www.morgypoo.com

Tale of college humor

Fall meant just one more semester for Morgypoo. The Thing That Wouldn't Graduate was about to pull off the impossible, but I wouldn't believe it until I had that diploma in my hand. Somehow I figured the school would re-tally my credits and add another year to my sentence. "You're still one hour short in P.E.," I could envision on a last minute notice. But then another thought occurred to me: what if I did graduate? I'd have to get a job, that's what! And not just a job, but a career, as in life sentence. I wasn't real anxious to sell my soul to a company, even if they do let you borrow it back for two weeks of every year.

I wonder if everyone goes through fear of graduation. In a way, ten years doesn't seem like enough time to enjoy college life. I mean, why rush things? I was just a kid, for crying out loud.

I stuck with my off-campus apartment for the fall, holing up like a hermit and only venturing out for classes. All I wanted was isolation so I could kick butt in my last term of school. The only people I had any kind of contact with were a couple of classmates who worked on group projects with me. And Cindy. Reluctantly, Cindy. The more she cherished me, the guiltier I felt about not cherishing her. She pretended not to notice.

At last I brought myself to break it off. Midway through one of her weekend visits, I turned to her and said, "It's not fair for me to keep seeing you. I don’t feel the same way you do." As I feared, she was really shaken up. For six hours she tried to change my mind with tears, with guilt, with anything. Over and again she pressed me for a reason, for something she could see as the singular cause of my retreat. I got the feeling Cindy wanted me to tell her something she failed to do, only so she could pledge to change it and keep us together.

I knew breaking up was the right move. I never doubted it for a second. But that doesn’t mean I felt relieved. She sent me angry letters, accusatory letters, guilt trip letters – anything to try and win me back. Like I would run back to a woman who was saying horrible things to me?

I thought the post break-up stage would be like a huge weight lifted off of me, but it wasn’t. I felt Cindy’s finger pointing at me no matter where I went. I crushed an innocent girl. I didn’t know what to do with those feelings. In the end, I made the worst choice: I hardened my heart and tried to ignore the guilt and pain.

Then came finals. A week away! Yes, one more week until that elusive B.S. would be under my belt. So many thoughts and feelings bounced around inside of me. I felt like I was free falling at 10,000 feet, with no idea where I would land, or how many times I would bounce. The funny thing is that I didn't fear the landing; I was afraid I would miss the flying.

Sure I wanted to be done with school, with studying, with lack of income; but there is something bittersweet about reaching a goal that takes up nine and a half years of a man's prime. There's nothing left to strive for. Oh, I know, I could look for a job if I absolutely had to, but that seems so anticlimactic after graduating.

I never expected to be so reluctant about leaving collegeville. The Macomb I loved was dead and gone ever since the Boyzz skipped town. And I never thought I would miss the academic part of school, but as the end drew near, I realized I would indeed. Studying was all I had any more; leaving it behind would create a void in me. Yet again, I wanted to put school behind me and do all kinds of things. Change was around the corner. It was scary, but it was about time.

I had heard about how boring these graduation ceremonies can be, sitting for two hours just to hear your name called off along with hundreds of others. I wasn't the kind of guy to take part in stupid rituals such as this one. However, I had to follow through on a commitment I made in my youth. Years earlier, shortly after flunking out, I vowed to fellow partyers: "If I ever graduate, I'll wear this thing at the ceremony." A wild party hat, that is. My rainbow colored fighter pilot cap. Fluorescent stripes, motel keys, patches and pins with goofy sayings, something only an outpatient would wear. Or a very drunken person. I was neither, but I was committed on this thing.

Out of respect for the Boyzz and the Babes and the Morg of old who never had a chance of graduating, I insisted on wearing that stupid looking hat once more. I wouldn't enjoy it, but I simply had to go through with it. It was only fitting that the new me and the old me should both graduate. That hat represented another time and another man, but that man lived and ached enough to be honored too. And in a way, wearing that hat represented what I had overcome. Finally, the hat made a statement: I did it my way [and I didn't get many girls.]

