Jesus Juice

You may recognize the post title if you happen to be one of the few readers of my other blog, Addicted to Faith. I wrote this entry in 2010 after an unusual experience on a Sunday morning. I like it so much that I thought I would reprint here so that my rapidly growing audience (single digit growth!!)(sarcasm implied)(wow double, no triple parenthetic thoughts) can enjoy it also. Well I hope you do...

So I stopped at the gas station on the way into church for a quick cup of hot coffee. Gas station coffee is never very good but caffeine was on this mornings Must Do List.
 The girl behind the counter had an unusual hair color and style, perhaps Purple Peaks would be descriptive enough. She also was the proud owner of an abundant amount of sterling silver, I know this because she wore it proudly in her eyebrows, her nose, her lips and of course her ears.

This young I-Generation clerk  asked of my purchase, "Is that all this morning?". I mumbled yes and laid two dollars on the counter.
She inquired, "You on the way to church?"
"Yes I am", I replied, surprised a little by her question.
"Gotta get your tank filled with the Jesus Juice!", she proclaimed as she handed me my change.
Jesus Juice? I don't believe I had ever heard this unusual phrase, much less ever considered that I was filling my tank with it.
 

This oh-so brief conversation stayed with me on the long drive into San Antonio. In fact, it would stay with me all morning. The sibylline clerk's words rang in my ears all through an inspired Bible study on moral issues. As church service began with a guest chorale from Atlanta, Georgia beautifully singing praises I continued to consider "Jesus Juice".
When the preaching began I thought surely that moment in time, spent in a small Texas gas station on I35 would begin to fade. But it didn't.
 

When the Mercer University youth closed us in song sung so perfectly that I believe the angels in heaven stopped to listen, the mental picture of a tank filled with Jesus Juice, after taking all morning to develop, was finally clear in my mind's eye.
 

Suddenly clear was the memory from last  Sunday's worship service. Last Sunday, (and many more past Sundays.)The bible study had been just as inspirational. The music just as uplifting and the preaching was powerfully God's word. I had left after each service "filled with the spirit". So why did my tank need to be re-filled? Where had the Jesus Juice gone in just seven days? 

Why did I feel empty going in and full coming out?
What happens to our tanks between Sundays?
 

It is easy to blame some of this evaporation on the world outside the church. Sadly our world is not prone to seeing God Monday through Saturday, neither do many church-goers. Or maybe some of the juice is burnt up by an emotional train that speeds through our week, requiring us to expend more of the fuel than normal. Perhaps like a thief in the night, people we know and even love siphon off our tanks for their own use.
 

Pretty easy to place blame.Pretty easy to justify the need for a refill each Sunday morning by proclaiming a "Bad week."
 

I always try to be honest to the person in the mirror and just as honest to those I call my readers. So honestly...

I lose most of that Jesus Juice by poking holes in my own tank. Each time I make the wrong decision, self centered instead of Christ centered, I drive a nail through the lining of the tank, allowing the juice seep out. As the tank level lessens it becomes easier to jab and jab again, making more holes, releasing more of Christ. Sometimes by Saturday night, only faint fumes remain. Just enough to get me back to church, where I sputter in, anticipating, needing, praying for the Jesus Juice.
 

God will let me go on in the wasteful pattern as long as I am stupid enough to do so. He loves me that much. He also loves me enough to remind me that although I may think that my tank is empty, it never really is. He said-
"Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you."
Unconditional.
 

"No one can snatch them out of my hand."            
Unending.

"It is finished"                                                   
Love.

Resolutions

The last time I made a resolution that lasted beyond the 15^th of January was in 2002. I had resolved that year to watch less of the X-Files. Now of course fans of that show know that it was cancelled in May of 2002. Coincidence? I carried the guilt of my resolution for a short while; had the lack of my viewing eyes resulted in the ultimate demise of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?

For a decade I have avoided the centuries old tradition of resolution making, scarred by the X-File curse. But this year, with the influence of my over-caring daughter, I once again looked inward for areas in need of improvement (turns out there were more than I care to admit) and resolved to strive for improvement in 2012.

After careful consideration I landed on improving my overall fitness. As I said earlier there are many areas that I could improve on, I will save those for future years, why be greedy. Now it just so happen that Sara has been telling me for a number of months now that we should join a gym. A superb procrastinator when I need to be I delayed granting her wish, using finances as the reason. Last week when Planet Fitness offered a great deal it exterminated my only viable excuse. So we joined.

Sara told me that I had to go now that we were members, no making excuses about being too tired or too busy. So I reminded her that I am, by design, the most prolific cheapskate she may ever know, and now that I am spending money on this activity I will surely squeeze every dime’s worth of value out of it. I unfolded the long tucked away workout clothes, dusted off my running shoes and headed to the gym.

