My grandfather was a drinker; a brilliant human with a larger-than-life personality. He was always cracking jokes, generous to a fault, never afraid to pass a 20 dollar bill to  a 10 year old.

He loved picking on his grandkids. He once told me that if I handed him a two dollar bill, the one that grandma had just given me, he’d double my money. He cut it in half. In another episode, as the cousins and I were lying on the living room floor, watching TV, he snuck in behind us, set up his Water Pik on the kitchen counter and soaked us all to the bone.

He was a self-made man who grew up in the depression era under an alcholic father with a gambling problem. He managed to build an empire of sorts, raise two girls, and retire comfortably.

Sometime in his early 80’s he decided to quit drinking, which had to be difficult.

I’ll never forget when he did.

He was a bit intimidating, detached. I always thought that we never talked because he didn’t like me. It never registered that his relationship with alcohol had put some distance between him and the people he loved. It was difficult to get anything out of him beyond a strong opinion.

Shortly after he quit drinking, He’d engage me in conversation, ask questions about my life. He listened. He talked to his wife. Held her hand. It was both exhilarating and heartbreaking. I wish I could’ve had more years with this version of Pa-Paw.

I have another relative who once told me that alcohol was the only thing she truly loved. I was new to Christianity at the time; an uber-judgmental, not-so-humble attacker of all vices, sorely in need of an encounter with the Jesus that I so regularly claimed to serve. I can’t remember my exact words, but you can imagine my response. It wasn’t helpful.

Now, in my mid-fifties, I find myself in a similar story; someone who loves his friends and famiy but struggles to engage. Detached. A bit too excited when cocktail time rolls around.

This past weekend, on a camping trip, I broke.

Here’s what happened:

Two years ago, I bought an old Jeep and fixed it up so I could experience more of the Colorado back country without having to hike all over the place. You wouldn’t believe the campsites that are accessible to high clearance vehicles. On this particular weekend I drove down a road that, for a few hundred yards, was a river.

My campsite was amazing; huge, next to a large creek with a waterfall, surrounded by all of the fall colors. Not a soul in ear or eye shod. I arrived late and had to set up in the dark, but I knew the morning – my favorite part of camping – would be amazing.

After setting up, I lit a fire, cracked open a small bottle of Fireball whiskey, and kicked back for a few shots. I had just come off a much-needed month-long booze break, and I was sitting at about 11,000 feet.

I woke up with what you might expect. All that work to build a Jeep, drive down some of the crappiest/dangerous/exhilarating roads you can imagine, find an amazing campsite, etc., only to spend an entire day feeling like shit.

I’m still angry about it.

I did spend the next 72 hours thinking about the different ways that alcohol might be taking more than it’s giving. Before I reflect, don’t hear me judging people who drink. It’s fun, and most of the people I hang with are good, reasonable, casual drinkers. To me, there’s nothing better than a party, and nothing goes better at a party than recreational beveraging.

We’d all do well to understand the draw.

But I’m beginning to realize that, while I can manage casual drinking, sort of, I don’t want to. If I’m with friends it’s diffult to say no to that third drink. Sometimes I don’t. And while nobody (save my wife) has ever brought my drinking to my attention, I’m guessing I have a reputation that might rival Pa-paw’s.

I have another friend, a deeply committed Christian, who couldn’t get a handle on his drinking and, in his 70’s, lost far too much. This story haunts me. I’ve always thought that my issues would magically take care of themselves.

Surely by the time I’m an old man (ha), I’ll have a better relationship with my vices.

I have more than a few friends who struggle this way. You should note that we’re all extroverts, people who love a good party more than anything else. When you hang out with folks like this, drinking or not, there’s laughter, encouragement. They’ll make you feel seen. Known.

We don’t drink because we love alcohol, we drink because there’s no party, and we need a party. I know how silly that sounds, but when I’m not experiencing enough parties in my life, my soul begins to crave whatever substitute that lies close at hand, even if comes at my expense.

Ultimately, my problem isn’t that I need to get my shit together and stop drinking. I live in a modern, disconnected, overtly independent culture, one that doesn’t value relationships as it should. The parties we throw are – especially among churchy folk – safe, subdued, distant, with lots of meaningless small talk and finger sandwiches.

Nothing like the party my soul is craving.

For me, it’s not time to judge, or feel shame about drinking too much. It’s time to understand what I’m truly looking for, and, ultimately, to be mindful of the many reasons why it might be time to stop altogether.