Lee Harvey stopped by and saw me getting ready for the ceremony in my unusual garb. He couldn't speak. I stood tall in my cowboy boots, pinned the graduation cap to the top of my colorful hat, and pulled the rainbow striped shirt collar out over the gown. "You can't be serious," the man said. "Do your folks know you're wearing this get-up?"

"Not yet. I want to surprise them."

"I'm sure you will," he remarked.

As I walked into the graduation hall, many of the grads stared, some laughing, some thinking I must be psychotic. I didn't care, though. At least I tried not to.

They lined us up according to our majors, then marched us into the ceremony like cattle going to slaughter. You never saw so many educated goofballs in one place. I looked high and low in the bleachers, hoping I could spot my family and shout hi to mom, but I couldn't locate them.

For more than an hour I sat and watched, feeling pretty stupid of course, as names were called off and champagne corks sailed across the stage like artillery fire. Finally they signaled for our section to approach the stage.

When my turn came, I handed the announcer my name card, with my name crossed out and Morgypoo scribbled on it. "Morgypoo," they announced as I walked toward center stage. I heard a lot of cheering and laughing from the fellow grads. A young Morg would have loved it. I endured it.

President Malpass was speechless as he handed me my diploma. Now as long as I was up there, I figured I should pick up an extra one for Lance. So as I shook the President's hand, I asked, "Can I have one for my friend, too?" He was too befuddled to answer, but the official behind him gladly grabbed another scroll off of the table and handed it to me. "Thanks!" I said gratefully. "This'll save my buddy a couple of years."

The ceremony soon ended and the crowd became as swarming ants, every grad searching for family up in the stands. I searched, too, assuming they hadn't fled in the middle of the ceremony. I made my way through more of the crowd until I found my sister Jo hunting for me. "Could you guys see me okay?" I asked her.

"Yeah, you weren't exactly hard to miss. You're too weird." Jo laughed for a moment, eyeing my get-up, then said, "Mom was a little upset at first, you know, about your costume there. But we calmed her down and I think she's accepted it now."

"I guess going for my Master's is out of the question, eh?" I asked, hoping to leave myself open for a sequel.

"I wouldn't bring it up just yet," Jo advised.

At last I met up with the rest of my family. All of them were smiling and trying not to laugh, except my Mom who was laughing and trying not to cry. I grinned at her and said, "I guess you're pretty proud of me, huh?"

Interviews took me no where. I tried all the big office firms, all the classifieds, I even applied as locker room attendant for Women's Workout World, but that fell through after the second interview. Some good the B.S. did me. But I wasn't about to sit around and watch soap operas; I gladly used the free time to write more of Morgy's memoirs. For five months I lived the life of an author. Of course that didn't pay the bills, so I had to find some temporary means of income, just to tide me over. Cashola. Now being a recent college graduate, I was receiving credit card applications from every financial institution in existence, all pre-approved. And how better to make monthly payments on Visa than with a cash advance from Master Card. That worked until I reached the cash advance limit, then I had to get even more cute: purchase $100 gift certificates on Master Card, then use them to buy five bucks' worth of socks, and pocket the $95 change. That's creative financing, the kind they don't teach in the class room.

Eventually MasterCard wanted to be paid, too. My ponzie scheme was dead ending fast. When my finances could hold out no longer, I returned to hell, accepting employment as a ground man for the Tree People once again. And my tattooed coworkers became my only social contact that spring and summer. Old pals were married or involved now, and I had no desire to make new ones.

As for church life, I sat it out. I pretty much lost all spiritual hunger over the past year. I suppose church was exactly what I needed, but I dreaded it even more. Jesus once said that "light has come into the world, but men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil." I stuck to the darkness all right. Not that I loved it; this dark life was the pits. But I was overwhelmed at the thought of approaching God’s holy light again. That would be like the cigarette industry barons asking 60 Minutes to come and do an interview.