I had researched the best workout routines to accomplish the goals I have set for myself.  Chiseled biceps and six pack abs are long term, make that very long term goals. Realistically the lack of activity for a number of years pointed me first to cardio rehabilitation. The experts recommended the treadmill and the elliptical equipment. It would be boring, I would rather have worked out on the weights, but I remembered recently getting winded when walking up some stairs, so I headed to the treadmill.

This is not your father’s treadmill. The dashboard has more lights and buttons on it than Marty McFly’s De Lorean.  After a few minutes I was able to figure out which buttons to push to make the tread move at what I hoped would be a novice’s speed. I had selected the program called “Cardio”, after all that is what I was there for.

The initial pace was almost leisurely.  The readout on the dashboard recorded distance, calories burnt, pace and something called MEM.  After a few minutes the pace increased slightly as well as the incline. The latter was a bit of a surprise. I continued to walk and look at the lights on the dashboard. The pace again increased after the allotted time and was now noticeably requiring more of an effort. The sweat began to drop from every pore. The pace again increased. My eyes caught a heart symbol on the right lower corner of the dash, it was flashing red. It was then I realized the handles I held worked as a pulse meter. Red heart! That couldn’t be good. I scanned the dashboard for the digital read out that would tell me the BPM. It turns out that I had misread the MEM, (glasses on forehead instead of on nose bridge) it actually read BPM. Below it, also in red, 127. Now I didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but 127 didn’t seem too bad. The read out that let me know how much time was left in this cardio workout showed 16 minutes. I can do this, I encouraged myself, what’s another 16 minutes.

The BPM increased to 133. The amount of sweat was alarming.

Seven minutes to go. The BPM had increased again to 146, only now there was an audible alarm that seemed to sing in time with the red pulsing heart. I looked around; no one seemed to hear this alarm. Either that or no one was concerned by it. I thought what if this is like the car alarms we hear in the mall shopping lot and just ignore, never knowing if it is really a car thief or an idiot with a new key fob.

Four minutes to go. The BPM indicator read 168. I noticed another sound. It took a moment to realize that it was me wheezing. I am not a quitter, but I am not stupid either, so I pressed the large red (red seems to be the predominate color on the deathmill) button that had STOP embossed on it.

I glanced around again to see if anyone noticed my failed attempt on the cardio treadmill. No one did, they were all in their own world, perhaps honoring their own resolutions. I cooled down by enjoying a slow walk around the facility. I decided that was enough for this first trip to the Planet Fitness.

God is everywhere.

I believe that He was with me on the treadmill. 168 is not fatal, but probably not very good either. But I didn’t pass out and nothing exploded or imploded, I owe that to His grace.

On my out God showed me something else… me. The floor to ceiling mirror that is so common in a fitness center reflected the truth. I saw the red (red again!) in my face. My normally well groomed hair was a mess. I looked defeated. In less than thirty minutes I had gone from a poor picture of health to a pitiful picture of health. My pounding heart had quietened down enough to allow me to hear God say, “Your children are young, they need you for many more years.”

I stopped short of leaving and walked back in. I sought out an instructor’s advice to help an out of shape, aging father with a better and safer approach.

That was day one. I returned each day since except today, after all it is Sunday, and the playoffs are on. Some habits are hard to break.

And then God said....

A little more than a year ago I had started writing a book about conversations with God. I had titled the book, “And then God Said.” It sounded like a really good idea in my head but for one reason or another I was never able to develop it into what I had hoped for. The title pretty well describes the book’s subject, God and conversations I have had with him. Now most of my talks with the All Mighty are one sided, but on occasion I would hear His words. His response comes to us through varying means and how He speaks to me may be different than how He speaks to you. My attempt to communicate my conversations with God to the reader never developed. Perhaps it was God’s way of telling me that those moments were meant just for me. Regardless of the reasons for the stalled manuscript, it now sits tucked away on my hard drive in a folder named “Shapeless”.

I had managed to write one small section that fits well with the "Is God in my pajamas?". I have re-written it to fit this venue a little better. I hope you enjoy it.

**************

The rationales we use to speak to God are as numerous as the stars in heaven. Yet I find myself on bended knee for the same reason over and over. One of the more frequent conversations I have with Him surrounds the subject of money. Now don’t act all virtuous, I know you have likely gone to Him for the exact same reason. 

I have learned over the years not to actually ask God for cash. He doesn’t need it or use it, so I find it unlikely that He has any sitting around. I don’t pray to win the lottery, that’s luck not faith. And finally I no longer pray that the IRS will disappear into a black hole, never to be heard from again. (My pastor told me God probably frowns on that request)

Regretfully I have had to pray about finances more often than my life plan originally called for. But we live with our choices. My conversation with God recorded below has happened more than once, so it was easily recalled-

“Dear God, I need your help out of this situation. The money ran out before the month again.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, God, I trust you.”

