March 14, 2006

     A click, or maybe it is better described as a pop.  Whatever it is, it is electronic—the surge of electricity that turned on my television.
     Ten minutes to five, and thanks to the programmable TV, another day has started.  Like so many before and like the 609 to follow, the day begins.
     And, as always, the first three things that pass through my mind are (in order) “Good Morning, Lord”, my three sons, and the ever-present question: “when can I go home?”
     As I roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom, toothbrush and face cloth in hand, I have no idea that, before the end of the day, my life will be turned upside down….again.
     But I am way ahead of myself.  To appreciate the shift this day would bring, you have to be better informed, and that requires a trip backward. 

August 30, 2002

     I didn’t break down until dinner was served.  I had known this day was coming.  The exact date had been determined thirty-one days before, and I had known for quite a while before that it would probably—eventually—happen.  Justice demanded my incarceration for some period of time.  I deserved it—as you will come to see.  I surely deserved it.  The wages of sin are truly death, and I had experienced the death of just about everything.  You’ll come to understand all of that as we go.
     But it wasn’t until I sat there, alone in my cell, staring down at a tray of lukewarm, institutionalized food on the State-issue compartmentalized tray, that it really—finally—hit me.  I was in jail and didn’t really know when I would walk out again.
     How did this happen?  How did I end up here?  How did my life—a life that seemed so perfect—turn so completely upside down?
     Just the previous evening I had helped Ellie finish her day at the office, and eaten recently-frozen egg rolls with her at ten o’clock.  And the egg rolls were a far cry better than the Salisbury steak patty with a side of cold mashed potatoes I was staring at and crying into.
     The previous weekend we had been at Benihana’s eating sushi, laughing and dreaming of our life together.
     I was a long way from Benihana’s now, too.  So where did it all go so wrong?  Maybe it will help to make another jump backward—back to the beginning of the thing….

THE BEGINNING

 “The wicked….. His mouth is full of deceit and fraud; under his tongue is mischief and vanity.”  Psalm 10:4-7.

      I turned thirteen in the summer of 1973.  My family was living in Jackson, Mississippi, where my father pastored the First Church of the Nazarene.  This was when it all started.
     Before this time there are very few memories.  My early childhood and the days of transitioning into adolescence were probably happy ones, but I simply do not remember.
     Born in Nashville, Tennessee, to wonderful and loving parents, I was cared for, doted on by maternal grandparents, provided for, protected and taught the ways of God and the church.
     I have early memories—vague ones—and probably more from the repeated retelling than the living of them of visiting grandparents and other relatives, of fishing with my Papaw, my mom’s dad, of visiting the farm of Papaw’s sister, Aunt Hazel, and trapsing through the woods behind the house to fish in the small ponds that dotted the acreage.
     But, by and large, the years prior to the summer of 1973 are empty and hollow—a void.  
     And I lament over this.  Friends reminisce about their childhoods, and it saddens me greatly to realize that, now that my father is getting older and mom is advancing through the early stages of Alzheimer Disease, I have lost that part—that very precious part—of my life forever.
     At the end of our street there in Jackson, just outside the entrance to our subdivision, was a shopping center—not a mall—those didn’t come into fashion until later—but a strip center housing, among several smaller stores, a Jitney Jungle grocery store, and more importantly, a Woolworth’s which sold the sunflower seeds, on which I am still hooked, and the long strings of green apple bubble gum. 
     Those were the good old days, as I remember them.  Days filled with bike riding, collecting Coke bottles (they would still pay you for returns at the Jitney Jungle), playing baseball and water skiing with the family at the nearby reservoir.  My brother, Will, was just a little guy toddling around, cute as a bug, and unable to properly pronounce any word that started with the letter “F” (frog came out Pog.  Even the refrigerator couldn’t find its “F”).
     But even then, in those “happy days”, there were dark clouds brewing; the foretelling of a storm that wouldn’t hit for another ten years; a storm which would be both devastatingly painful and the birth of a hope.  That will all become clearer later on.

     Across the intersection from the shopping center was a convenience store.  I don’t remember how often I had visited that store before that day; it was certainly a lot, given its proximity to our house, but I know I frequented the place after that day, and for one very specific reason.

     Behind the counter where the register sat was a rack of adult magazines.  Ordinarily there was a piece of cardboard covering each brand, shielding the covers from both under-age patrons and those who might find them offensive.  On that certain day that summer, while standing in line with my purchases, I looked up to discover the cardboard censor missing from the stack of Playboys.  I was able to see the cover of that month’s offering from the Playboy Mansion—it was sitting there in clear view.  It was a picture of a woman’s torso, waist to neck, clad only in a zip-up red top, unzipped to her navel and exposing as much of her breasts as possible and still avoid too much of a frown from the watchdogs—remember this was 1973 and things have changed quite a lot.  You can see much worse than that on network TV every evening now.
     Tame as it was by today’s standards, it made an impression on me.  No, that’s a gross understatement.  It was seared into my brain to the point that I can still see it now, thirty three years later.  I don’t remember if that was the first time I had ever seen something of that nature or if, on that day, my journey into adolescence had progressed far enough that there was a sufficient level of hormones in my bloodstream to make me pay closer attention.  Whichever was the case, I did pay closer attention.  The image had the effect desired by the publisher, and I was hooked.  That summer marked the beginning of an addiction and the resultant endless struggle and deception that would rule my life from that day until my forty-first birthday—June 30,2001.  No one but God ever knew, and He could not seem to help me with it.  Over the intervening years, I turned this problem—this plague—over to Him so many times, but I would always find myself back in the stronghold of this addiction.
     An obsession was born.  I was constantly on the lookout for pornography of any kind.  Before the summer expired, the family relocated to Roanoke, Virginia.  I remember the old house with the basement where the church newsletter was diligently prepared by my mother.  I remember the eighth grade in yet another school.  I remember the new contact lenses and the old church building across the street from the parsonage.  I remember, vaguely, being in the Boys Scouts, and sneaking off during a rare absence of both parents and sibling to buy my first Chicago album which I played on the family HiFi.  I could only do this when my parents were gone, and I lived in constant fear of the record’s discovery when they were home.
     But, more than any of that, I remember the quest for porn.  Once, while exploring a section of woods in the shadow of Mill Mountain, I stumbled upon what I figure now was a teenager hide out.  The spot was littered with beer cans, dirty mattresses, a well-used fire ring and some old, faded, rain-soaked magazines.  I felt I had hit the jack pot.  Taking the parts I wanted, I stuffed the treasure in my jeans and ran home to hide it.
     1974 found us sixty miles farther south in Danville.  I learned to drive the family Volkswagen, my modest proficiency with the trumpet provided a niche in which to weather the uncertainty of high school, and my father re-entered the evangelistic field.  My father being away so much and the resulting, diminished supervision at home enhanced my opportunities to continue indulging myself.
     I don’t have specific memories of obtaining or hiding pornography during those years, but I know the problem persisted.  My suspicion—or theory—now about the lack of memories from those years is that the shame, guilt, frustration and helplessness I felt over this addiction have combined to block the memories from me.  I also firmly believe that is why I have so few memories of any kind from my high school days.  I was so consumed by this hunger and the seeking of self-gratification that everything else simply faded.

