| Ooh ... shrimp cocktail. |
Here's the trouble: I can not eat out. I have no money for lattes. I can't take pleasure in wandering through Kohl's or Target and buying a new shirt, or a pretty trinket, or a $5 movie because I have no money. And I have to have weekly, emotional conversations with my husband about our marriage.
I am being emotionally ripped open, and I have no where to hide.
All of this lead to a complete mental breakdown on Saturday morning. After a week of feeling kinda down, I finally collapsed in a pile of tears on the couch.
"I have no good vices!" I sobbed to TJ.
"Of course you don't," he said. "That's why they're called vices."
We didn't go into no-restaurants for Lent for deep spiritual reasons. It was simply pragmatic: Let's see if we can finally give up eating out for 40 days. We've tried it before, with no luck. But maybe, maybe, if we pretend it's for Jesus, it'll work.
But that's thing about God, he can overcome your motives.
In the past 12 days since Lent started, I have had rough weeks at work. I feel insecure, there are changes coming and I'm nervous. I've had conflicts with my boss. I feel majorly exposed. We've also hit some tough stuff in our marriage class, and TJ and I have had some deep, meaningful conversations. Positive stuff, but it can still leave me feeling drained and energyless.
Normally, when my feelers are feeling a bit raw, I take solace in the high-backed booth at El Caporal, Red Lobster, 2nd Street Grill ... really, anywhere. Carryout pizza offers sanctuary to me.
I associate restaurants with safety, comfort and intimacy. I've had deep, life-changing conversations in restaurants. TJ and I decided to get married at the Sports Buzz in Rapid City, a short-lived sports bar. My dad used to take me to Panhandler Pies in Sandpoint for special just-me dates. My mom and I would drive an hour to Coeur d'Alene to go to Olive Garden, a real treat. Restaurants make me feel special, like the person I'm with is carving out special time just for me. Nothing will interrupt us, the diet coke will flow as long as we want it to, and if it's really special, and you're not too full, you can have dessert. And someone else will do the dishes.
So you see what God has done to me? He tricked me into giving up my favorite hiding place just when I'd need it most. My mind is reeling.
I know that I need to address my emotional reliance on restaurants — and food, in general. I've known for a while, but I wasn't ready. I'm not ready now, for that matter, but now is the time that God is addressing it. Instead of running to my safe, comfortable place, I am being forced to be uncomfortable, to address emotions and feelings I'm not thrilled about. God is asking me to find comfort, safety and intimacy in Him, rather than free chip refills and low lighting.
In the middle of my meltdown on Saturday, I began reading the next chapter of our "Love and War" book and a paragraph jumped out at me:
"You have got to silence the power of fear right now. Fear, anxiety, uncertainty, panic — they won't lead to one good thing. Not one. Quite often the fear is the unknown future: Will we make it? What is going to happen to me? What is going to happen to the kids? You are secure. God will not abandon you. Emotionally, financially, and physically, you are going to be okay. Calm down."
I read that and breathed deeply. I am going to be OK. I don't need to be afraid — of changes at work, of fixing the cracks in my marriage and myself, of living on budget and denying my immediate pleasures. I don't need to be afraid.
The book offered this mantra, which I wrote on a sticky note and posted on my computer monitor at work:
I am loved.
I am secure.
I am forgiven.
God is with me.
And hopefully in 28 more days when Lent is over, I can remember that. God is my refuge. Restaurants are just food.
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