“Are you tithing, Jim?”

“What?”

“Are you tithing?”

“No, God. I can’t afford to tithe.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes God, but…”

“Call me back. Love you.”

That was just a small example of the way I had hoped the book would go. Like I said, it sounded good in my head.

By the way, I have worked hard at learning to be content over the last couple of years, so the money prayers have all but disappeared. I am still considering the tithing part. What I have also learned is that God does have a sense of humor, thank Him for that!

The Anti-Bucket List

I keep a list of items or situations I attempt to avoid at any cost; 

A trip to the dentist, 

Consuming black-eyed peas, 

Weddings (theirs or mine)

and Black-Friday shopping. 

My Anti-Bucket List was not formed without great thought and experience. Each item must meet certain criteria; secret-known only to me-criteria. It suffices to say to be included on this short list the item or situation must be so foreboding that great angst overcomes me at the thought of participation. My list was years in making. So it is with great pleasure that I proclaim an addition to this list-

The Department of Motor Vehicles, Driver License Division.

I had delayed the trip to the D.M.V. to get my daughter’s Learners Permit for as long as I could. This week everything needed to make the trip fell neatly into place. I had taken a few well deserved and long overdue days off from work.  Sara (my daughter) had early release from school due to the end of semester testing. And conveniently the weather pretty much sucked, prohibiting any other attractive activity. So we headed off to the D.M.V., one excited the other not so much.

When we drove up to the offices a small bit of excitement did manage to surface. There was not a long line of people extending outside the double glass doors of the building as customary. My heart jumped with excitement, maybe this wouldn’t take too long after all. A parking space within just a few yards of the building added to my enthusiasm.

But my excitement melted away like ice cream in a microwave when I opened the glass door. (Ask my youngest son about ice cream and microwaves).  Inside the foyer, a room about 8’ by 10’, huddled together out of the brisk cold wind of January, were about a dozen people. On the right wall was a single glass door, the portal to the D.M.V. office. Through the glass I spied twice as many people, standing, waiting.  Behind the counter where business is transacted stood but one under paid, overworked clerk. The entry foyer was so small that the line twisted back and forth like a winding road. The end of the line was indeterminable without inquiry. Over the next forty-five minutes a dozen more people would enter, each inquiring as to the end of the line. My momentary hopes of a short visit crashed like an under aged driver.

About every ten minutes the single glass door would open, allowing just one from the huddled masses to cross the threshold. We would take one step forward, anticipating our time at the coveted inner door.

I have been a people watcher for years, imagining what their lives are like, what their conversations were. Due to the small room, I didn’t have to use my imagination to know what the conversations were. There was the little old lady who shared with everyone that she was from La Vernia and how long of a drive it was into town. She let us know this was her second attempt today. I think it was a ploy to move up in the line. I was ready to tackle her if she tried.

Then there was the lady that constantly complained that this D.M.V. office doesn’t use the “Take- a -Number” system. She mentioned this flaw at least ten times. I exercised great restraint, I so wanted to point out to her that having a thumb-shaped ticket with a number printed on it would in no way speed up the process. Her newly acquired friend to whom she constantly complained, let everyone know that the D.M.V. in Universal City did use the take-a-number system and they have chairs to sit in! It was with further restraint that I avoided suggesting that she drive to Universal City, reducing the current wait time by at least one.

At last we finally reached the single glass door. We were next to gain entrance to the second room and begin the second long wait! I looked through the glass and saw that now there were two under-paid clerks behind the counter. Hopes of nearing the end began to surface.

The line in the second room was longer than anticipated. My deductive reasoning that someone had to be leaving in order for us to gain entrance was in error. The person that was at the beginning of the first line upon our arrival was still towards the back end of this new line. How could this be? Did the D.M.V. have black holes where they hid people, only to appear when you believed that you were closer to the goal? The annoying conversations about wait time were not as rampant in this new room. Signs were posted everywhere requesting “Quiet”, reminding the reader that others were testing. Other signs requested that cell phones be turned off. These signs were summarily ignored by everyone.

I looked around the room and saw that most people were looking at the screens of their smart phones. Some appeared to be reading while others played games. One young girl, about twenty years old, was texting on her phone. Her thumbs moved at a lightning speed reserved for her generation. I spied another lady, probably about forty years old. She too was texting but in the style of an older generation; she used her index finger to peck at each letter as she found them on the miniature keyboard.

Then I saw an oddity. Another lady, this one closer to my age, actually had a book that she was reading. A book from the library!  I can’t explain to you why this was so refreshing to me, only to tell you that it was. I began to think about the different generations of all the people in this small room, and how each person had their own stories to tell. This thought development helped the long wait seem less painful.