Just the idea of joining a prayer group or bible study was painful. How could I pretend to be a Christian at this point? I was so hard hearted, so cut off from other people. And somehow, I had a major anti-God attitude growing in me. I couldn’t face Him.

So what changed? How did I go from being a God-lover to a God-despiser? I blamed it on Macomb and studies making me too busy for God. That was part of it, but mostly it was sin and worldly thoughts. Sin robbed me of any hunger for God. I won’t kid anybody: I liked sin better than Him. I just didn’t like myself anymore.

One other thing I buried myself in: writing. Evenings and weekends I camped in a diner and worked on the Book of Morg. I poured all my energies into writing, and on the days when my creative juices flowed, I was a contented man. But I was still a hermit, a self contained man.

This safe routine went on for months and months, through spring, summer and fall, living only in the words that flowed from my pen. "Stop Living and Start Writing," I could entitle my current saga. My time was productive, but my heart dead.

Is this what happens with age, I wondered. I used to always like myself, and relationships were the most important thing to me. Pals meant something once. And the saddest part was my attitude: I had no inkling to change. Unhappy, trapped, and foolishly preferring to stay that way.

I tried picking up my bible one morning and turning to a random page, just hoping for an answer, a way out, when these words of Jesus' jumped off the page:

How horrifying. So I was worse off now than back in my wild drinking days. Great. Then I saw between the lines: I had seen an unclean spirit of sorts ousted from me in drinking. It was gone, and in its place was nothing. My soul was swept and put in order, but empty. Nothing stood guard any more. I'd thrown away my Protector. And so more unclean spirits had come. Lust, Guilt, Self hatred, Bitterness, Cynicism, Loneliness, Hair loss. Yup, seven of 'em.

The devil had adapted, using all weapons at his disposal. If alcohol was no longer a weapon against me, then sex would do. Yeah, he could manage to turn love into something deadening and self serving. That was my death when going out with Cindy, and now it still had power over me. I shouldn't have been surprised; it's not enough to take his weapons away. Without the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, I became an easy target. How did I lose sight of that precious gift, the Holy Spirit who is actually willing to live inside of me and give me an inside line to God's heart? How did I quit talking with God? How could I rekindle things?

I needed to fill my house, this empty soul of a house. First I needed a major renovation, then I could fill it with good things. Someone was going to live there; if not the Holy Spirit, then these scuzzy spirits who had moved in and littered up the joint.

Come winter, hell's off season, I had to find a new way of making money. Something beyond Visa. Just to tide me over, I shacked up with the temporary agency once again, and my second assignment turned into a permanent placement at a big office firm. At last I made it into the Cubicle World. PC's and copy machines, and people faxing each other everywhere you looked. This I could dig. Smiling people once again. Jokes and teasing, group coffee breaks, young women in skirts. This Cubicle Jungle began to awaken me, to jolt me out of my withdrawal from humanity. I started wanting to know people again. I could actually find things to be cheerful about, I could tolerate small talk again. And slowly I got my sense of humor back. I became the prankster, teasing the girls in my department, until I began feeling part of a group again.

And as I snapped out of my loner mentality, I began asking girls out again. Left and right. I didn't care how the approach sounded, or what was the right way to ask. Unlike a younger and more timid Morg, I pulled the trigger without hesitation, without fear. But nothing worked, absolutely nothing. Even what seemed like a sure thing turned sour. Twenty some girls I asked out over the course of a year, a far more aggressive pace than ever before. And all said no.

What was the deal, I wondered. It felt like a curse, like God had things fixed against me. As a result, I had a hard time trusting Him any more. It's like He had it in for me. He knew what I most wanted, and He blocked my every effort. It was hard to accept. "Did You forget to make one for me?" I cried in prayer one night. "God, did You forget to make one for me?"