 “You are not a God who takes pleasure in evil; with you the wicked cannot dwell.  The arrogant cannot stand in your presence; you hate all who do wrong.  You destroy those who tell lies; blood thirsty and deceitful men the Lord abhors.  Not a word from their mouths can be trusted; their heart is filled with destruction.  Their throat is an open grave; with their tongue they speak deceit.  Declare them guilty, O God!  Let their intrigues be their downfall.  Banish them for their many sins, for they have rebelled against you.”  Psalm 5:4-6; 9-10.

      Yet another fresh start was attempted in the fall of 1978.  After my high school days were concluded, my family moved yet again—this time to Pascagoula, Mississippi, where my father was to assume the pastorate of another church. There was a strong pull in that small Gulf Coast town.  This church had been pastored, and, for all practical purposes, built by my Papaw.  My father had been there many times over the years for revivals, and, of course, because of Papaw, our whole family was loved by the people there.
      At that time I was consumed by my own life and plans, so little thought was given as to why my father was leaving the evangelistic field again—no questions were asked and no explanations were offered.  We just moved.  Again.
      So it was from southern Mississippi that I traveled north to the little hamlet of Bourbonnais, Illinois in the fall of 1978, and began my higher education at Olivet Nazarene College.  During that first year, my fresh start seemed to hold.  I fell into college life well and was generally successful and happy.  But over the following summer, working in a shipyard in Pascagoula, I relapsed and even carried pornography back with me upon returning to Olivet in the fall of 1979.
      The cycle was relentless.  Fall back in—purchase, or even steal pornography, revel in it for a time until the images no longer excited me or until the guilt was overwhelming,  then sink into a deep depression, struggle with unbelievable conviction, cry out to God for forgiveness and discard the material.  Over and over.  Time after time.  Nothing seemed to help for very long.  Deception defined my existence.

 “For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature.  They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want.”  Galations 5:17.  

    During my years at ONC, I dated three wonderful young ladies, and, at different times, became fairly serious with each of them.  Additionally, there was also a more casual relationship with a girl from Gulfport, Mississippi that lasted during the summers and holidays of 1979 and 1980.  
     Having been fairly sheltered during my high school years and as a result of both an extremely strict home life and a collection of fairly tame—or boring—friends, I arrived at Olivet a virgin.  I felt dirty and soiled in my soul, but I had never had sex with a woman.  
     So, it was more than a little frustrating when, as much as sex was on my mind, I found I was unable to function during the numerous opportunities that presented themselves during those years.  All this time later I firmly believe it was because of my addiction and the resultant fantasy life that caused reality to pale.  This one aspect of the whole situation was not entirely bad—it more than likely spared me a multitude of other problems and heartaches, but the impotence was real, and it was troubling.
     The fall of 1981—my senior year—found me absolutely head over heels in love. Dating through the fall, meeting her family and traveling to see them, and the ease with which we communicated all conspired to convince me that she was the one—THE one!  After all, here I was a senior and aren’t you supposed to marry someone you meet at a Christian school?
     But the fact that she was wonderful, that I loved her and wanted her as my life’s companion, did nothing to diminish my hunger for pornography, nor was I able to complete the act of intercourse with her.  When I wasn’t in the throes of passion, I would thank God for not allowing it to happen, and I truly believed God was “saving” me for marriage.
     But, all the time, the cycle continued.    

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE – THE CYCLE CONTINUES

“ ‘Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see Him?’  declares the Lord. ‘Do I not fill Heaven and earth?’ declares the Lord.”  - Jeremiah 23:2.

     In the fall of 1980, during my junior year at Olivet, the family made its last move, as a family anyway, to Memphis, Tennessee.  My father left the pastorate again, re-entered the evangelistic field and used the centrally located transportation hub as a base.
     So it was Memphis to which I returned after graduation in the spring of 1982.  I arrived in this new city with a diploma, a girlfriend, an admission certificate to the law school attached to the then Memphis State University….and a secret—all the more determined to make the last fresh start.  I threw myself into church and school with a determination born of frustration and fear.  But, try as I might, the cycle continued as before.  I lived in constant fear of discovery.
     Two doors down from the University bookstore was a small shop specializing in the purchase and reselling of used LPs—music albums for those of you born after 1985.  Wandering in there one day in search of a Chicago album missing from my collection, I made the most damning of discoveries—the little shop also peddled used pornography!  Off I went again.  Large purchases were made and smuggled into my parents’ home only to be thrown away once the guilt phase of the cycle came around again.  Perfectly willing to enter the store and make purchases, I was too embarrassed and afraid to return to the store to re-sell the material.  Hundreds of dollars—money I really didn’t have to spend –disappeared in search of quick fixes for my addiction.  I was quickly becoming just as broke financially as I was morally bankrupt.