First, I don’t like what alcohol does to my memories. I’m a very nostalgic person. Maybe you are too. Maybe that’s part and parcel to being human. The memories of my childhood, college, early career flying small planes all over the southeastern US, seminary, travelling with Elaine, kids, surfing, etc. have all become a part of me. They tell the story of a past full of depth, meaning, fulfillment. They promise more.

And every one of these memories revolves around people I love, people who loved me back. I don’t know how I’d get by without them. They are more than just a recollection of facts; they are relived, re-experienced.

I do remember the buzzed moments when I’ve had a good time with friends, but I can’t feel them. They happened, but they’re sort of ghost like, little more than writing on a wall. Facts. History.

I’d like to make more of the right kind of memories. If they’re important to me now, I can’t imagine how important they’ll be when I’m 80.

I’m also bothered by the moments that alcohol has stolen. When I’m a couple of drinks in, I don’t care about much beyond doing whatever the hell I want to do. If something comes up that requires my attention, a hard decision, or whatever brief respite from leisure, I’ll pass.

Earlier this year, my oldest began to show signs that COVID lockdown etc. had taken a significant emotional toll. Elaine and I quickly transitioned into the most difficult parenting chapter of our lives. It required every meagre parenting skill and every ounce of committment that we possessed.

On a family vacation to the mountains earlier this summer, Sophia had a meltdown. We sat outside on the deck of our Airbnb and argued for a bit, then transitioned, somehow, into one of the best conversations we’d had since COVID hit. Then we climbed into the Jeep, headed for a mountain road, and I taught her how to drive an old, cranky, four wheel drive vehicle. We laughed, talked, and stayed out till way after dark.

She had another episode the following night, but I was a couple of drinks in and had no interest whatsoever in parenting – a truly Jekyll-and-Jackass-Dad kind of moment. She ended up in a closet, alone, trying to parse out the millions of emotions surging about in her 13 year old soul.

It wasn’t abuse. And I wasn’t drunk. I’d just had enough to excuse myself from a crucial conversation, an arena that could’ve drawn us even closer.

Never again, folks.

9 days ago, as I drove away from my camspite, looking in my rear view mirror at a half drunk, travel-sized bottle of Fireball sitting alone by the fire pit, I decided to take an extended vacation from booze.

I’ll tell you: that idea sucks. I can’t imagine life without alcohol. Every time I get in the car I drive by nine breweries. This is Denver, Colorado for cryin’ out loud. All of my friends drink. I’m surrounded.

But there’s a truth about quitting that I’ve only just come to realize.

This isn’t too far removed from breaking off a long-term, bad relationship. We all know how that goes: it sucks for the first few months then we realize that we made the right choice. The other person was bad news, and though we miss them dearly, and struggle to imagine life without them, everything will be OK. Life will be better without them.

I can’t feel that right now, but I know it’s true.

I’ve prayed about this many times and never heard God tell me to stop drinking. I definitely don’t think drinking is a sin, especially since the founder of my religion made 180 gallons of good booze at a party. But on this camping trip, I did hear, clearly, that God will walk with me through whatever pain comes from an extended, possibly permanent, break.

There is no happiness I’ll be missing, or memories that won’t be made. The idea  that I need this to live the life I want to live is a lie. So, I’m going to take a break for a year.

At the end of that, I’ll sit down and, again, put something in writing.

 

Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash

Jimmy Kimmel noted early in the pandemic, this is the stupidest fight we’ve ever had. We’re still having it. Still. Science has spoken. Opinion from epidemiologists, virologists, public health officials, and MD’s – all worldwide – has spoken.

And we’re still arguing.

I debated with someone on Facebook recently, and ended up poring over 20+ articles that supported her opinion. I’m glad I did, and now have a few things to share.

Following are my reflections on how to sort through the data on both sides of the fight, along with some opinions (go figure) about how the Christian world needs to show up here.

Hope you don’t mind that this is coming to you via video this am. Missing the preaching days, alas.

It feels tone-deaf to blog about anything but Afghanistan this morning. I’d rather do what I did during the previous administration’s sheninanigans, i.e., take some time, read opinions on both sides, let the fact-checkers have their day, etc., but the past few weeks have been heartbreaking.

Although I don’t feel prepared to write about this, I’m going to throw a few thoughts at you.

The excuses that the Biden team has made aren’t adding up. I’m in full support of pulling out of Afghanistan, but not like this. We rolled in, years ago, ran out the Taliban, and set up something that more resembles the Western world in that region than ever before, convincing ourselves that these particular bad guys were like all the other bad guys. In a short while, we’d have them under control, we told ourselves.