As we got closer to the front of the line I started noticing something that brought back some of the vexation. People were being turned away after reaching the counter they had yearned for. Missing documents, wrong documents or even the wrong office were the reasons spouted by the under-paid clerks before sending the seeker on their way. As I looked through the many documents in my possession that are required to obtain a simple learner’s permit I said a prayer, “please let it be right dear Lord.”

My heart sank when I saw that the date on the required proof of school attendance had expired. Sara had obtained it from school just before the Christmas break; I had let too much time pass. By now there were three clerks working and the line was moving at its fastest.  I tried to read the body language of the clerks. Which one was most likely to overlook such a minor error? Logic lead me to the one who had been at the counter the longest, surely her eyes were strained. I prayed again, “Lord, let her be the one that sings the word ‘Next’.”

We left without a permit. I left with a disappointed daughter. But she’s strong. We will get the corrections made and once again scale the mountain that is the D.M.V.

God is everywhere. That is what this blog is about, so you may be asking, “Jim, where is God in this story?” Well I’ll tell you.

First; the people. There were so many people in that small office, each with their own story, and each with their own future. Some were comical, the little old lady from La Vernia, soliciting the sympathy of those in front of her. Some were annoying, the complainers about no numbers and no chairs. All were created by God. He sees them differently than I. I pray that one day I will see them as He does.

Second; if Christ lived today and stood in the long lines of the D.M.V., he would likely tell us, “Render to the government that which is theirs, and make sure you have it right.

And last-there was a time in my life that I would have been furious that so much time had been wasted because of a lack of attention. But you see, God my Father has comforted me when I felt let down, when I didn’t get something I longed for. He taught me to comfort my daughter, which I hope I was able to do. And when it comes time to stand in that line again, I will, even with its annexation onto the Anti-Bucket List.

A New Canvas

Welcome to my new blog. A new and fresh canvas to express the random thoughts that sometimes find their way into the mainframe cushioned nicely between my ears.

If you have followed anything else I have written, books or blogs, then you already know that, 1) you are in a very small group, 2) that I appreciate your loyalty and 3) that most of what I have written could be considered on the heavy side. If you have never read anything I previously composed and feel compelled to do so, you can find the links at the bottom of this page. The more the merrier!

Yesterday was a day of epiphanies. It began with a trip to my favorite big box store which resulted in the idea for a new and lighter blog and from which came the name, Is God in my pajamas?   I will explain that in just a moment.  The day ended with a trip to the local Department of Motor Vehicles which resulted in the story for the first blog post.

I think it sometimes may appear as if I am perpetually serious or maybe a bible thumping, wanna-be- religious nut. Neither is true. I can be serious and I do love the Lord. When I write about addictions it is hard not be somber, or if I write about faith it requires a demonstration of seriousness. But God blessed me with a sense of humor, a sarcastic wit and appreciation for both.

I have long thought that God has a great sense of humor, but it almost seemed like blasphemy to acknowledge this character trait of our powerful Maker. Seldom does a day go by that I do not hear or see the humor of God, but I have always kept my observations to myself. Until now.  I owe this rise to a young boy named Jacob.

His name, Jacob, is all I really know about this young boy. I know that is his name because his grandmother used it at least ten times while I stood behind her at the checkout lane of the big box store.

“Jacob, get over here.”

“Jacob, put that down.”

“Jacob, be still.”

You get the picture. Now Jacob has a younger sister, I don’t know her name. She sat in the cart as her grandmother loaded her groceries and dealt with Jacob. I heard the little girl ask her grandma if Jacob was in trouble.

“Not yet.” she replied.

“God wants him to behave, right Grandma?” The little girl inquired.

“That’s right.”

Jacob joined the conversation, “We’re not in church right now.”

“God is everywhere, right Grandma.”

“That’s right. So Jacob, behave yourself.”

My turn to check out had finally arrived, but not before I saw the smile cross the face of young Jacob as he asked his Grandmother,

“Is he in my pajamas?”

Grandma walked away before I could hear her reply but I am sure that it was grandmotherly.

Jacob’s question lingered in my ears for quite some time. Is God in my pajamas?  A question unlikely ever once pondered by the great theologians.  Does his omnipresence cross the lines of our night clothes?  I thought of the hundreds of occasions when I had asked God, “Are you here?”

If you, or young Jacob were to ask me today, is God everywhere, my answer would be resounding yes; as long as we let him in, as long as we acknowledge his existence. He is not intrusive until required. And then you had better watch out.

So I owe the tittle of this new blog to little Jacob, thank you. And thank you for giving me a thought to ponder in the early hours of the morning. I hope it will lead to good stories to share. You see Jacob; I do believe that God is everywhere that I am. Because without him, I am not who I am.