My outgoing demeanor was short-lived, giving way to a workaholic frenzy. I guess I was trying to be like my boss, a near impossible task. He was quite the over achiever, a self actualizer, he fancied himself. He really believed in me, so I gave him everything I had, all my time and energy. Constant overtime, weekends, evenings till eight o’clock, hustling to crank numbers and produce reports. Sometimes I'd even work past midnight, but I didn't mind. I was totally into it, a number crunching machine. Gotta produce. I became a clone of my boss, at one fifth the salary.

Somewhere along the line, work became my obsession, and once again I was too busy for people. The other folks in my department would chat and be friendly, but they learned to not interrupt Morgy. I felt bad about that, but I couldn't turn back now; I had too much work, too many assignments. If I slowed down, urgent things wouldn't get done. That was the justification for making people less important than tasks.

For a year this went on, living to work. The job itself was very gratifying, but clearly something was missing. The job did keep my mind busy, but at the expense of my heart, just like my last year of school. Still there was a void in my heart that no amount of work could fill. What belonged in this void, what was missing? I needed to get right with God again. For three years now I had been living apart from my Creator, and I knew better. Jesus died on the cross so that "I may live in you, and you in Me." At one time He did live in me, and I in Him. Those were pretty happy times. Now there wasn't a trace of Jesus in my heart. And these were unhappy times, such emptiness and frustration I felt. I had no purpose except self serving ones, and self serving seemed to turn into self destroying.

Years ago I was convinced of God's existence by His presence in my heart; now I was convinced of His existence by my emptiness without Him. I was convinced, sadly, of man's need to be linked up with his Creator, that happiness and contentment cannot be found nor kept without living in Him. I had to have Him back.

Going back to God seemed like such a scary step, such an exposing ordeal. Ever notice how a dog won't come when you yell at him, when he knows he did something wrong? The scared little pooch looks down out of guilt and just wants to hide. Hide from the yelling, hide from the hitting. I felt the same guilt, the same fear, even though I knew the truth: God the Father greets His mutts with open arms, not fists or rolled up newspapers. And He doesn't stick our nose in the doo-doo we just left behind. Or so I hoped.

After blowing off God and church for three years now, and being miserable as a result, I decided to cave in and return. I grudgingly joined a local bible study, hoping to somehow find joy and contentment in life once again.

At first I was nervous as I joined this group of ten young adults. After all, they were all christians, and me, I was a false christian if ever there was one. Surely it was just a matter of time before I would be found out, I feared. But time showed this to be a pretty safe group. No one looked down on me or challenged me in any way. All we did was talk theology. How old was Moses when he died? Do you suppose Joshua was related to him? I wonder what manna tasted like? The core issues of life.

Yeah, this place was totally safe. I mean, they had no clue that I was such a cold hearted person, or that I was steeped in sin. They couldn't see how distant I was from God, nor how miserable.

I could hide my dead soul pretty easily at that bible study. That's because Knowledge was king there. Relationship with the Living God, we never really chased that. We took turns battling for the right theology, as if that might feed our starving spirits.

Somewhere in scripture God said, "This is the man to whom I will look, he that is humble and contrite in spirit, and trembles at My word." (Isa 66:2) We didn't tremble. We analyzed, we pondered, then we went home. I was safe, so safe that I was still dying.

The bible study wasn't exactly lifting me up out of the pits, so I checked out a small charismatic church called the Vineyard. Some sixty people gathered in a small school cafeteria each Sunday to worship and praise God. For thirty minutes they sang songs of worship, some of them raising their hands high overhead in happy reverence to God, others weeping like they'd just lost a loved one.

When the singing ended, the pastor took the stage, a man in his thirties with a gentle nature but piercing eyes. "I'm going to talk today about the Father Heart of God," he began. "I think many of us have a wounded or distorted view of what a father is. It may be a strict disciplinarian, a cold authority figure, or someone who's never around. But Jesus uses a parable to tell us the true nature of God the Father." And he went on to talk of the Prodigal Son, a young man named Morgy who took what belonged to the Father and wandered off on his own to squander that wealth. "He didn't want the Father, you see, he just wanted the things the Father could provide." Sounded familiar enough. And not surprisingly, the wayward Morgy soon found himself flat broke. And empty. Of course he did, all he ever had came from the Father. With no means of income, he blew his entire wad. Then came the famine, hard times and no friends. Wow, did that sound familiar.