As soon as we pulled out, the Taliban showed themselves to be just as prolific as ever, undaunted in their drive and ability to fill whatever void we might leave behind. This ordeal reads like the Isrealites walking through the parted sea, surrounded by walls of water that would soon come crashing down soon as the good guys were out of harm’s way.

In a very short while, the Taliban will be in full control of Afghanistan.

Politically speaking, this is a mess, and it’s our fault. But the humanitarian implications of what we’ve perpetrated here are far worse. The Taliban can say whatever about how they plan to run things, but there’s no way they’ve changed their spots. Human rights violations will abound.

The majority of us will watch in safety, blaming whatever political ideology got us to this point, pointing fingers at the people who don’t think like we do, etc., all the while refusing to lift a helping finger.

Taliban 101

There are millions of facets to all of this, but it’s important to note a few significant things that the Taliban has taught us, in a few short weeks, about the Taliban:

First, running them out of the country, hunting them down/doing whatever it is that we’ve been doing for the past 20 years seems to have done little to control them. They haven’t waned or withered in their resolve and ability to sustain a force that can march in and take over an entire country.

Second, because of Taliban fact #1, it doesn’t seem to matter how we exit, a Taliban-run Afghanistan is where this story ends.

In a recent opinion piece, Condoleeza Rice doesn’t agree. From her much more experienced point of view, Afghanistan needed more time, probably a permanent presence, to keep the Taliban at bay. My far-less-seasoned opinion says that we needed to pull out at some point. But the idea that a permanent presence in the Middle East would serve national security is compelling, as is the remainder of Professor Rice’s article.

“In the wake of Kabul’s fall, though, a corrosive and deeply unfair narrative is emerging: to blame the Afghans for how it all ended. The Afghan security forces failed. The Afghan government failed. The Afghan people failed. “We gave them every chance to determine their own future,” President Biden said in his address Monday — as if the Afghans had somehow chosen the Taliban.

No — they didn’t choose the Taliban. They fought and died alongside us, helping us degrade al-Qaeda. Working with the Afghans and our allies, we gained time to build a counterterrorism presence around the world and a counterterrorism apparatus at home that has kept us safe. In the end, the Afghans couldn’t hold the country without our airpower and our support. It is not surprising that Afghan security forces lost the will to fight, when the Taliban warned that the United States was deserting them and that those who resisted would see their families killed.”

She’s also quick to remind us of the extreme sacrifices of our occupation, something we all need to reflect upon:

The past years in Afghanistan have been difficult for every president, our armed forces, our allies and our country. The sacrifices of those who served — and those who died — will forever sear our national memory.

American Intelligence

Our recent decision leaves me with a disturbing question that I haven’t been able to answer. Maybe that’s because I haven’t done enough homework, or because I’m nothing to close to a foreign policy expert. Probably both.

Did we know that Afghanistan was our Red Sea? Were we aware that the walls would come crashing down the moment we left? Or did we simply underestimate the Taliban?

Our hasty and seemingly unorganized exit suggests the latter:

“If there is a consistent theme over two decades of war in Afghanistan, it is the overestimation of the results of the $83 billion the United States has spent since 2001 training and equipping the Afghan security forces and an underestimation of the brutal, wily strategy of the Taliban. The Pentagon had issued dire warnings to Mr. Biden even before he took office about the potential for the Taliban to overrun the Afghan army, but intelligence estimates, now shown to have badly missed the mark, assessed it might happen in 18 months, not weeks.”

We bailed, fast, and marvelled at the Taliban’s equally hasty homecoming. To add insult to injury, we deployed a bit of political duck tape when we tried to blame things on the Afghan government.

Go figure.

At this point it’s impossible for me to believe that we purposefully and hastily departed in full knowledge of how fast the Taliban would fill our void. Please correct me with whatever is missing for a functional understanding, but I’m convinced, temporarily at least, that we underestimated this group.

I have a fantasy that the administration I helped elect into power simply wanted to get the bad guys all in one place so that the good guys could incinerate them. But I doubt that’s where we’re heading. Fantasies don’t work that way. And I didn’t vote for Biden because I think he’s a brilliant politician, I was (and am) simply convinced that the last president was a dangerous one.

Note that the Trump administration had previously made a deal with the Taliban, promising full troop withdrawal by May of 2021. The agreement also promised, in an act of goodwill, the release of 5,000 Taliban prisoners held in custody by Afghan forces.

All of this because we thought – previous administration included – that everything was under control. It’s not, and that should frighten us.

More importantly, the Afghan people will suffer under whatever regime installs itself. That would be true no matter how we left.