COMPARTMENTALIZATION

 “…He is a double-minded man, unstable in all he does.”  James 1:8

      The most terrifying part of this period was that I developed my ability to compartmentalize into a fine art.  Of course, through the years there was always the double standard—the high school years spent worshipping in the little Nazarene Church in Danville; singing and proclaiming the greatness of God with the Virginia District Impact Team; traveling and singing with the Orpheus Choir during the college days.  But Memphis saw all that and raised it to a new level.
     Riddled with guilt and shame, I was still able to divorce myself from it long enough, and to such an extent, that I would serve the congregation of my church as their Minister of Music, boldly leading praise to God, weepingly proclaiming the wondrous Savior and His ability to save and heal and deliver.  I rationalized it.  Maybe I was not where I needed to be spiritually, but I could certainly use my God-given talents to help others approach the throne.  And I did.
     And, without realizing it, I was following in my father’s footsteps.
     So I led the music.  I served on the church board.  I even had the audacity to teach a Sunday school class.  While, in another compartment, the cycle continued—the war raged.
     I knew this compartmentalization—this division of my life into separate and morally opposing components—was wrong, a weakness in my personality.  I longed for someone—anyone—in whom I could confide; someone to hold me accountable in this area of my life.  But there was no one;  no one with whom I could share this.  An admission of this magnitude would be too damaging to my image—too disappointing to too many people.  I was so caught up in what others thought of me that I absolutely refused to disclose my addiction to anyone but God.  And, as you will come to see, this overwhelming concern for my image was both inherited from my father and would be the basis for my personal crash still looming in the distance.
     In February of 1984, on Valentine’s Day, of all days, the long distance relationship with my girlfriend ended.  I was devastated.  As a result, I threw myself into school and the school scene, running with a group of fellow law students, seeking acceptance, frequenting night clubs and drinking heavily.  But, all the while, in spite of my “off-stage” activities, I continued my duties at church and appeared to be what everyone wanted me to be—the perfect churchman. There was no joy in life, only deception and the constant fear of discovery.
     During the twelve months following my breakup with my girlfriend, and before I met the woman I would eventually marry, while the struggle with pornography raged on, I began dating a divorcee’ from the church.  I was amazed at the reaction—the negative reaction—this news received at home.  Adultery was discussed openly, fervently and frequently.  I was the adulterer for dating a divorcee'.
     For a variety of reasons, not the least of which were the feelings of my parents so ardently expressed, I stopped seeing this person, but became bitter and confused, believing there was no one in the world for me.  I was twenty-five and still a virgin.  I didn’t see that as a good thing.

THE FIRST STORM

 “….And you may be sure that your sin will find you out.”  Numbers 32:23b

     My father’s addiction—the building storm referred to earlier—broke open and ravaged our lives in the fall of 1986.  My father, the preacher, the doting husband, the strict disciplinarian, the one I had always thought invincible, was an alcoholic.  It was the unveiling of a secret of half a lifetime.  A secret my parents had kept from me and my brother—from the world—for over thirty years.
     And it explained a lot.  Why my father, always quick to make a joke, failed to find humor in certain things.  Why there was such a large gap between my birth and that of my only sibling.  Why my father had stopped on the way home from the fair one night when I was nine to buy a Colt 45, only to vomit all night in the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom.
     Unknown to me, buried beneath the surface, while I had been battling my addiction, he had been caught in his own hell--his own cycle.  God knew, Papaw knew, Mom knew—no one could help him either.  Papaw kept quiet.  Mom made excuses and covered it up.  Heaven was silent.  And we moved a lot—different churches, different career paths, and different cities—until a group of doctors, specializing in Substance Abuse, sitting in a Nazarene Church, recognized, confronted and reached out to him as he tried to preach under the influence of an earthbound spirit.
     All was revealed--all the years of deception and rationalization; all the fresh starts which had failed.  Sound familiar?  It should.  And it was a revelation that, instead of scaring me into seeking help, only served to further confuse and disillusion me.
     So my father was destroyed—lost credentials; tarnished reputation, vanished influence.  Mom was done—unable to trust the man she had loved and unwilling to stay in the never ending cycle she had endured for so long.  My brother, an early teen at the time, lost his faith in everything.  And, I struggled on with my cycle.
     The divorce was expected.  The remarriages of each, in direct contradiction of all those earlier lectures regarding adultery, was not—they affected me deeply.
     So, in addition to the deep-seated and pervasive deception which defined my existence, my rationalization of it all was reinforced by my parents to the point that it seemed to take on a life of its own.

Anything could be rationalized and, consequently, justified.