The cool part of the story is when young Morgy decided to return to his Father's home, swallowing his pride and guilt, with just the hope of being a servant, for he knew he had no right to be called a son any more. And when young Morgy was still far off, the Father saw him approaching. He could have sat on His porch and made the son kiss His butt, or He could have told him to get lost. And even if He did want His son back, the norm of that day and culture said He should chill and let the son come to Him. But not this Father. He bolted out of His yard and ran to the son, crying and full of joy. His son was home! How cool. Instead of getting hit with guilt trips and interrogation, the son gets hugs and kisses, not to mention a feast thrown in his honor. Such an undeserved welcome, that was the Father-heart of God. If only I could manage the willing heart of the returning son.

Funny how that sermon should be given on the day when I returned to church. No, he didn’t really use the name Morgy, but he might as well have. It felt like every word was directed straight at me, like the pastor was reading my mind better than I could. Needless to say, I was blown away inside. I felt stupid for staying away so long, and anxious to be welcomed. Anxious, yet still afraid, still my heart had a hard time believing the Father would actually run to me.

I continued going to this new place, for weeks facing the hypocrisy, painfully leading the double life of going to a church so alive while feeling totally dead inside. The hardest part was worship. How do you sing the wonders of God from the heart, when your heart is cold and full of junk? And it got harder instead of easier. The more I approached God, the more I saw my own ugly feelings toward Him. I suppose if I'm honest, I admit that I hated God. For so long, He had withheld women from me. As much as I wanted to like God, my heart burned against Him, feeling like He was a killjoy.

I could only hope that as I kept pursuing God, bitterness and all, He would wash away the ugly stuff. So unlike past years, this time I committed to run towards the light, ogres of sin hanging from my every limb, until each ugly critter was exposed and dealt with. Darkness is overcome by light, so if I stayed in God's intimidating light long enough, all my junk would be burned away. No more hiding, no more listening to fear; I ran towards the murderous light, dying to be cleansed.

I eventually joined one of the church's mid-week "small groups," sort of a cross between a prayer meeting and a bible study. Only this place wasn't as safe as the last bible study I joined; these people went way beyond dry theology. They chased down the Spirit of God with a vengeance. In the bible, God says we will find Him when we search for Him "with all of our heart." That's what these people did. In praying, in singing, they wanted more than just knowledge, they wanted God to show up personally every time they got together. And sometimes I’d swear He did.

I felt so inferior around these people, and so afraid of being seen for who I really was. Actually I felt like a wolf attending a sheep's support group in a sheepskin outfit, like I was some kind of ugly impostor. I wanted to die when I was there. But I had no where else to go; this place was my only hope, my last chance of climbing out of this bitter self hatred.

Heavy things happened come "prayer ministry time." Our small group split up, with two or three people laying hands on each pray-ee. And very often the pray-ers would somehow know just the right thing to pray, the words from God that would go off like a bomb in the pray-ee's heart, undoing all of his defenses. It was down right scary. A real together-looking guy would casually agree to receive prayer, then WHAM, buckets of tears as he could not help sobbing. And afterwards the prayee would look so relieved, and so grateful.

I wasn't quite ready for that kind of ordeal. The last thing I wanted was to be exposed by spiritual ESP, a mere person seeing the innermost thoughts of my heart. Somewhere in the bible it says that when men speak the words of God, people are convinced of being a sinner, and "the secrets of their hearts will be laid bare, and they will fall down and worship God, exclaiming 'God is really among you!'" Okay, I was hoping for a less public way, a less humiliating way. Couldn’t I just be turned into the "after" picture in private, with no one seeing the "before" picture?

