by Scott Davis
I strolled through Office Depot and dreamt of becoming a disciplined and compartmentalized wonder, then took off to the next stop and ignored a stark truth. I had compartmentalized my eating. I had concocted a kingdom fortified with almost impenetrable lies.
To get back home I had to drive past one last temptation. Supersize Scotty loved burritos. He also loved seafood. He had the best of both worlds at the final outpost on my way home: a Taco Bell/Long John Silver’s combo restaurant. Skinny Scotty told me he never understood how anyone could mix fish and Mexican food, but by then he sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Wahh Wahh Wonk, Wonk Wahh Wahh.
Is there such thing as a bad meal?
By the time I made it home, almost full and forever unfulfilled, I lumbered from the car thick with the smell and chemical haze of fast food, a man drained by the hell of battle. I’d walk in the front door after running a few errands, and Donna would say, “Why were you gone for four hours?”
I felt like Paul in Romans 7. I had the desire to do right but felt completely defeated to be able to carry it out. I didn’t do the good I wanted to do but rather the evil I loathed.
And loved.
In the end, neither Supersize Scotty nor Skinny Scotty was happy. They plopped on either shoulder, arms folded and brows furrowed, wondering when I’d ever truly listen. And deep down, it was all I could do to keep from screaming “O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:24).
Double Jeopardy
The Bible says God made some vessels for wrath and some vessels for mercy. (Romans 9:22-23) I praise the Lord for His grace because on some days I felt cursed. Being fat and cheap is a double-whammy. Those two weaknesses are a lethal mixture. I needed a Surgeon General’s warning sticker on my forehead:
IMITATING THIS FREAK IS DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH!
Donna tells me I’m cheap and tacky. I love to shop at Wal-Mart. She likes fancy stores like Dillard’s and Macy’s. Usually, in concert everything I wear has a tag on the back that reads “Faded Glory.” Wal-Mart people know exactly what I’m talking about. What Donna calls cheap I call frugal. I like being a good steward, but for some reason she grew incensed when I bought her a bag of generic cheese puffs. That’s the white bag with the black letters that read, “CHEESE PUFFS” in block letters. Underneath in small print it says, “Or may be used as packing material.” She didn’t appreciate that at all.
I guess sometimes I carry my penny-pinching a bit far. If Suave would make a car I’d drive it.
I’m also a man of convenience, meaning I often fulfill Donna’s labels of cheap and tacky. It seems like every time I want something she says, “You’re going to have to build a whole ‘nother room for that,” because she doesn’t want it in the house.
For instance, I want the fake fish that hangs on the wall and it turns its head to sing to you. She won’t let me buy it. One Christmas season, Wal-Mart had a fake deer head at the front of the store. It sang Jingle Bells as you walked in.
“Now that’d look good in the foyer,” I said.
She shook her head and never slowed down as she spoke over her shoulder.
“You’ll get it when Jingle Bells freezes over.”
I want one of those double recliners. It’s a giant L-shaped sofa with recliners on either end. We have a nice house, and I know the double recliners seem to fit perfectly in the floor plan for a trailer, but for some reason she won’t let me have stuff like that. She likes the finer things. I want that double recliner so I can lower the middle console and put my Big Gulp in the cupholder, plug up my cell phone, and situate my remote control at a perfect angle. I want one with a seat warmer and a vibrating back massager. If it had a toilet built into it, I might not ever get up. I could hang my fish right above it and have a sing-along. Donna didn’t say I’d need a whole ‘nother room for that. She said I’d need a whole ‘nother house. I got the hint.
I like bargains. I like sales. I like shopping at Goodwill. So what if the shirt came off a dead guy? It’s two dollars.
Problem is, the cheap mindset is a killer for an obese person. Something cheap or easy typically means it’s low quality or unhealthy. Notice how I called myself a man of convenience earlier. Translation: I’m bone-lazy.
All of this rendered my little living room nest Ground Zero for my bad habits.
I went through stretches in which I lived like a vampire. I stayed up to the wee hours, gorged myself, and slept late the next day. Sometimes I went all day on a well-meaning diet but still unleashed the hungry hounds when the sun went down. Television wasn’t nearly as appealing without something to munch on. I made my spiral into the depths of bad habits easier when I propped up my feet.
Once again, I started out with good intentions. At first I ate only half a banana. I grabbed the 45-calorie diet bread and thought, “This can’t be bad.” But it always worsened.
“OK, if my bread is only 45 calories, then a little peanut butter won’t hurt,” I thought. “Oooh, you know what? Maybe I’ll mix a little honey on top of that.”
Then I added the half-banana, the healthy ingredient that got the doughball rolling in the first place. I had a way of making even naturally healthy foods unhealthy. Then I drank a half-glass of skim milk to just make sure I stayed on the diet.
It was as if the snack got my stomach juices flowing.
I fixed another half-sandwich like the previous one and thought, “It can’t be that bad. It’s only 45 calories for this and 40 calories for that. It’s a banana and peanuts. It’s real, natural food.”
