As someone who is about to be a married man, I’ve been searching for my role as such, as God defines it.

In this search I’ve begun attending a class that my church offers which caters directly to men. This assembly of men discusses the Biblical calling of men in this world, not merely as husbands or the head of a household (though those are certainly topics addressed in these conversations), but as sanctified men, followers of Christ, servants to others and leaders in this world.

In this class I’ve been shown many passages which help define me and my role as a man. These verses speak directly to me. Of them I’ve found one in particular to be especially profound. In these verses I have heard the voice of God. I pray that you do, as well. If you ask in earnest, He will speak to you as He has spoken to me.


At first, this passage seemed silly to me. Who covers their head while praying? Why on earth would you shave a woman’s head if it was uncovered during praying?

Regardless of archaic, Jewish customs or Mosaic Law, this teaching is very relevant to us today. It has been relevant from the beginning of man and it will continue to be relevant until the end of man. It’s about submission. Woman submits to man, man submits to Christ. It's a holy hierarchy. It’s really that simple.

Those belonging to the fairer gender may very well think this passage and it’s teachings chauvinistic. I can assure you, however, that God is no chauvinist. Yes, women are to submit to men, wives to husbands, but they are not mere possessions. What a burden of responsibility God has placed squarely on our shoulders to take care of such a holy charge!

Guys, this does not give you free reign to run a tyrannical household. Your responsibility as a husband and man of God is quite the opposite. You are to love your wife. You are to cherish her, to take care of her, to protect her. As men who submit to Christ, we are to emulate Him. The relationship between men and women is a model of the relationship between Christ and His bride, the Church (you and I and everyone professing Christ as LORD). Jesus Christ loves us. There is nothing more important to Him than we are. The entire universe was created for us for signs and marvels and just to show off, so that we have something beautiful to look at. If God Himself has framed us in so magnificent a setting, how carefully are we to love our wives? How reverently and deeply are we to love them? God loved us so much, so completely, so intensely that He gave His life for us. Jesus Christ Himself, God in flesh, said to the world that His love for us is much more important than His own life! Do you see how awesome that is? GOD places US above HIM in importance (but not in authority, of course. don’t get cocky). This is the measure of His love.

So are we, too, to place the women we love above us. Yes, they are to answer to us, but we are to protect them, respect and love them, if this means dying for them. And I don’t mean one of those glorified settings where the man is the knight in shining armor, where he dives in front of a bus or a bullet to save his girl. Though these are plausible scenarios (and included in your duties), your calling is much greater, much more difficult than this. You are to sacrifice your life to Christ and to spend every single day that you breathe caring for and actively loving your wife. This means getting off your butt and getting the kids from school, because your wife has had an exhausting day. You can TiVO the game and watch it later. It means foregoing whatever is on your schedule to spend your evening with her, to take her on a date, to surprise her with sincere and selfless acts of love. This is an everyday sacrifice of love. Your day and your life is not as important as hers. Love is not merely a noun. It is a verb. Forfeiture of your plans and cares embodies this love. Love is a choice, a daily decision. Love is proved by deeds.

In all these things, you and your household are to submit to the will of God. He died for you. He bought you with His own blood and life. He is your Boss, your Owner, your very loving Master. As the man of the house, you are to ensure that those in your home actively serve Him. But “Do as I say, not as I do” doesn’t work. It’s crap. If you expect and desire your loved ones to seek Him and have a beneficial relationship with Him, you must first show them how it’s done. Lead the way. On a daily basis you must show His kindness, His love and His selflessness to those you love and all those around you, 24/7, 365.

Our responsibilities as men of God are enormous, absolutely gargantuan. There is no greater charge our Father has given us. There is no greater blessing on this earth. Serve them, protect them, care for them, selflessly love them. He loved us this way, He showed us how it’s done and he expects us to do likewise.

In this regard, your wives are holy. Treat them as such.

God bless you and yours,
Johnny

A prescriber’s name is Numnum. Dr. Numnum. Maybe he should have considered anesthesiology.

We have a new intern in the pharmacy. He’s a student in pharmacy school. He’s Indian. His name is a common nickname for marijuana.

Unusual patient names include: Patience (she usually lacks it), Destiny, [Republic] Borders, Penix, Dam (paging for this patient to return to the pharmacy is always interesting), Bible, [She] Is, Ng (I still don’t know how to pronounce that one), and Pal (very friendly), amongst others.