THE GOOD YEARS

“For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.  Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.  But you, man of God, flee from all this, and pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance and gentleness.”  I Timothy 6:10-11

      Everything wasn’t dark and depressing.  Although there was always a shadow lurking just off stage, there were some good years; some very good years in which God blessed in spite of everything.
     By the fall of 1985, I had graduated from law school, passed the bar exam, obtained employment with a local real estate attorney, purchased a small house and a new car, and met the woman I would marry.
     Our first date was on January 3, 1986, and, from there on, it was a whirlwind.  I truly felt that since I had met my life’s companion, the addiction with which I had struggled for over thirteen years would finally be broken.
     After dating for just over six months, on July 12, 1986, Sally and I were married at our church in Memphis, and so began the five or six good years.
     We bought a dog—the cutest little Keeshond puppy we had ever seen.  When she started to get harassed by the neighborhood children, we bought her a guardian—a big black lab who, as it turned out, wasn’t much of a guardian.   
     With our two incomes, attorney and teacher, we began acquiring things; new cars, furniture, china, investments, and finally a lot in one of the premier subdivisions in the area.  We were thrilled.  The debt load would be huge, but the house would be designed by us, built for us and would be our forever home.  So what did a little (or a lot) of debt matter?  The old saying is “if you spread it out for enough years, you can afford anything.”
     So we jumped in with both feet, and in the fall of 1989, we moved from our little twelve hundred square foot cottage into the forty-four hundred square foot mansion.  Our “cottage full” of furniture looked pretty pathetic in the new place.  We moved ourselves and were able to fit just about everything we owned into a friend’s horse trailer for the move across town.  I still smile about that move today with Sally riding in the back of the pickup, in the rain, holding the glass top to the breakfast table.  What a scene!  I’m sure the neighbors figured the Clampetts had moved in. 
     For some time my boss and I had been talking about opening a branch office in another part of town.  In early 1990, he turned me loose to secure office space and the furniture and equipment necessary to establish our presence in the new area.  Partnership had also been in the works for a while and this new venture was to be my contribution to the enterprise.  As the new office grew and as the years passed, my share of the business would increase.  Sounded good to me!
     Spring of 1990 marked the opening of the second office.  I was thrilled, but working hard.  Trying to break into a new area and helping with the work load at the main office kept me busy.  The new office grew slowly through the spring and early summer without, strangely enough, assistance or support from my boss/partner.  Looking back over things, I probably should have seen the writing on the wall, but I was too caught up in the excitement and stress to notice his withdrawal of support.  I would notice soon enough!
     Fathers Day came around, and Sally and I bought the obligatory cards for our respective fathers.  The surprise—shock—came when I got one which was Sally’s way of telling me we were pregnant.  It was that “nervous/excited/I’m going to throw up my lunch” kind of feeling that I figure is common to all men who find themselves in that position.  Sally and I had had four good years as a couple, and it was time to start our family, but I couldn’t help looking around at the huge house—with the huge mortgage—and wonder how we were going to manage on my income.
     And, by the way, stay tuned—this isn’t the last Father’s Day that will dramatically change my life.

THEY MEANT IT FOR EVIL

 “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done…”  Genesis 50:20

      The ensuing month was spent working through two processes.
     Gradually I got used to the idea of being the father in a single income home.  I still didn’t have it all figured out (which in and of itself nagged at me given the fact that I freely admit I’m a control freak at heart), but at least I was sleeping through the night again.
     The other was the realization that things at work were not going well.  The relationship, or talk thereof, with my boss/partner wasn’t going to improve.  I was miserable and began to speak with some other firms in the area to find a place to land once I came to the point of leaving.
     I don’t remember the exact details of it, but on Friday, July 13, 1990, (and no, I’m not superstitious) the proverbial camel’s back broke.  That weekend was spent anxiously contemplating resignation, and, come Monday, that’s exactly what I did.
     At the meeting, brief as it was, my now former boss informed me that he did not want the branch office or the assistant who was working there.  And, since I had signed the $1300 per month lease with him, as well as the twenty-five thousand dollar line of credit, he wanted—no demanded—indemnification from his liability for that office.  All my thoughts of working for another firm were instantly annihilated.  I was stuck with rent, an equipment loan payment and a salary for my assistant, all before I took home a dime.
     I was overwhelmed!
     I met Sally at 2:00 p.m. to hold her hand through her first ultrasound.  It’s a good story, and I could expand on the details ad nauseam, but the relevant point for the topic at hand is that at 2:00 o’clock, I showed up to see the first images of my first baby, and when I left an hour later, it was with images showing two.
     Yeah, it was twins!
     So let’s review:  just sixteen days past my thirtieth birthday, head of a no-income household (actually, Sally continued to work through Thanksgiving, but I wasn’t thinking about that at that particular moment), professional and personal debt that would choke a whole herd of horses, and twins on the way.
     Did I mention before that I was overwhelmed?  Yeah, well……
     But God blessed.  Remember, this is part of the good years!
     He blessed with Sally’s paycheck and insurance—the paycheck through November, and the insurance through May of the next year.
     He blessed with two fine sons, born seven weeks prematurely and from a pregnancy which threatened Sally’s life near the end.  But the boys and Sally all made it home, the twins after a brief stay in the neonatal intensive care unit, and all was well.
     He took care of an eighty thousand dollar hospital bill—my out-of-pocket expense was one hundred dollars.
     He blessed with money from unexpected sources arriving just at the moment of need.
     He blessed with real estate closings from sources I could have never imagined.
     He blessed with a shining example of Genesis 50:20 that is worth the telling for the glory it will bring Him.
     Part of my deal (my employment contract) with my former boss was a strictly worded agreement not to compete with him should I ever leave his employ.  Nor could I practice within five miles of the city limits of Bartlett, a small bedroom community on the outskirts of Memphis where his office was located, for a period of two years.
     The office I “inherited” was beyond the five mile limit, and even though I didn’t know how I would survive and build a practice without contacting those with whom I had interacted during the years I worked for him, I was very careful not to.
     As I said, God blessed me with work from unexpected directions, and my former boss’ neurosis played into that.  He was just egocentric enough to believe my continued survival must be due to my violation of our agreement.  He thought surely the work I was getting was really intended for him.  So he issued a letter that he had one office, and that I was no longer affiliated with his firm.
     He sent the letter to everyone I could not contact!
     My business took off!  And, since God’s timing is always impeccable, this happened right around Thanksgiving—just when we lost Sally’s income.  A Genesis 50:20 moment and it wouldn’t be the last.

