). John is rejoicing because we have been declared the children of God as a result of his great love for us. And so while our time on earth is compared to a race where we are striving towards a finishing line, the prize is not a gold cup or a bit of temporary prestige. No, we are running into the arms of our Father, like a soldier returning home from war, or a bride waiting for her bridegroom, or a child lost in the woods being returned to his parents . To be with Him at last is the prize. May we run this race unfettered, in absolute excitement and eager anticipation of the reunion that awaits. May we run with the knowledge of our bloodline and whose we are, and may that spur us on to live, if I may stick with the analogy, like thoroughbred champions.

Boundaries In Pleasant Places

I grew up in the rocky soil of New England, and in my little town, which sits along the trail that the minutemen used from Lexington to Concord in the first skirmishes with the Redcoats in what would become the American Revolutionary War, the topography is criss-crossed with low walls of stone. These walls were created by farmers clearing their fields after the spring thaw, prepping the soil for the crops and at the same time using the stone to mark the boundaries of their lands. The walls, standing no more than two feet in height in many places, have existed since the late 18^th century, and they look every bit their age. Even to my young mind as a nine year old boy, I would stand in the middle of the woods and gape at what must be ancient property markers running through the forest in perpendicular lines among the trees. Mossy, leaf and lichen covered, they traverse the countryside, through fields, villages, woodland, silently serpentining throughout New England; I would imagine horse drawn carts lugging the rock from the fields, and men in tri-cornered hats piling the stones down the side of the lane. These manmade outcroppings that have outlasted generations and even the fields they were plucked from, are clocks. They track the land’s rich geological history and reminded me that I was not the first to step in the quiet woods. Each year on Patriot’s Day, the anniversary of the first shots of the Revolution, I would sit on one of these stone walls at the end of my driveway on Bellows Hill and listen for the distant fife and drums of the reenactors as they led the townspeople on the annual walk along the Estabrook trail, the path that the original minutemen took to engage the British, which went right by my house. The year my parents let me join in the trek was a big moment of patriotic pride for me.

There is a connection between my New England experience and where we have moved in Kentucky. In 1774, a man named William McConnell led a survey party down the Ohio River through this part of the country for what was then Virginia. He built a settlement here to stake his claim to the land, and when word reached him of the initial colonial victory against the British in New England, he named the settlement Lexington in honor of the occasion. Near where we live, in the midst of great industrial parks and busy roadways, sit rock wall sentinals built by Irish immigrants in the early 1800’s. These walls are 2 to 3 feet tall, and are characterized by a row of flat stones stood upright across the top, perpendicular to the stones that create the bulk of the wall. In many places the walls are broken and in disrepair. In other places, newer walls, obvious homage to the originals, have been built to mark entrances to upscale housing developments or large private residences. But the fact that remnants from over a century ago still exist in the midst of so much development, industry, and change, is fascinating to me.

Compare this boundary marker with another one nearby, one that dominates the bluegrass landscape: the fences of the horse farms. White or ebony, they are nearly as magnificent in their breadth and scope as the huge parcels of pasture and land that they enclose. With some of these farms being easily a thousand acres in size and many such farms being next to each other, one can drive for miles and see seemingly no end to them, and across the panorama see sections of hundreds of acres partitioned off over the vast rolling hills and valleys of the Kentucky landscape. Beautiful stables and barns, trees encircled by fencing to protect the foliage and the horses simultaneously, all create a landscape that is ordered, manicured, and speak of noble beasts and southern gentry. One expects the country squire to round the corner at any moment on his steed as he surveys his land. Indeed, the horses of Lexington are held in high esteem and well cared for.

Fences protect. Fences hide. Fences divide; as Robert Frost stated with irony “Great fences make for great neighbors." It all depends on perspective and the type of fence used, I suppose. When I look at these low lying rock fences, they speak to me of simple boundary markers. To me the white Kentucky wood fences speak of security and order. They keep horses in, but with their open design and simple wood frames they are poor defences and poor privacy.

 

When people speak of the will of God, I find that many times they envision something incredibly confining and restricting, with hardly room to move, the walls of which then serve more like a prison. This is actually a holding pen where there is no freedom, little movement, and no real life. Often times, especially when wondering what to do next, I find that people think of the Will of God more like a rodeo chute or a vaccination corral, with only one specific direction to move: forward. No turning left or right. The path is clear because there’s quite literally no other option. There are times when this type of fence would seem inviting to me; one path would seem to eliminate a great possibility for error or failure or missteps.  At least if I fail on that path, I can blame God, since He gave me no other choice. I am not doubting that at times God calls someone to such a specific path with a specific purpose and a specific task; the Bible and history are full of such stories. However, I find that most of the time, the will of God is like the great horse pastures of Kentucky, epic in scale and vast in its possibilities. Even at the outset of Creation, God sets a man and a woman in a garden the size of a country with a single fence restriction. God, the good country squire invites with a great joyful grin, “Here are the boundary markers for your protection; but run and work and play anywhere inside this great expanse of freedom that I’ve created.”

 Consider then David the Psalmist when he writes, “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.” And in another Psalm he declares “The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it.” Later in human history, as things got messier and people used walls to defend, lay siege, imprison and dominate, God speaks again through Christ and declares with great joy “Here’s the boundary line: Love me with all you’ve got, and love each other more than you love yourself. By my own self-denial and death you have the way and model to life. And at the end of your life, you’ll want to hear me say ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into my joy.’ Now go. Run and live your life in freedom with all the personality and gifts that I’ve given you to allow for that to happen. Just mind the fences.” That’s a big and expansive space with lots of liberty to explore. Those are boundary lines of good and noble purpose in pleasant places, even if the physical realities of life get harsh. That’s the Good Squire surveying his land and holding all that He owns in high regard. Those are good fences that will outlast my life here.