A conversation I overheard:

Technician: “Oh, they’re nice! Are they real?”
Patient: “They’re real expensive [laughs]. Nah, they’re fake.”
Technician: “They look real!”
Patient: “Touch them, they’re fake. Whoever made them did a good job.”
Technician: [Reaches over counter, chest height, out of my sight and gasps] “Oh, they
ARE fake! I might have to get a couple of those! Where’d you get them?”
Patient: [Points to the nursery]
(They were discussing two fake ficus trees. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

I’ve seen a prescription for beer with the instructions, “One beer by mouth every 6 hours as needed” (not at my pharmacy). Think Medicare covers Heineken?

The radio in the pharmacy was playing the song, “Cocaine,” by (I think) Eric Clapton. It prompted a conversation amongst the staff on the use of medicinal cocaine, a Schedule I substance, as a local anesthetic. A patient overheard only a snippet and turned to his buddy: “Dude, I think they sell blow here!”

I haven’t seen him in a while, but a kid used to regularly come in and talk about how he crushed and insufflated alprazolam (generic Xanax). It “gets you buzzed quicker.” He has asked – more than once – if we could just “slip [him] a few.” He promised he wouldn’t tell.

There are three medications that I’m aware of that don’t look like medications. An iron supplement looks exactly like an M&M, only lacking the trademark “M.” A specific brand of phentermine is an oblong tablet, and it’s white with bright blue specks. Every time I dispense it I get a strange urge to use a breath mint. One other medication (I forget which one) looks exactly like orange Tic-Tacs. Think the legal departments at these drug companies considered these points when designing these forms of medications?

I’ve had a patient ask why her hydrocortisone suppositories weren’t working like they were supposed to. She seemed oblivious to the fact that they were individually wrapped in metal foil.

You haven’t had fun until you’ve had to describe in great detail the pros and cons of every single form of OTC contraceptive to an eighty-something year old couple. Awkward.

While a tech at the pickup window was tactfully explaining why an old lady was wrong on some crucial point of her medication’s administration, Bubba, an avid movie buff, passed behind the tech and absentmindedly quoted a line from Waterboy. “No, YOU’RE wrong, grandma.” Shenanigans ensued.

This same Bubba, in an honest effort to cheer up a patient at the pickup window who was relying on a crutch for an obviously injured leg, said, “If I’d known it was you I’d hit, I wouldn’t have driven off like that!” The man had an above-the-knee prosthesis that couldn’t be seen over the counter. He was a victim of a hit-and-run auto accident. I haven’t seen him since.

Boredom is not a problem in my pharmacy.

My fiancée and I have been looking for a new Sunday school class. Two Sundays ago, we saw a notice in the bulletin that really jumped out at us. The church was starting a new Sunday school class, beginning the following Sunday, for young newlyweds and engaged couples.

Perfect.

We decided to be objective about this decision. We would go three times to the class and give it a fair shot, even if we came away the first two times with a less-than-sterling experience.

Let me give you a little background, Cliff’s Notes version, on S----- and myself. When I started dating S-----, I was going through a very rough spot in my life, and I was very tuned in to what God was trying to tell me (funny how we turn to seek Him only when we’re in pain, isn’t it? This is something I’m working on). Long story short, the story was spoken to me by God Himself about Abraham and Sarah. Twice.

“By faith, Abraham, though he was past age – and Sarah herself was barren – was enabled to become a father because he believed Him faithful who had made the promise" (Hebrews 11:11).

The same story, same idea, just about word-for-word, was spoken to me by God again, but from the book of Romans.

I told S----- these things, and what I had learned from them in the wisdom and understanding given to me by our Father. In short, the story of Abraham and Sarah bearing a son, though one was a century old and the other was WELL past menopause, was crucial in my meeting my wife-to-be.

God was telling me to have faith.

So I did. I do.

Back to the search for a Sunday school class. With absolutely no context or pretext, the instructor mentioned the story of Abraham and Sarah becoming parents due to faith in God.

“Your attention, please.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t elbow my fiancée, who was sitting right next to me at the time, I didn’t give her a, “did you hear that?” look, I didn’t bat an eye. But I heard it, loud and clear. My Father had my attention.

Then the teacher, just a few minutes later, mentioned 1 Corinthians 13.