I decided to get real with God one evening, so I sat at home and took the gloves off. I spent the next couple hours telling Him off. For once I left the religious formalities behind and spoke from my ugly heart, telling God all the ways that He had ticked me off. For once I was honest with my emotions. I figured God could handle it, and I somehow thought He would appreciate the honesty. It didn’t go over real well. I didn’t hear God say anything back, but for the next three days, I had a nasty case of painful hiccups that would not go away. Sure, that could just be coincidence. Maybe. Or maybe tantrums weren’t the answer.

After being in this spirit filled church for six months, I felt more sinful and dying than ever. That's when I began praying the only true prayer my heart could manage: "God, make me hungry for You. (Because I'm anything but hungry for You.)" And as I made that plea, I began getting "hungry to be hungry", if that makes any sense.

"Change me, God, change my heart!" I began pleading when I most felt the hatred. "Help me to like You!" And it worked. Slowly I could feel a little sincerity come to my prayers, some hunger to be changed. And a desperate craving that I didn't understand. It sure beat apathy. Slowly I gained what resembled a relationship with Jesus again, a two way thing, me talking to God and Him occupying a small spot in the corner of my heart. I still failed all the time. Lust didn’t pack up its bags and leave. That's why it hurt so much to keep praying. I was forced to believe in a God who really loves sinful people. I had to put my hope in a God who loves me even when I bounce back and forth between the Bible and Playboy. And I no longer held any goofy misconception that I could cleanse myself first and then go to Him. That much had become laughingly obvious.

So I worked at talking to God, at reading scripture, and at having a relationship with Him, while feeling more condemned each day. I gutted it out, choosing not to obey my feelings and emotions, or the guilt and shame; instead I chose to believe God's promises, that He is merciful to sinners and that He does cleanse those who draw near and pursue Him.

And low and behold, after several months, I actually began to like God again. Then it hurt in a very different way when I sinned, like I had let someone down, someone who didn't deserve it. At last I was feeling true remorse and not that false guilt stuff.

One Sunday I actually got up the courage to go forward and receive prayer from the church's "ministry team." The Firing Squad is what it felt like as I stepped forward. I gulped as my turn came. The Pastor placed his hand against my chest and asked the Holy Spirit to still my fear. Yeah, that was a good call. I stood there with my eyes closed, waiting for him to say something else, something pointed and specific like, "Demon of pornography, come out of him!" But the man didn't say a word. He waited for perhaps two long minutes, then removed his hand from my chest and moved on. Man, I was so relieved. Never had I known such an irrational fear, yet I still felt lucky to get out of there unscathed. And the very first thing I did when I got home was throw out every bit of smut I had. Somehow I felt God telling me that I had a choice: get rid of it myself, or He would send someone to tell me to get rid of it. So I took the easy way out, voluntarily trashing my prized collection.

I decided to make some other changes in my life too: I stopped listening to regular tunes altogether and listened only to worship and praise tapes. It wasn't as fun as rock, but it left me in a better mood, less irritable and not so self-centered.

Life was becoming a little more tolerable these days. I still felt a far cry from the man that God wanted me to be, or the man I wanted to be. But at least I was in the game now. At least I was in process.

The ugly bitterness that I'd been stuck in for three years was mostly gone, but I still had one painful issue haunting me. How in the world had I gone four years without any sort of girlfriend, four years without a date? Four stinking years, forty eight months without so much as kissing a soul. I felt cursed, like God had it in for me. He can do anything, and yet He was choosing not to do this thing for me. But He’s a good God, so I decided it had to be my bad. What had I done to bring about this drought? I started asking God why. He didn’t answer. At least not directly. Instead I’d say He changed the subject. I could feel God pressing me on sexuality and its place in dating. I always thought it was okay for two people to make love without being married, as long as they were in love. I didn't get that from God's Word, I just decided on my own that it must be true, partly because I wasn't so sure I could ever learn to go without sex, sort of a Morgypoo theology. (Morg 3:16).

