How I gave up smoking and why I took it up again

I gave up smoking the summer between first and second grades. One of the neighbor kids pilfered a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from her parents' stash and several of us gave them a try. It took a few attempts to overcome the challenge of lighting a paper match. None of us had ever actually done it, but we had all seen our parents and other adults applying the head of the match to the scratchy part of the cover. So, eventually we got the hang of it, and went to work applying our newly-created flames to the ends of a few cigarettes. Naturally it took a few matches to actually get the little white cylinders burning.

I drew a tentative breath through my specimen. It tasted awful. Thinking maybe quality and quantity were directly proportionate, I inhaled for all I was worth. If I had known the names of my internal organs, I would have tried to identify each of them as I coughed them past my lips. I decided on the spot that the only thing worse than secondhand cigarette smoke was firsthand cigarette smoke.

Fast forward forty-plus years. I still hate the sharp, ugly smell of fresh cigarette smoke, almost as much as I detest the musty staleness of leftover cigarette smoke. I have no desire to ever try another one. But something about cigar-smoking has caught my attention. It seems like such a civilized way to spend some relaxing time. After much research, I decide to take the plunge ...

It's late spring and I'm sitting on my patio under the lacy overhang of a shady green tree. A glass of wonderfully-red-colored Cabernet Sauvignon sparkles on the table. My beautiful wife of thirty-one years sits across from me. The splashing of the waterfall in the koi pond sets the peaceful mood perfectly. A breeze stirs the air, rustles the leaves, sets flowers dancing all around the yard. It also blows out the match with which I'm trying to light my Macanudo Hampton Court. I break out the butane lighter. Not one made for cigars, but a butane lighter nonetheless.

I have already cut the head of the cigar. Holding it head-up on a cutting board, I just barely allowed the edge of a sharp knife to touch the cap as I rotated the cigar. The result was a clean cut, and I am proud of myself.

Now I hold the cigar to the lighter's flame, closer than I should, but I have to get the cigar lit. I take a few quick puffs, trying successfully to avoid any taste of the first, overheated smoke. For the better part of the next hour I puff my cigar, sip my wine, visit with my wife, and enjoy my lovely, peaceful retreat of a yard. At one point a swallow of wine and a breath of smoke combine in my mouth in a synergistic way that elevates both flavors to a place neither could reach on its own. My wife enjoys the occasional light whiff of cigar smoke she gets while sitting upwind of my position.

And I realize that I have found something of immense value. This cigar, although it delivered far too little flavor to suit me, brought the pace of my overly-busy life to a much-needed crawl. Perhaps I'm rationalizing, but it seems that the health risks of one or two cigars a week may largely be overcome by the benefits of relaxing and unwinding for the length of time it takes to smoke them. At any rate, for me, the mental, emotional, and spiritual benefits are worth the officially-undetermined risks of occasional cigar-puffing.

Later cigars I cut with a tool made for that purpose. They delivered a stronger flavor, more to my liking. I bought them at a better price, after doing more shopping and research. But, no matter their flavor or price-level, and regardless of the equipment used to enjoy them, the greatest joy they bring is in the need to slow down and enjoy them. Future cigars will catch fire in the flame of my new cigar lighter.  They may emerge proudly from my own humidor, perhaps even one I have made with my own hands. And they, like their predecessors, will slow down every minute spent smoking them.

That is why I took up smoking again, after these many years - a cigar, for me, is a "life-timer" that forces me to slow way, way down, and teaches me to enjoy a snail's pace.

Can you hear Me now?

MONROE, Ohio - A six-story statue of Jesus Christ was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, leaving only a blackened steel skeleton and pieces of foam that were scooped up by curious onlookers Tuesday.

Maybe God's getting tired of our private versions of Jesus ...

What is Church?

A question that my new long-distance friend, Mike Bishop, asks on the cover of his book.

"Surely there is more to church than putting on a good Sunday service," he muses.  And he discovers that "Finding your purpose does not mean you identify your place in someone else's dream."   But, because American church is largely (and increasingly) built on a business model, with the whole corporation taking on the personality of the CEO, there are more and more people "... who love jesus but are dying in the church."  (All quotes from pages 14 and 15)

If you have ever felt like a cog in someone else's wheel; like you've been trained to do stupid sheep tricks; like there must be more to church than you're experiencing - this book is a great place to start the search for deeper meaning.  It's the story of a man who is walking that road, discovering along the way the richness of asking fresh questions about church leadership, structure, meetings, and traditions.

You can get the book on Amazon, and I could put up a link and get a split of the income off any copies you buy there.  But I'd really rather you go to Mike's web site and poke around a little bit, and then buy the book from him.   http://www.whatischurch.com