I just gave S----- a Bible with her name embossed on it, followed by, “1 Corinthians 13.”

Faith to some is coincidence to others. We've found our Sunday school class…by faith.

Thank God.

I jokingly call the French “cheese eating surrender monkeys.” They’re the butt of the world’s jokes when it comes to giving up. “When le going gets tough, you know what I say? You know what I say, Pierre? I say lez jus queet. Besides, es almost time for le art show to begeen, an my new beret es jus terribluh at stopping ze bullets.”

I can talk. I can communicate well. I can convince and schmooze and charm just about anyone, if I try.

I have never had any problem whatsoever communicating with my fiancée. I openly and freely tell her things that I would be eternally mortified should anyone else find out about them. I communicate with her so well that it’s a frequent occurrence for me to end up the one who learns something profound about me when I speak to her, not the other way around. That doesn’t happen with anyone else. Ever.

I just got off the phone with her. What she heard in our conversation was, “I have a serious problem with [insert vice here].” I may as well have told her that she disgusts me in every way and that she always would. That’s just about how outrageously incorrect and hurtful this sounded.

What I had tried to say was, “honey, our Father has blessed me with [insert crucial character aspect here] in abundance.”

It was crazy. I said, “white,” she heard, “black.” I tried to write her a poem and I punched her in the face, instead. Completely different. I tried to communicate words of love. I sounded like a rambling, raving lunatic with an evil obsession.

This is the fourth day now that our communication has been completely incapacitated. We speak to each other frequently.

Here’s the rub: she’s the kind of listener that professional psychological therapists envy. She is in no short supply of “I’m here for you, I’m listening and I understand.” No, her listening skills are fine and dandy, I can assure you. It’s my speaking that’s causing the problem. I ramble. I go on tangents. I use completely inaccurate, incorrect and misinterpreted words. Where normally I am in abundance of communicate, all of a sudden I am overflowing with mindless babble. My speaking skills now pose a threat to us, creating problems even further than what destruction I’ve already inflicted on this most crucial relationship.

The very best and most beautiful thing that I could ever hope to gain in this world is being attacked from all sides. It looks like our relationship, and we with it, are being quite thoroughly destroyed.

I may as well give up. I may as well just look down my nose and tell mon chéri zat le femme ees seemply not ze girl for moi.

Then it hits me.

“This is not my fight.”

It’s an epiphany.

The catalyst in this grand conflict, the event that set this atom bomb off was about as harmful as a bowl full of undercooked ramen noodles. The great cataclysm that began this pain parade was due to a series of very rapid and incredibly poor choices concerning a part of my character that is (well, was, anyway) completely impervious to attack. Fort Knox protects it’s gold worse than I protect this aspect of my character that has now been called into question by all this. How could this happen?

Now I’m speaking to the one person on the face of God’s green earth who actually gets me and knows me better than I know myself in many ways, and I may as well be speaking Mandarin and with a forked tongue.

I just realized I’m right, smack-dab in the middle of a fight that I had no hand in starting.

This is a war that I cannot fight. All I can effectively do in this conflict is die, and I can quite easily take everything that I love with me in the process. This is a spiritual war. This fight is between God and the Devil. I employ no fuzzy euphemisms when I say this. In no ambiguous terms I am telling you that these are the two combatants in this fight. God Almighty and Lucifer himself.

This time, I think I’ll join le French. Marine or not, I am now officially sissified. There’s not a snowball’s chance in you-know-where that I can fight this fight. This is the Lord’s fight. All I can do is cheer Him on and keep passing Him the ammunition.

So it’s all you, Father. This is your show. If you need me, I’ll be in le bunker weeth ze rest of ze arteelery and ze gear. I queet.

This is a synopsis of the past week and a half, in terms of what I've accomplished with my life.

My thoughts on the matter, anyway.

It'll be an awesome thing to see how He uses any of this for His glory

Yesterday was a very revealing day. It started unbelievably badly and ended very, very well. "On a very good note" is the exact phrase I believe I used when speaking with S----- late last night (early this morning, rather). Then I slept.

I awoke today at the exact time I awoke yesterday, just about down to the minute, and I began writing the second entry into a prayer journal, of sorts, that I had begun the morning before. These are my conversations with God.

Word for word, this is what came out:

"Good morning, Lord! Today is a very good day, and You are to blame!