THE WAR WITHIN

 “I do not understand what I do, for what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate, I do.  And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good.  As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me.  I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature, for I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.  For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is the sin living in me that does it.  So I find this law at work:  when I want to do good, evil is right there with me, for in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work in my members.  What a wretched man I am!  Who will rescue me from this body of death?”  Romans 7:15-24

     The next two years were an unbelievable ride.  Interest rates bottomed out at thirty-year lows.  The mortgage market feasted on the rush of consumers to lower their rates and take “cheap” cash out of their homes.  And I rode the crest of the wave.  Work multiplied.  My staff increased from one to five and the office moved into a larger suite.
     Suddenly, paying the mortgage wasn’t the focus of every waking thought.  I felt in control again.  And most importantly, our third son was born, a true and for certain blessing from God.
     But the addiction was still there.  Even with the hand of God so evident in my life, just like my father before me, the addiction raged.  I always had pornography around of some type or description.  As my experience with computers increased, I found I could more easily hide my material by scanning the images and storing them in password-protected subfolders where only I could find and access them.  I went through time-consuming and elaborate steps to scan, store and bury these images, but the cycle continued.  Hours were spent engaged in this process, only to delete it all when the guilt phase ensued.  I didn’t want it in my life, but I couldn’t seem to resist the impulse.  There were times when I would stand for fifteen minutes at a time staring at the scrambled images on the television screen hoping the picture would clear long enough for me to glimpse a little nudity.
     Many times I would sneak downstairs in the middle of the night to rent adult pay-per-view movies while the family was asleep upstairs.  Of course, to cover my tracks, the cable bill had to be re-routed to the office.
     One night in particular I had ordered a movie and set the VCR to record it through the night.  Uncharacteristically, Sally woke up before me the next morning and found the tape.  Have I mentioned that deception defined my existence?  It did.  And I lied my way out of it—yet another chink in the armor of trust.  That armor was pretty beat up, but would take many more poundings before finally disintegrating altogether.

THE INTERNET

 “Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the well-spring of life.”  Proverbs 4:23”

 “The eye is the lamp of the body.  If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light.  But if your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.  If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!”  Matthew 6:23-24

 “Turn my eyes away from worthless things….”  Psalm 119:37

      I’d like to stop the narrative here and preach for just a bit.  I’m a firm believer in and a staunch proponent of the benefits of the internet.  I, and millions of others, have used the internet in the way I believe it was intended—the sharing of vast amounts of information with which to work and live more effectively, productively and healthy.  I have researched products, read the latest news on health and money management, conducted business and banking, invested money, tracked weather changes and communicated with friends and family.  And, if you have moved with the rest of society into the 21^st century, so have all of you.  One of my greatest joys recently was the ability to listen to audio streams of sermons to which I would not have had access otherwise.  But, for all its benefits, just like many other inventions originally meant for good, man has perverted this valuable tool.
     My discovering the internet with its easy and anonymous access to the mushrooming pornography industry sent me over the edge.  It was the effective equivalent of an alcoholic working in the brewery, or the pill addict working in the doctor’s office.  I couldn’t not look!  It was so easy.  No more purchases made at the risk of discovery; no more magazines hidden around just begging to be found; and nothing of substance to dispose of during those recurring guilt phases.  Surf, find, save and view.  Wow!  What could be easier?  Nothing!  And that was the problem.
     If you are reading this and have children, especially pre-adolescent boys, obtain one of the many content filters available on the market.  And use it!  If you suffer from this addiction, as I do, there are accountability services available, run by Christian organizations.  Knowing your internet use is being monitored is not a fail-safe cure-all by any means, but it is an effective deterrent.  And regardless of who you are, if you think you’re standing above all this, take heed lest you fall!  Satan prowls around like a roaming lion.  Think about that for a minute.  Does a lion stalking his prey announce himself with a roar?  No!  Not a sound is made until after the prey is disabled.  The fact that Satan is roaring now indicates his belief that we are already his—that we are helpless.  The audacity!  Greater is He who is in you!  But we must guard our eyes!  We must guard our minds!  We must guard our hearts!

GUARD YOUR HEART

     Things moved to another level in 1997. Financial success had eliminated my dependence on God, and I was worshipping things.
     In 1994, the office relocated back to Bartlett and into a small building I was able to purchase. The staff expanded to ten, and business life was great. A blessing which I felt I had achieved and, consequently, took for granted.
     Sally was still at home with the boys--a mutual decision-- and was a good mother. Since money wasn’t a concern, we both felt our children deserved to reap the benefit of a full time parent rather than the day-care alternative. And now, twelve years later, I can honestly say it was worth it. William, Andrew and Isaac are the best sons a father could ever hope for--smart, articulate, quick-witted and gifted in so many ways. I attribute the bulk of their success to their mother. But despite all of her prowess as a mother, Sally was not the woman I had married. Difficult pregnancies had taken their toll and had left her less appealing physically than when we were first wed. I am ashamed to admit this for it should have nothing to do with upholding one’s wedding vows but, during those years, with my addiction raging and physical appearance being so important, she simply didn’t measure up anymore. As I mentioned, she was a great mother, always had wonderful meals planned and was devout in her faith, but while all that was important to me, it wasn’t enough.
     Gym memberships were purchased and rarely used. Exercise equipment of varying description and expense sat idle around the house. And every time I would go into or clean out her vehicle, I discovered a collection of wrappers from various food items. It just didn’t seem to matter to her. Other things—minor things—became irritants, as well. They were little daily issues—part of any married couple’s life—but I had built too big a structure on a foundation that was too small and unstable, so these little things started the whole structure swaying. Piles of unfolded laundry were always in multiple locations around the house. Television remotes and cordless phones were never to be found. I would call home before leaving work to see if she needed anything--she rarely mentioned anything--only to arrive home to find no milk in the house, or the absence of some other staple. I lost track of how many times I would run into her closet door while passing through our bedroom in the dark—it was always hanging open. Petty, little, minor things; too small to do any harm.
     Growing up I never heard my mom or my father raise their voice in anger toward the other. Never! I guess I unconsciously internalized that and, consequently, never raised my voice to Sally. We would have conversations about things. I would bring up these little irritants in a somewhat joking or lighthearted manner. But there was never any change.
     Later, during a joint counseling session, while discussing these very things, she recounted an incident from early in our marriage—one that I had completely forgotten. Evidently, I had developed a habit over the years of removing my undershirts so they were inside out when I put them in the hamper. She made a comment one day of how it would really help her if I would leave them right side out. She told the counselor that from that day on I changed the way I removed the shirts so they would, in fact, be right side out.
     Looking back from my perspective now, I know I should have handled the situations differently. I should have explained to Sally how I was feeling about things, but instead I suppressed my anger over these irritants. I stuffed it down inside until there just wasn’t any room to stuff any more.
     It wasn’t until that moment, sitting across from that counselor, that I realized what all these little things had done. Sally’s failure to pick up on my subtle hints and comments, continuing with unchanged behavior after numerous incidents and efforts to gently effect change, had made me feel that I was unimportant to her; that my opinions and desires just didn’t matter. I was left with a gapping emotional void; an emptiness waiting to be filled.