Before long, I lost all restraint. I started with a teaspoon of peanut butter, and then I switched to a tablespoon. Then I went to the ice cream scoop and jammed it into the Jif jar. I grabbed the little honey container shaped like a bear and squeezed him until he had pain on his face. I whipped the peanut butter and honey into a wonderful goo and spread it all over the bread. The goo was thicker than the bread. I washed it down with another glass of milk (skim milk, mind you). Then I made another goo sandwich and sucked down another glass of milk.
Finally, I finished off the other half of the banana. I knew it was good for me and would go bad if I didn’t eat it. I just couldn’t let it spoil.
My biggest weakness was cereal. I even went with plain shredded wheat without the icing for the health factor. Shredded wheat has to be better for you than Count Chocula, right?
Not with me. I literally piled 10 packs of artificial sweetener on top. My shredded wheat looked like snow-capped mountains. I’d be on some diet that called for shredded wheat with a half-cup of skim milk for breakfast, and yet I’d eat it at midnight and pour in enough milk to float a canoe. When the cereal ran out before the milk, I poured in more cereal so I wouldn’t waste the milk. And when the milk ran low and the second bowl of cereal became too dry, I couldn’t waste the cereal so I poured in more milk. The unrelenting cycle of rationalization left me wiping milk off my chin after the fifth bowl.
I ate a whole sleeve of Ritz Crackers and peanut butter. I grubbed to the back of a nearly empty pantry and found a can of chili with beans, the kind with the nasty orange gel on top when you open the can. I warmed it just enough to melt the gel.
Then I switched to Saltine Crackers and tuna because I was down to the last can standing. Same formula: Start with a few crackers and some tuna. Then eat a few more, always a few more. Then pour a few cans of tuna into a bowl, mix it with a vat of real, whole, gooey mayonnaise, and plow in with more crackers. Then throw in some relish to spice up my snack, which looked more like my third meal in an hour.
I did this over and over and over until I went to bed or fell asleep face-first in my cereal. If I was awake, I had to put something in my mouth or plan for it.
During Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, I went ballistic. I love homemade sweet potato pies without much spice. My mother would make one and I’d get a little sliver, thinking it wouldn’t hurt anything. The addiction engine roared to life.
“Man
, that went down good,” I thought. “I only had a little sliver. And it’s a sweet potato, which is natural. It has to be good for you. It came out of the ground.”
Yes, and so does opium.
I sliced another sliver only to cut it crooked and think, “Oh, I’ve got to straighten that out. I can’t leave the pie looking like that.”
I cut wider to straighten the edge. Supersize Scotty was alive and suffering from OCD.
Sometimes Donna bought her favorite dessert: yellow cake with butter cream icing. The grocery store bakery encases cakes in a clear plastic container. The lid pops and crackles when you pry it open, which isn’t good for a thick-fingered sneak. When Donna fell asleep, I tried to be quiet so she couldn’t hear me getting into the cake. I learned to adapt. I used a blanket to cover the cake container and muffle the noise while I tugged and pried.
“All right, if I can just take a quarter-inch slice,” I thought, “that’s not much.”
But when a cake is fifteen inches wide, a quarter-inch slice is a slab. I scraped the leftover icing and crumbs from around the rim and licked my finger.
Donna caught me a couple of times. She knew I was supposed to watch my weight, so I always snuck something and tried to hide the evidence. This is pitiful to admit: I often dug through the trash to put the fresh snack wrapper underneath all the other trash so she wouldn’t see it. She still found the wrapper a few times and nailed me.
“I know you had three candy bars,” she said the next day.
I’ve told that story in my comedy routine and discovered other people have used the same sneaky method to cloak their binging from spouses. I always had a joke ready because the mood was the only thing I could manage to lighten.
“Honey, we need clear plates,” I responded when she caught me. “When I’m done eating I can lick my plate and still see the TV. I won’t miss a thing on either one.”
She laughed. I laughed. And Supersize Scotty cackled again, smacking and licking his thumb, both cheeks full.
Revelation
The first stage in any change is admitting change is needed. The human mind has an incredible capacity to assent to something without taking it personally or buying into it. For me, nothing changed until my admission became intensely personal.
I had to admit I was an addict.
I had to admit I couldn’t control myself without help.
Worst of all, I had to admit I was sinning against a holy God. I was out of God’s will.
The Apostle James says each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. (James 1:14) It comes from within. It comes from me. I’m to blame.
When it dawned on me that I sinned against God by binging, overeating at every meal, and eating unhealthy foods habitually, only then did I begin to think I could forge monumental change.
The last thing I want to do is sound preachy in this book. Lord knows, just because I had to punch a few new holes in my belt doesn’t give me more room to judge. I grew up in an independent Baptist church, and it wasn’t unusual to see an obese preacher or evangelist. When you’re threatening the 500-pound barrier, you really have no business pounding the pulpit and throwing spit about someone drinking, smoking, doing drugs, or listening to rock music. It’s hard to listen to a holy roller when you can’t get past his unholy rolls.