I dreamt of S----- all night. Strange dreams, things that seem very disconnected from one another.

I was a construction worker who was very confidently building a bank. S----- was in it at the time. I was merely placing finishing (though structurally necessary) pillars outside the building.

I was an actor in a Star Wars movie and I was discussing my part with the director as we were on the set. My role was one of the lead roles. It was very important. But he stressed to me that there were roles and actions I simply could not perform. Those were my slightly lesser co-star’s roles that she was perfect for. My co-star was S-----.

I was in the woods, learning math in a rudimentary, class-like setting. An outdoor classroom with no walls or desks. Just pupils and a teacher. Fractions. I just couldn’t get it. Quarters and thirds. The teacher told me, very specifically me, that, '123 times one is just 123, but, if multiplied by two, is 246. By three, 369,' and so forth. I was actually learning math in my sleep. S----- was one of the pupils, one of them who was much better than me at the subject, and she waited and listened very patiently and kindly as the instructor stopped the progress of the class to teach just me. I was behind the learning curve, and S----- was on the cutting edge. She just sat there, watching me and listening to the teacher and I discuss rudimentary math. She had a small, very pleasant and very genuine smile on her face the whole time. Very patient with me in my ignorance of the subject.

I was at a group function of some sort. Debutantes. Important people. Stars. Political in atmosphere. A soiree of some sort. I was very empty, very lonely, though surrounded by many I had known for years and considered friends. Many were nameless, faceless exes. I went from one to another, searching each for whatever it was that was missing in me, whatever it was that made me feel so alone, and I couldn’t find it in any of them. Then I looked for this quality, this unnamed but much-sought treasure, in S-----, who was all the way on the other side of the room. She had been there all along, the only other person in the entire place, this crowded, haughty and ingenuous place who had been physically moving, as well. She had been on the other side of the very large room, doing the very same thing as I had been, going from person to person, ex to ex, looking for what it was that she needed. Something in her was missing and she couldn’t find it in anyone. We last looked for this substance in each other and found it. We both somehow just knew it was there in the other the whole time. We just kept looking in all the wrong places.

I was in some random, upstairs game room in someone’s house. It may have been my own. It was cluttered. I was in such a hurry to go somewhere else, I didn’t know where. I was worried about running late to some unknown appointment. It was a puzzle that was keeping me there. A jigsaw puzzle. I don’t remember what the picture was, but chunks of it were put together, you could see in great detail certain parts of the picture, you could tell what it was that was supposed to be seen in the finished product, but it was unfinished. About half finished, really. In roughly four large pieces with several smaller ones I just couldn’t for the life of me figure out. I couldn’t go anywhere until this puzzle was done. I was obsessed with it, and I don’t know why. Somehow S-----, who had been busy in the same room on some other menial task, knew quite simply how to finish it. I was growing impatient and frustrated as I waited for her to finish what she was doing (I have no idea what she was doing, she was just there doing something else, the only other person in the room…possibly the entire house) so she could come over and place the right pieces in the right spots for me. I absolutely had to see this puzzle finished through to the end, and she could finish it. I couldn’t. I had to wait on her..."

This is so wild to me. So very wild. I don't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep well for years. When I do sleep, I dream, but it's always a dream with the same theme, and it isn't a good one. It's always a nightmare (I have my own demons to face down, skeletons in my closet, so to speak).

As surely as you are reading this, I tell you THIS IS THE VERY FIRST GOOD DREAM, THE VERY FIRST NIGHT OF RECUPERATIVE SLEEP I HAVE HAD IN THE PAST SIX YEARS.

I kid you not.

I'm remembering the completely random, sincerely odd dreams perfectly. They are so far removed in every regard from each other that it's impossible to say they are in any way related...except that in each one, the woman I love was integral. Each setting could very easily be a simile to a facet in my life, to some aspect in my life with S-----. Every detail.

This must be how Joseph felt. Yes, apparently our Father does still speak very loudly in dreams to those who want to hear and ask Him to speak.

