I wrote this in 2014, but it's fitting for Halloween night. I struggle with overeating; here's something I wrote in response to that.
I swallowed and flattened the wrapper in my hands. I suddenly realized, with light feelings of carnal satisfaction and forced frustration, that I had eaten a candy bar.
Now there's nothing wrong with candy bars, but the candy bar wasn't the only problem. It was the candy bar with the ice cream with the party food with the piles of homemade chex mix. It was the fact that I had not sided with self-control. I had surrendered four battles. I had been challenged to a mind game and lost to my stomach.
My will is weak. I want to be a better dancer, I want to maintain my weight. But I fight my appetite's arguments with fragmented syllogisms and give up before my mouth stops watering. I lose. I am a loser because I let myself lose. I am conquered.
More than a conquerer? The shiny silver inside of the candy bar wrapper reflects only a glutton. My self-control, my death to sin, sits buried under a rank pile of fat I have knowingly, excitedly, spinelessly towered up. A poor reflection, which may soon be reflected in a mirror.
But where can I get self-control? Galatians 5 says it is a fruit of the Spirit. 1 Peter invites us to add it to our faith, goodness, and knowledge. Spirit, please help. Getting better at self-control is like improving at anything—it takes practice. Practice does not mean perfect. It also does not mean hungry or unhappy. Practice means progress.
I'd like progress. Spirit, You see my inordinate and irresponsible desires. I want to be holy. I want to be obedient, disciplined, self-controlled. Please, I ask, sanctify me.
