I need to get something off my chest. I confess to you, brothers and sisters, that I love beer. I have since I was a wee little pony.
Yes, I was the under the taps at the company picnics.
Once, I even kicked back with a cold one in front of Sesame Street. When asked why, I replied “Dat whut daddy do.”
Except during my legalistic phase, when my faith was all about the could not/should nots, coming to Jesus didn’t change this love in my soul.
Except now that I’m older, and one would think wiser, having a beer with dinner means two things:
1) A delicious complement to my meal; and,
2) That I will be up sometime during the night to eliminate said brew.
With sleep apnea, and a recently developed sialorrhea (look that at up), making sleep dicey enough, you’d think I’d learn.
But no–I hold onto my creature comforts.
If, like the late Douglas Adams surmised, “42” (my current age) is the answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything, you’d think I’d have the smarts to let the beer go, right?
Alas, no–I’m not a smart man.
What few creature comforts I’ve left–good beer (which is not, as an extended family member keeps asking, “Bud Light?” No–and I never will), good books–and that’s about all.
Busy days, sleepless nights. Like Frodo, I feel there’s not much between me and the wheel of fire. I am being worn away.
I suppose that’s just how God wants it.
“I must decrease, He must increase.”
But first, can I have a beer?
How about you, how’s God smoothing your rough spots?