I’m a cheater. Or a backslider. Or a relapser. Or maybe just a mistake-maker, or an expert starter-over.
So far, my addiction to sugar seems to be gone, or at least seriously diminished. I’m not craving sugar, but when it’s right in my face there’s still a possibility that it’ll go right into my mouth.
Confessions: On Friday morning I needed to be ready for an 11:00 funeral and finish up the church newsletter. Two things of almost equal importance. (Multi-tasking is overrated, if not completely fictitious. Who among us really does more than one thing at a time? We just try to do too many things in rapid sequence and call it “multi-tasking,” when often the more appropriate appellation is “insanity.”)
When my Mac completely froze and I hadn’t saved for the past 30 minutes, I was beside myself. Out of my mind. Certainly not present! So when I stomped off to take a break and passed the remains of some cake in the dining room (leftovers given to my son and granddaughter, who had visited for a week) I grabbed some and gobbled it down. Frustration. Anxiety. Panic, even.
On Saturday I was at a 6-hour program on strategic planning, with piles of bagels and donuts provided. During the fifth hour I felt I would fall asleep any minute, or more likely die from inactivity and tedium (good program, but still too long), and I ate a donut filled with Bavarian cream. It may have saved my life. At least I can claim with certainty that I didn’t die of torpor.
These incidents don’t negate my fast; I just have to start all over again at that moment. I’m glad to say that I didn’t take the “screw it, I blew it so I’ll just go crazy and start again tomorrow” approach. It’s not a matter of the fast “working” or “not working.” It’s practice. It’s asking God to help me break the bonds of sugar addiction, or anything that acts as a continual pull from self-remembrance.