And the phone barely holds a charge anymore. You think it would be annoying. It is. But there is one cool thing about it though: I entered a greeting a while back on it. Problem with that nifty feature is I'm one who doesn't turn off my phone too often. So I never really had a chance to be greeted by my phone.
Such a strange concept: a mechanical being greeting me, a human being. Of course it took the parrot route and repeated what I input. And thus I decided its fate. My phone is a Christian. It's really a one-liner preacher stuck on repeat for all of time to come till I junk the little pious bugger for a more sophisticated one-liner preacher. But still. It always greets me with:
God is an addiction, not a one-time hitch.
And this reminding-me greeting is of more use to me now than it ever has been before. I don't remember the night those words came out of my mouth. I don't remember where the idea came from. But it is a glimpse into the quintessential me. It is a one-line explanation into why I partake in such a pious-prude-almost-none-socially-acceptable-practice every Sunday.
"Hi, my name is Greg and I'm addicted to the Invisible Divine." And like any addict, I couldn't allow anything to get in the way of the climax. I need my highs every Sunday. But that's only how it began. Now I'm starting to give into this addiction day after day after day.
Come on, I went from once a week hits to driving an even longer distance to get to Hayley's on any day and any time slot because I think that girl's got it. She built a prayer room. That's unreal. But it's a great way for me to ditch out on the norms a 24-year routine - Church that is and let's not dwell on the fact that I called it routine. The routine comes with my waking up each Sunday to make my way to Middleboro. It's not the actual service being routine because if you experienced my church then you'd see it's far from routine as in typical Catholic, Protestant, or white-steepled church of any denomination. And I like it. A fan, remember?
The distance to her house doesn't matter. Nor would a mountain bother me. I'd still scale that heavenward land in order to find the Dealer...
You know, this is the corniest metaphor I've ever come up with, but it fits. And I hope you don't mind the fact that I just related God to a drug dealer. Oh piety! Oh the conservative-liberal wars! Go ahead, say it in your squeaky "Oh my God I can't believe he just said that" voice. It's cool.
I said it. And know what's worse? Right now I can't help but think about that high school Top 40s Hit who's chorus sang: "I'm a-dick, I'm addicted to you." I bet you remember that Emo stage we all used to rock out to. Come on. That was the sweetest way of saying, "I love you" back in '03. Sort of like last year's "I will possess your heart" creep-out way of proclaiming your deepest affections to a two week fling.
But seriously, I'm a-ddic-ted to all attributes Divine playing out in my life. Even after being diagnosed with cancer, I had to fill my addiction's (a.k.a. heart's) craving.
STORY TIME...
I went to church for three weeks before my surgery was scheduled. And for three weeks I cried in my green chair pew. Amber sang beautifully as she always does: "I love you more than life."
And if I wasn't standing at that point then I'd struggle to my feet. Don't know how I did it. Don't know how I rose up to sing that song each time it got played. I must have found some reserved strength, some heavenly strength. I don't know.
A cancer diagnosis sends you to the floor. It's like all your insides decide they're going to have a gravity-driven race. Your knees buckle, but your heart's probably falling faster. Your eyes are confined to quarters, but they do what they do so naturally and cry when emotions run rampart. Hysterical cries. All your energy's spent trying to control the weight of the world mudsliding out of your eyes. Blinding whatever room you're in. Your feet twist your own ankles like one part of the body is violently poised against the other. In an instant you have 80-year old hips. And your hands are drunk on emotion, confused. Do they burry your face? Or do they brace your fall?
Am I over-dramatizing this one minute of life?
No.
But somehow on three consecutive Sundays I arose to my feet to give adoration to the Lord. And for three weeks I questioned whether I truly loved the Lord our God more than life itself. I had the weight of a cancer diagnosis compacting me on every side, all walls pushing in on me. And amidst all of that calamity I had to figure out if those were more than lyrics I was singing in chorus with the rest of the congregation.
Were they truth for me?
Was I really openly declaring to God that I loved Him even if this cancer killed me?
Was it in a fashion where it wasn't merely lip service?
I cried those three Sundays. I could barely sing those lyrics. Not for any other reason than tearing up and choking on my own breath.
In those three weeks my love for God solidified. The concrete set. Each Sunday God put my love for Him through a refining process.
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