I wasn’t open to any answer that was restrictive. Until now. My heart was changing, and I could feel God showing me His heart on the matter. First of all, He showed me how I had always gone as far as the woman was willing to go. That means I was letting the woman set the pace romantically. But now I sensed that God was telling me He wants men to be the leader, and that includes setting limits on romance. If anyone else had told me that, I would have blown them off as being out of touch. But when God laid this on my heart, I could feel the power of this truth.

About this time, I started developing a crush on a certain girl in my church. I mean a heavy duty crush. Up until now, I had carefully avoided checking out the girls at church, because I didn't want to get distracted. Sunday was my one chance during the week to break through all the death in my heart, and I couldn't waste the opportunity by seeking women instead of the Father. But the result was this: I valued women outside of church, and ignored the godly ones. I spent my imaginations on women who loved themselves, and ignored women who loved God. What a stupid choice, I finally realized! So I began considering this one girl at church. And I could only think of her in non physical ways, non sexual. I couldn't dare fantasize about her during the week and then see her at church while seeking holiness.

So I began seeing my heart change toward women. I stopped seeing them as sex objects and started seeing them as pure and submissive. Submissive to God, that is. Driving alone in my car, or sitting at work, I kept seeing a vision of this girl standing and worshipping God with her arms raised. It was such a beautiful sight that it hurt. Over and again that mental image popped into my brain, almost like an intrusion. And it struck me harder each time. I began to understand what was happening: God was showing me what woman looks like in His eyes, such a drastic difference from the selfish and consuming view of my own eyes. All I could do was feel sorry for the way I had learned to look at women. And I could change. I gladly changed.

I eventually sent this girl a greeting card, just telling her I was thinking about her. It seemed innocent enough, but man, did it set off a fuse in her! From then on, every time I went to church I felt like some despicable scum, despised and hated. I felt hated not for sending the card, but for who I was.

Of course God was the last One I wanted to turn to for comfort, seeing how I didn't trust Him where women were concerned. But I turned to Him anyway. Daily I wrote prayers to Him, asking Him to change me, and daily I sang praise songs in my car. Soon my heart began coming back to life, if you call sobbing and realizing your desperateness "life." And do you know what? I was so thankful for that. How nice to be able to feel my true feelings again, and not just cold frustration.

This was the first time I chose to embrace God more tightly when feeling rejected. And it hurt. But I chose to believe that this was progress. Even though more and more horrible junk got uncovered each week, I somehow knew in my heart that I was winning battles. For the first time ever, I was accepting God's discipline as a good thing. I can't tell you how many of the devil's lies started getting kicked out of my heart, once I made the choice to receive the Father's discipline. It felt so painful, but so right, to pray to the very One who seemed to be punishing me.

I was a coffee achiever. The more I drank it, the more I got done. At one point I was up to about fifteen cups a day, a tad over the norm. Okay, I could feel my blood boil sometimes. So I cut down to four or five cups a day. One morning I got up from my desk for another cup of coffee and suddenly I just felt God saying to me: "You don't need that, You've got Me." It sounded so idiotically simple, but yet I was compelled to obey. So I nixed the coffee. Forever. No headaches or yawns, no caffeine withdrawal. I was free from coffee. It no longer beckoned. This had me excited, and I began wondering if God could do the same with my other habits and strong holds.

I began digging a young lady at work. You know the drill. I went out of my way to walk past her desk each day, talked to her at the copy machine, basically took every opportunity to see her or say hey. It seemed like she might dig me, too, but I had the failures of four years screaming that nothing would come of it. What's really weird is that I found myself trying to keep God from seeing it, like He might ruin it for me. As if I could actually keep Him from seeing anything. So I decided to clue Him in on this one. Each step of the way I prayed and asked God to please let this girl be the one.

We began doing things together outside of work, just the two of us, so it wouldn't be far fetched to think that she might be interested. Of course, the burden was on me to find out. Do I ask her, or do I just take hold of her hand and kiss her, I wondered. It didn’t seem fair to impose, so I asked. "Are you interested in, you know, being more than friends?" I asked my lady friend.

