Sin has always had such a grip on me. Sexual images storm through my mind like a group of puppies running in an open field. Well…they do sometimes. Sometimes, I have victory. And sometimes, I feel like a victim of my thoughts. The thoughts are like puppies running every which way, yipping and yapping the whole time. It’s impossible to control them.
Or at least, it seems impossible.
I don’t know what to do. I feel defeated. And sometimes, when feeling like this, I just let them run wild. And I end up completely defeated.
A fellow widower recently told me, “Yeah, that temptation is just gone. I don’t struggle with porn or masturbation anymore. I guess I have more time to pray now.”
Wow. I wish it were that easy for me. I sometimes wonder if purity is even possible. I know it is in my head. The resurrection defeated sin. But sometimes, at night, I lose the battle.
Surrender involves a mindset of choosing Jesus over relief. This is a secret battle that can easily be hidden from public view. If I say nothing, no one knows. I need to be purposeful and bring brothers into this battle. I need to be accountable. I need to ensure the shame of defeat so I can be known.
I believe Jesus is stronger than sin—at least, I say he is. If the Department of Transportation added a question at the bottom of their driving test that asked, “Do you believe Jesus is more powerful than sin?” I’d gladly check yes. But sometimes, when it’s late, and the urge is strong, I don’t feel it’s true. And, as usually is the case, my feelings win.
Christians fall into two categories: the Honest Christians (or HC), who are willing to admit their struggles, and the Formal Christians (or FC), who give the correct answers to life’s problems. They may add a Bible verse and confuse what they should do with what they actually do. I wonder if some FCs are so ashamed that they fear being honest. They’d rather be safe and give “right” answers, which creates a façade of being “spiritual.” But the implied answer is, “I got this sin under control,” which causes the HCs to continue in their sin and hide.
Honesty
My church has impacted me more than anything outside of God’s Word. My pastor Louie would routinely share shockingly personal stories of growing up in a dysfunctional home with a rageaholic mom and an alcoholic dad. He has always inspired me. He showed me the power of honesty and the strength of vulnerability. It’s in honesty that Jesus meets us. He already knows our failures and wants us to come to him, which involves being honest with others. I like to minimize my sin in a vain attempt to gain approval from others. I don’t want them to see how bad I really am. Because if I did, I fear they would leave me, and I’d be alone. Forgotten. Discarded.
Honesty is compelling; it pulls me toward the person sharing their heart. I didn’t fill out a form with the Department of Transportation to officially be an HC, but I tried. I try to share my struggles with others, particularly with men. Sharing this hidden battle is scary because women who read this may categorize me into the box of “nasty men,” and treat me as if I had leprosy.
There is power in honesty. It’s only in honesty that God can heal. I was always ashamed to admit my sin, but when I was honest, other men would whisper, “You too?”
Aren’t we all sinners? Don’t others open up once we lower our defenses and admit our struggles? Sin needs to be revealed to be attacked. Hiding it makes it grow like mushrooms in a dark basement. I need contact with other men who are also honest. “I can take care of this on my own, I’ve got it, I don’t need help,” are famous man statements that lead to failure and increased defeat. Hiding in the dark blocks the healing process because acceptance can only heal what we fear (rejection) in the community. Sin must come to light before God’s redeeming power can kill it.
For some reason, God has blessed me with the courage to admit I’m wrong. I can only do this when I have a loving God who has forgiven me on my side. That way, I can risk being rejected by others. Brene Brown wrote,
“Men walk this tightrope where any sign of weakness elicits shame, and so they’re afraid to make themselves vulnerable for looking weak. What’s the greater risk? Letting go of what people think – or letting go of how I feel, what I believe, and who I am?”
This tightrope is tricky for me. I want the structure to protect me from being exposed as “weak,” while I respect those who admit they are weak. The Bible verse I pray over myself every day is II Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in
weakness.”