My journal entry continues thus:

"That’s the last thing I remember until this morning when I awoke and immediately smiled at You. I actually awoke this morning singing to You. I don’t know why. Some old DC Talk song, I think. One I hadn’t heard for years:

'This disease of self runs through my blood. It's a cancer fatal to my soul. Every attempt on my behalf has failed to bring this sickness under control. So tell me what's going on inside of me? I despise my own behavior. This only serves to confirm my suspicion that I'm still a man in need of a Savior! I wanna be in the light as You are in the light. I wanna shine like the stars in the heavens. Oh, Lord be my Light, and be my Salvation, 'cause all I want is to be in the light…'

I actually awoke in mid verse singing to You. How does that happen? Not to mention the complete and total change from yesterday’s beginning! Yesterday morning at this exact time was pitch black to me, completely hopeless. Sobbing. Today, 24 hours later exactly, is joy so full that I open my eyes and I’m already singing to You! Thank You, Father! Thank You, Father! Thank You so much for hearing me, for taking the time out of your day to stop what you’re doing, look at me, listen to me whine and moan and cry and complain, and then to DO something about it! My God, You are my God. You are God. I don’t know what else to say to you. Thank you. You are God."

If you’ve been keeping up with my posts lately (I’ll pretend you have), you know that I’ve had a rough go of it lately. In truth, this has been one of the most tumultuous ordeals I’ve ever been through, if not the worst. I can be pretty grumpy, sure, but I wouldn’t say I “have a flair for the dramatic.” This really has been that bad.

Case in point: I woke up this morning and immediately broke down. Yeah, I admit it. I lost it, totally and completely.

Then I thought (well, at ten thirty. I awoke exactly three hours prior), “Do something about it.”

Uh, what? What do you mean, “Do something about it”? What the heck can I do? This is so far beyond repair it’s ridiculous (see, “Trust,” posted yesterday). I can’t fix this. Period. End of story. Don’t pass “GO,” don’t collect $200…but please pass the tissues. To say I was despondent is simply an understatement. Nihilistic. Fatalistic. Pure negativity, void, black, the end. Done.

“Your attention, please: DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.”

“WHAT THE #@^%! DO YOU MEAN, ‘DO SOMETHING AB…oh.’”

It wasn’t me just thinking to myself, but this was a familiar voice. I had heard it before.

“Your attention, please…”

It’s crazy how our Father, in order to gain our attention, must sometimes take every single thing away from us…or, in my case, allow me to willfully endanger/forfeit it all. Last time I truly listened to Him, truly focused all my attention and energy on His voice, I was fighting a war. He had my attention. I had nothing else. All I could do was answer then, and all I can do is answer now.

“Yes, Lord. I’m listening.”

And listen I did. I talked, too. I dumped everything at His feet. I mean EVERYTHING. All of it. Empty. Purged. But after that, I listened. All day. Every single second. Just listened. I'm still listening.

I haven’t heard much, but what I have heard has changed everything. It clicked when I was listening to the local Christian radio station that I had all but forgotten. I don’t know who wrote it, the band, or even the rest of the song, but this has been playing in my head all day long, like a broken record:

“…My Savior Loves, my Savior Lives, my Savior’s always there for me. My God He was, my God He is, my God He’s always gonna be…”

Why was I worrying? Why was I so terrified that all was lost? S----- and I have been brought together for a reason, and we both know it. God Himself designed the match. God doesn’t change His mind. Yes, she and I are in a tight spot, and it’s of my doing, but we’re gonna be fine. So, again I ask, why on earth am I worrying?

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8)

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. This isn’t presumptuous of me. This isn’t cocky or arrogant or crazy. It’s confidence. I can’t offer you any tangible proof why I know this. I just do. It just is.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve royally screwed up. I’m pretty sure someone, some day will erect a monument in honor of the sheer, idiotic lunacy of my recent decisions. I have a rough road ahead of me. I have a lot of work to do on myself, on my relationship with the woman I love, on my car, on my attitude (et cetera, ad nauseum)…but it all starts with Him. I had to be silent, to stop my own whining and moaning and miserable self-flagellation.

“Be still. Be quiet. Listen. He’s got this. Be at peace.”

I finally feel the Peace that Passes Understanding. It’s not a myth, folks. It’s not a fairytale your Sunday school teacher/parents/local hobo told you as a kid to keep you from whining. This is not the “opiate of the masses.” This is just…peace. Calm. Absolutely overwhelming, inexplicable PEACE.

I’m not necessarily happy. I’m not even content. I can’t relax. I have work to do. A lot of damage has been done. This storm is still raging and I'm still struggling to keep my head above water.

But I’m at peace. That’s it.