She smiled a little and answered that she had recently come out of a bad relationship and wasn't looking to get involved with anyone just yet. It really hurt, probably because it had the sting of four years of rejection behind it. But I did feel a cool sense of peace come over me. The pain was still there, but now it was sweet pain. One of the names of the Holy Spirit is the "Comforter." I could feel Him doing His job each time I needed Him most. As long as I stayed close, He stayed closer.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I remained good friends with this lady coworker. And she was so friendly and buddy-buddy with me that I kept wondering if she was reconsidering. We would make such a cool couple, I kept thinking. But every time that I started hoping, something strange kicked in. Sort of a self rejection. I had to give up each time the door started to open. Just when a little effort might make the difference, I became completely incapable of any effort.

This dynamic wasn't new, but my understanding of it was. I slowly became aware of a spirit of rejection in me, patterns of self defeat and not trying, of walling off my heart as a "protection."

For so many years I couldn't figure out why I hid from the things I most wanted. I didn't see the force causing me to bail out. But now God was giving me eyes for it. It felt huge, overwhelming, so big that no amount of human will power could win out against that strange compulsion to withdraw, to admit defeat even before trying, to admit rejection before getting rejected. To quit and to hide, to say, "Forget it, it'll never happen anyway." It was a spiritual block, and only a spiritual solution would prevail against it.

Every day I did battle with this thought-pattern, and every day I wanted to bail out. I even wanted to reject this girl just so I would feel better. But I chose to fight, and most of all, I chose to approach God with all my heart. I cried to Him, I asked Him to change the circumstances, and I asked Him to change me. The greatest challenge was to praise God in the midst of hard times. But that's what the bible says to do: "Rejoice in your trials and sufferings," and likewise, "Give God thanks and praise in all things." So I worked at praising God when I most felt like blowing Him off. Every day I played a certain kick-butt song, kind of a worship song but with a warrior attitude, and I sang it to Him as loud as I could, believing that He would change me and set me free from this ugly cycle.

I wasn't so gun shy around church any more. I was actually quite fond of going forward for prayer after the service and letting God deal with me through these prayer team members. Occasionally I would get "zapped" as folks called it, where someone would pray something that hit home precisely, and the tears would flow down my cheeks. It might be a painful or difficult revelation, but at the same time it was comforting to know that God knew my heart.

Quite often I would hear a powerful sermon and respond by rededicating myself to God, to turn away from the obstacles that got in the way and seek Him daily with my whole heart. Of course, two days later I would be back into whatever made me feel good, and God was a solid seventeenth or twenty third on my priority list, until the next Sunday’s repentance and rededication.

Then came the day that God busted me for living for the highs, only to blow Him off later. In the middle of getting zapped in prayer, the tears shut off and that sweet remorse went away. I didn't feel a thing; no conviction for sin, no heart wrenching anguish, nothing. And I was mad! I felt like I was getting ripped off. I was starting to live for that dose of pain and correction, and it got taken away.

I didn't "feel" anything after that prayer session, but I somehow had this knowledge that God was telling me to knock off the hit-and-run stuff. No more repenting and fleeing. He wanted steadfastness. He wanted me to love Him and pursue Him even if I didn't seem to get anything out of it. And so, no matter how intensely I sought His face during the next few weeks, I didn't get any Prodigal Son deals. No tearful welcome-homes, just the internal reward of doing what He asks. But I hung in there, I chased His presence even harder, and I worked at not falling away between sermons and prayer meetings. I worked at being faithful and steadfast. All summer I worked diligently at knowing God and obeying Him. This was the longest I'd ever pursued Him without treats or pats on the head. I just kept going, knowing I was on the right track even if I couldn't feel His presence in any special way.

Turn to Chapter 25: Dad to the Bone… http://www.morgypoo.com/ch25.htm