I still don’t fully understand this verse, but its power draws me to it. It’s God’s paradox. The weak are strong, the first is last, and the servant is the greatest in the kingdom of God. I understand that Paul suffered for God’s honor. I know that when I have no strength, somehow God can use me more than if I did have strength. And I understand that Jesus purposely leads me into the dark, weak places of my life to show how great he is.
Easter
Yesterday was my first Easter without Deb. She loved the Easter Drama. She looked forward to hearing Paul, one of our worship leaders, sing “I’m Alive” with the choir. It’s odd how something so wonderful can be so painful. I wish she were sitting next to me yesterday.
Easter is about resurrection, Jesus’ victory over sin and death. I somewhat understand the resurrection, but I don’t feel any victory right now. I feel surrounded by death. Deb died, friends have passed, the widower’s group is growing (not a good thing), and next week, I’m going to the funeral of a friend whose husband shot himself in the head in suicide. Right now, sin feels more potent than the cross. And the resurrection seems like a distant idea that is hard to see from where I stand.
I know I can’t make my faith out of my feelings, but I must be honest about my weakness. Honestly, I feel a little lost.
I’m embarrassed at my mood swings and the power they have over me. I was on top of the world last week, ready for an adventure. Today, I had to leave work early because I was crying so hard I had to leave work. I can’t let prisoners like this, not in this state. I went home and hid. Why does this pain have so much power over me? Why do I go home and hide under my covers like a little boy?
I’m getting comfortable living without Deb… at least, I am sometimes. I still want her. I wish she hadn’t gone. I wish there was a mistake, and she would show up at the front door and say, “I’m still here,” and we would hug. I wish she were sleeping beside me, bumping me in the middle of the night as she turned over.
Silence Engulfing Laughter
And there are a hundred things I wish I could tell her. For instance, all the water was shut off at the prison for a day and all the water would be undrinkable for the next three days. Everyone was given a water bottle. Thin plastic crunchy bottles were everywhere. Even the prisoners were given the bottles, one every two hours. And the prison graciously provided porta potties outside every building for our convenience. However, the women didn’t find it very comfortable to use these portable plastic facilities and took the day off.
Then, three weeks later, all the water in my part of town “went bad,” so I had to do the same thing at home. I didn’t need a porta potty but couldn’t drink the water from the facet. I had to brush my teeth with bottled water. Weird.
I wish I could tell her these things. I wish we could laugh together at how crazy things have been. I want to tell her stories and make her laugh. I could see it now: the port-a-potty incident of 2024, where, for one single day, all bawl movements were suspended due to extreme inconvenience and cold temperatures. I would do anything I had to hear her laugh one more time.
Laughter is my secret superpower. My job was to make her laugh, and I was usually successful. Now, my house is silent, except for the music I play. There is no more laughter here. And the cross seems so far away from me right now.
And now she is gone. And now I don’t feel very powerful. The resurrection seems like an idea, like global warming.
I never experienced the “mad at God” phase of grief. I just felt like I was left behind, forgotten. Not hated, just overlooked. It’s a feeling I’ve fought with my whole life. I know that’s not resurrection power; that’s just pathetic.
I know I can’t rely on my feelings, but sometimes they are so strong that I don’t know if I can help them. I tell prisoners not to trust their feelings, but I feel like a leaf in the wind when they are this powerful.
Let the puppies run all over the open field of my brain is justifiable. But it’s not. Like all sin, it promises relief but only steals my dignity. It leaves me empty and more defeated.
God is good, but I’m still lonely. I wish life weren’t like it is. I wish I could find that easy button—or better, I could find the relief button. I want to get off this pain train and walk on foot. And I get this tap on my shoulder, “No one really cares.” And I don’t realize how bad it is until I write these words.
God is strong. I am not.
He is good. I am broken.
I can’t do this anymore.
I don’t feel like I can “Celebrate God all day, every day.” But I know there will be a day when all this will be a memory, when I will see Jesus face to face. When I hug Deb, we can laugh at our 32 years of event-filled life that ended too early.
But tonight, I’ll read a book and let Jesus defeat evil without me. It’s his battle, anyway.