On July 22, 1997, I filled that void!

WHEN KINGS GO OFF TO WAR

 “In the spring, at the time when Kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the King’s men and the whole Israelite army.  They destroyed the Ammonites and besieged Rabbah.  But David remained in Jerusalem.

 “One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace.  From the roof he saw a woman bathing.  The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her.  The man said, ‘Isn’t this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, and the wife of Uriah, the Hittite?  Then David sent messengers to get her.  She came to Him, and He slept with her. Then she went back home.” (2^nd Samuel 11:1-4)

     She had been working for me for almost two years, but on that day I saw her in a different light.  She was petite, cute, funny, hyper-organized and detail-oriented.  These were all qualities that made her a good employee and a great receptionist.  She was the first one most people met upon entering our office and first impressions are important—with her there I had no worries.
     But on that day, something was different, better, more attractive.  I didn’t plan it—had never given it any thought prior to that day.  I was on shaky ground in every aspect of my life—like I was falling through a vast emptiness; adrift, without any anchor.
     So on that day, after everyone else had left for the day, I expressed my attraction to her.  She was shocked.  She was married.  She was the mother of two.  She didn’t do anything to initiate it.  She gently refused my advances, but I wouldn’t leave her alone.  There was emotional distance, even abuse, in her home.  We shared a common emotional detachment and a deep feeling of emptiness.
     I pursued; she relented; and we started down a slippery slope.  Naturally, any romance left at home died immediately.
     On Labor Day, Sally and I attended a concert in an outdoor amphitheater; beautiful night, wonderful music—I was miserable!  I knew that night that my marriage was over.  But I tried desperately to keep up appearances.
     Sally suspected something—could obviously sense my emotional withdrawal, but, whenever the subject came up, I vehemently denied any outside interests and asserted that the problem was stress and it would pass.
     It didn’t pass.  I was in another cycle.  The woman at work and I both knew it was wrong and had constant discussions about how we simply could not continue.  One or both of us would start feeling guilty and end it, feeling relieved.  I would always covenant to pour myself in my marriage only to become frustrated, return and plead to be let back into the adulterous relationship.
     This went on for four years!  I was playing all sides against the middle, and the middle was coming apart.  And on top of it all, the pornography addiction raged on.
     One day during this period I made a horrifying discovery—each Internet site I visited left a footprint called a “cookie” or a temporary Internet file, buried in the Windows subdirectory on the computer’s hard drive.  Since I was constantly visiting adult sites, my computer was full of these footprints—this evidence.  I panicked.  I cleaned out this subdirectory, chastised myself for thinking this activity was never going to catch up with me and vowed never to access those sites again.
     You already know where this is going.  The vow went the way of all my other vows—in fact, it didn’t last 24 hours.  All this did was create something else about which to be anxious.  As network problems would arise, and along with them, the need for outside technical support, I would stand by—paranoid—ready with an “explanation” or a hopefully convincing look of confusion and disgust in the event one of these cookies or files would surface unexpectedly.  I was in hell, but could not stop.

MY PRIDE

 “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.”  (Proverbs 16:18)

 “Do not be wise in your own eyes…” (Proverbs 3:7a)

 “This is what the Lord says:  ‘Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom or the strong man boast of his strength or the rich man boast of his riches.’ ” (Jeremiah 9:23)

     1999 came and with it a new office—bigger and better—built to my specifications, thirty-six hundred square feet of space on the main boulevard in Bartlett, accompanied by yet another load of debt.  But it was alright.  I had made some very shrewd investments and felt pretty good about things.  The house was refinanced at a ridiculously low interest rate.  The payments on the farm dropped on their own.  The stock portfolio topped the million-dollar mark, and I was meeting with investment advisors to figure out how to best accelerate my financial growth.  I was determined to retire at 45 and enjoy the good life.
     You would think I would have been happy.  Much to the contrary!!  Nothing had changed.  I felt guilty at home, guilty at work, stressed over either too much business for the staff to handle, or too little business to pay the salaries.  I was covered in debt, obsessed with pornography, and you can imagine how I felt when I was at church sometimes four times each week.  Misery doesn’t even begin to describe it.  And, just when I thought nothing could get worse, we crossed over into the year 2000.

MY TREASURE

 “People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of Godliness, but denying its power.  Have nothing to do with them.”  (2 Timothy 3:25)

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”  (Matthew 6:21)

     The storm with which the world concerned itself through the fall and winter of 1999--the whole Y2K fiasco--fizzled out.  It turned out to be nothing more than a bit of increased profits on the various software vendors’ bottom lines.
     But as winter gave way to spring, my personal tsunami was cresting, and all with which I felt so secure.  The foundation upon which I had built my life was about to be swept away.
     One of the things of which I was so proud was my stock portfolio.  Through what I believed to be my exceptional abilities, coupled with some very fortunate timing, I had transformed between thirty and forty thousand real dollars into a collection of various publicly-traded stocks valued at over 1.3 million dollars.
     “How did you manage that?”, you ask.  By being overly confident and taking much more risk than I ever should have.  I was margin trading which, in my opinion, is a virulent form of legalized gambling.  I strongly recommend against it, no matter who you are, how wealthy you are, or how market-wise you think you are.  No deal is ever “sure” enough to assume that risk.  It is deceptive (there’s that word again), and it takes no time at all to dig a cavernous pit for yourself.  When the tsunamis of life crash in—and they do crash in—everything is lost in an instant.
     Until April, 2000, I never understood the psychological process involved with suicide.  After all, it was only money, right?  But that year, in that month, with all the other stressors I had bombarding me from all sides, the “correction” that hit the stock market made me understand.
     If you will recall, in April of 2000 the market started a slow, but steady decline, punctuated by huge single-day drops.  It was like being in an airliner, descending through the clouds and hitting multiple air pockets that cause the big craft to drop hundreds of feet at once.  Your stomach stays in your throat while your fingers burrow into the armrests.
     Early on, and while I still had margin credit available, I actually continued to make purchases after these large drops, confident that the market would only sag so far before investors would step back in.  After all, these were safeguards built into the market!
     However, it kept sagging.  I kept hitting those air pockets.  Through the spring and summer, while the Dow was only slightly affected by this correction, the NASDAQ, where most of my investments resided, dropped from a high of over 5000 to around the 1200 mark.
     Needless to say, these days brought on a dramatic change in my psyche.  With the market in such turmoil, no one was closing any real estate.  My relationship with Sally was in serious trouble; and needing something, just anything on which to focus my energies, I spent money; or more accurately stated, incurred debt.  Tractors, SeeDoos, motorcycles, ATVs, oriental rugs, furniture, in-ground sprinkler systems and finally, a huge addition to the house, all unnecessary expenditures.  However, I bought them to serve as distractions from my compromised morals, my crumbling marriage and my despair and guilt.

MY PRIDE

 “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.”  (Proverbs 16:18)

 “Do not be wise in your own eyes…” (Proverbs 3:7a)

 “This is what the Lord says:  ‘Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom or the strong man boast of his strength or the rich man boast of his riches.’ ” (Jeremiah 9:23)

     1999 came and with it a new office—bigger and better—built to my specifications, thirty-six hundred square feet of space on the main boulevard in Bartlett, accompanied by yet another load of debt.  But it was alright.  I had made some very shrewd investments and felt pretty good about things.  The house was refinanced at a ridiculously low interest rate.  The payments on the farm dropped on their own.  The stock portfolio topped the million-dollar mark, and I was meeting with investment advisors to figure out how to best accelerate my financial growth.  I was determined to retire at 45 and enjoy the good life.
     You would think I would have been happy.  Much to the contrary!!  Nothing had changed.  I felt guilty at home, guilty at work, stressed over either too much business for the staff to handle, or too little business to pay the salaries.  I was covered in debt, obsessed with pornography, and you can imagine how I felt when I was at church sometimes four times each week.  Misery doesn’t even begin to describe it.  And, just when I thought nothing could get worse, we crossed over into the year 2000.

NO REST

 “But the wicked are like the tossing sea, which cannot rest, whose waves cast up mire and mud.  ‘There is no peace’, says my God, ‘for the wicked.’  (Isaiah 57:20-21)

     By the time the market completed its free fall somewhere around July, huge amounts of unsecured, or under-secured, debt loomed, stocks were sold at bargain-basement prices to cover the daily margin calls, and business was off due to the depressed economy.  Most damaging, however, was the simple fact that I just didn’t care anymore.  The misery of my situation—my duplicity—was an all consuming burden.  And to top it all off, Ellie was tired of waiting for me, tired of sneaking around, and displeased with the secrecy I demanded.  So she retreated and began dating.  Jealousy consumed me—possessiveness overwhelmed me.  I went crazy, absolutely off the deep end.  I stopped sleeping.  I stopped eating.  Functioning on even the most basic level, whether at home or church or work, was out of the question.
     Sally would find me downstairs, in the middle of the night, folding the many piles of laundry scattered around the house or washing dishes and cleaning the kitchen.  I would watch movies (not pornographic ones), and do just about anything to distract myself for a while.  I was a mess!  And, to make matters worse, there was still no one with whom I could share my burden.  I couldn’t tell anyone.  I couldn’t share this load.  I felt trapped, caged, imprisoned.  I needed freedom, if only the illusion of it.  So, in August I moved out!  I rented an apartment a short distance from the house, and within walking distance of Ellie’s, and set up house.
     I still remember so vividly the night I told my sons I was moving out.  I remember the shock on their faces, and the pain and sadness in their eyes—the look of having been betrayed.  I remember tears streaming down their little faces, and the feeling that it just couldn’t get any worse.
     I was wrong!  So wrong!
     Anyway, the move to the apartment eventually led Ellie to believe that she did have a future with me, and she became emotionally attached again.  My budget, already screaming, began shrinking with a new intensity.  I bought furniture.  I bought house-wares.  I even signed up for cable.  Sally and I arranged a visitation schedule for the boys.  It was all very civilized, and I was back in my personal hell—caught between two things I really wanted, my family and my fantasy.
     Even during these months, Ellie and I had trouble.  I was still attending church with the family and carrying on all of my “spiritual” responsibilities.  To keep Sally’s suspicions assuaged, I started seeing a Christian counselor, pouring everything out to him except the real cause of my dilemma—my relationship with Ellie.  I even submitted to a complete physical examination and on the advice of my internist, began taking an antidepressant called CELEXA; something else I recommend against unless you really need it.  I didn’t—I was play acting.  I knew what my issues were, but my deception required these drastic measures to maintain my façade—cracked and crumbling as it was.
     All of this activity, which was impossible to hide from Ellie, made her fearful that I would continue our cycle, regret my decision to move out and return to my family.  This fear and uncertainty caused her to continue exploring her options, which she, in turn, could not hide from me.  This only served to enhance my jealousy and possessiveness.
      And yet another cycle was born—a wheel within a wheel.

ANOTHER PROMISE

 “I shook out the folds of my robe and said, ‘In this way may God shake out of His house and possessions every man who does not keep this promise.  So may such a man be shaken out and emptied.’ “   (Nehemiah 5:13a)

     Each year on New Year’s Eve, the church held a prayer service.  It was loosely organized and well designed for families to break away from their secular celebrations and include God in the crossover to a new year.  Like every other year, we were there in all our dysfunctionality.
     While kneeling there, in the quiet of God’s house, with my precious sons around me, feeling the weight of the Holy Spirit’s convicting presence, I knew the deception—the double life—had to end.  I made that promise to God.  What happened next remains a clear picture in my mind after all this time.  I pulled my three little boys into a back room.  On my knees in front of them, weeping just as I am now while writing this, I promised them that I would not break up our family and that everything would be all right.

DOUBLE MINDEDNESS REVISITED

     But a double-minded man is truly unstable.  By the end of the first week of January, all my well-intentioned New Year’s promises to God and my children were broken.  I knew I had to get out of my marriage.  Serious contemplation was given to the when and the how of the thing.
     My youngest son was part of Sally’s class for his second grade year.  Before I moved out the previous August, Sally had asked, if I ever came to the place where divorce was the solution I chose, that I wait until the school year was over--a reasonable and understandable request.  She didn’t want to look at our son everyday, having to function and deal with the emotional trauma divorce always brings.  So I began planning on the first week in June.
     The intervening months would take me down yet another horrible and unthinkable path.  My idea, that things couldn’t possibly get any worse, was about to be shattered.  Things were about to get much worse.

HELPING THE WICKED

 “Should you help the wicked and love those who hate the Lord?  Because of this the wrath of the Lord is upon you.”  (2 Chronicles 19:2)

 “Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked or stand in the way of sinners or sit in the seat of mockers.”  (Psalms 1:1)

     During my years at Olivet, I was blessed to meet and develop a friendship with Brent Patterson.  As a fellow member of the Orpheus Choir bass section, we were thrown together in a wide variety of circumstances—both socially and spiritually—and a bond was forged.  But as with far too many such relationships, time and distance interrupted, and by the time the new millennium dawned, I had not even thought about Brent for years.
     Early in 2001, Brent did return to my mind when his cousin, Wesley Patterson, moved to Memphis and began attending my church.  I had not met Wesley during the college years and even his cousin, Brent, had considered him to be a nere-do-well—the family’s honorary black sheep.  He arrived in town, knowing no one but an aunt with whom he maintained a tenuous relationship, and me.  He brought an ex-wife, with whom he was again cohabitating, and her son along for the ride.  To say the least this was not the best of living arrangements for any involved.
     Either life was extremely tumultuous for him, and he was beginning to feel the strain, or he had quickly identified me as an easy mark—or both—because for which ever reason, he began to visit me at work, usually unannounced.  The meetings typically followed the same format.  He knew about me, the positions I held and my status at church, but he didn’t know me, so our conversations always took a quasi-confessional tone.  The topics of our discussions included guilt over his divorce, regrets about his life-style, remorse for past acts, worry about the impact all these factors, in general, and living with his ex-wife again out of wedlock, in particular, were having on her son.
     I would sit there, trying to be sympathetic, while attempting to hide the agony I felt about my own life and deceptions.  I would offer advice, make assurances of my prayer support while being overwhelmed by my hypocrisy, and right from the start, the meetings would end with a request for a small loan.  I couldn’t refuse.  I had plenty—or at least to him I appeared to have plenty.  Not only that, but to refuse would only exacerbate my feelings of despair and guilt.  How could I sit there and listen to this man pour out his heart to me while I lived like hell?  “Well”, I rationalized, “how could my father preach while intoxicated?”  Really all that mattered was that someone received help, right?  So I would give him the money and wait for the next visit.  By the time April was over that year, he owed me just over a thousand dollars for a trip up north to a family funeral, a return trip to settle the estate; little things; little amounts; always swearing to repay.
     Mid-May came, and with it another meeting.  Since no attempt had been made to repay the existing debt, I expected to hear another sob story and another request for an extension.  I got the sob story, but instead of an extension, the request was for an additional five thousand dollars.  It seems he was having trouble with the IRS, Ford Motor Credit was about to repossess his truck, and his live-in ex-wife was insisting that he move out “for the sake of the kid.”
     Now, the thousand he owed me wasn’t enough to bother me, but five times that was serious.  I’ve already laid out my financial situation so you will understand why this request made me swallow hard a couple of times.  But, I had an image to uphold, and I had a little stash of cash at the office.  Not a lot—ten or fifteen thousand—rainy day money in case I couldn’t make payroll one month.  And, by the way, to say it was “cash” conjures up a lot of bad connotations.  This money was in a bank account—nothing shady was going on.
     Anyway, I had this money, and this image and a serious lack of trust in the heretofore employed handshake repayment plan. So I gave him three checks: one to the IRS, one payable to Ford Motor Credit, and a small one to him to cover the deposit on an apartment.  He signed a promissory note for the aggregate--$6,000.

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