That also convicted me. I travel all over the country to perform and make people laugh, but another crucial element of my shows is a presentation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I am an evangelist. My ministry is sharing Christ, and my tools are comedy and song.
I didn’t know the definition of weight until I realized I couldn’t let my light shine before others because my big body kept getting in the way. I was a walking eclipse. Now that was heavy.
Imagine how awkward I felt, especially considering how I viewed the fat preachers of my youth, as I stood onstage for 100-plus shows per year. Night after night I told thousands of people about the narrow way. I felt guilty even as I shared the truth, knowing if we traveled the narrow road together I needed a WIDE LOAD banner across my front and my own escort car with a flashing yellow light.
One of my life’s theme verses is Acts 20:24: “But none of these things move me; nor do I count my life dear to myself, so that I may finish my race with joy, and the ministry which I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God.”
Just before that verse, Paul explains that everywhere he had gone God made it clear to him through the Holy Spirit that “chains and tribulations” awaited him. He knew he was headed to some sort of confinement for his faith.
When I read “but none of these things move me,” I thought, “Well, how can that be? How could Paul know he was bound for prison and not haul tail the other way?”
It’s because he wasn’t his own. He owed his life to someone else. I would make that point in concert but still couldn’t help but think…
Same with me when it comes to food. I’m not my own. I’m enslaved.
The sticking point with a lot of people when it comes to salvation is they first must realize they’re lost. They have to get lost so they can get saved. They’re good people who don’t see the need for a Savior.
I believe the Bible is true. I’m like the old preacher I heard one time. He said, “I believe from Genesis all the way to the maps.” At one point, Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6) That really doesn’t have to be explained. It’s pretty blunt. He’s the answer. Sometimes people believe the existence of Jesus and even believe he’s the Son of God. Yet they don’t believe they need Him because they don’t believe they’re bad enough to need Him. And then again I looked at my gut and thought….
Same with me when it comes to food.
A couple of years ago, Fox News reported survey results in which eighty-five percent of Americans believed they would go to heaven when they die. But fifty percent of those same people said Jesus wasn’t the only way to heaven and that someone could reach heaven by practicing Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam or by just being good.
That’s not what Jesus says. He claims exclusivity.
I’ve conducted or taken part in a lot of evangelistic events, and I’ve found that most people believe the Bible is true—whether they’re churched or unchurched. So if you believe the Bible is true, then you believe what Jesus said about Himself. He’s the only way to heaven. He’s the only way to get where you really want to go.
Same with me when it comes to food.
The Bible goes on to say, “For with the heart one believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation” (Romans 10:10) and “whoever calls upon the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Romans 10:13).
It’s not enough to know the facts. It has to be transferred to our hearts. It’s a heart decision.
Same with me when it comes to food.
Once we realize Jesus is the only way to heaven, the only wise response is to say, “Jesus, I’m a sinner. Please forgive me of my sins and come into my life and take over. I’m doing a one-eighty with my life and turning to you. I surrender. Be the Lord of my life.”
For some reason, a stigma has been attached to the term “born again.” It simply means we allow Jesus to be the boss who sets us on a new path.
Same with me when it comes to food.
The aforementioned Acts 20:24 says, “so that I may finish my race with joy,” comparing the Christian life with a race headed toward the finish line of heaven. I don’t complain about God’s Word because it is truth. But it talks an awful lot about running. And I don’t like running, even though I run every morning at 7 a.m.
I run from the bed to the bathroom and then back to the bed.
When we accept Christ, the Holy Spirit moves into our hearts. He takes up residence inside us and never goes away. That’s why Paul was unmoved by the threat of imprisonment for his faith in Christ. He had surrendered his life to the Holy Spirit’s control. Wh
en we have the Holy Spirit in our lives, such threats and fears are muted by the sweet peace of a Savior who bears our burdens.
Most people don’t get up in the morning and say, “I’m going to be a heathen today.” Instead, most people when they become a Christian say, “God, I’m going to give everything to you. All these challenges are yours. Except for this one little area. I’ve got to hang onto it. This is too good. I can’t part with this.”
Same with me when it comes to food.
We have to give it all to God whether it’s our thought life, where we go, what we do, what we listen to and watch, what we look at on the computer, and, in many cases, what we eat. When I talked with God about the stuff I faced, first on the list was the face I stuffed.
I had to allow God through His Holy Spirit to take control of the one area in which I had dug huge bunkers and erected massive fortifications—the seemingly pedestrian, practical function of what I fed myself each day. I was blinded by my sin even though overeating or eating poorly isn’t a sin I could hide very well. A quick glance in the mirror revealed just how far short of the glory of God I had fallen, which was the reason I hated mirrors.
I had to get honest with myself and with God and admit my sins. Anything that controls me or comes between God and me is an idol, and the first of God’s Ten Commandments prohibits placing any other gods before Him.
I had made food a god. I had made being full a god. I had made the habit of having something in my mouth a god. I had made the feeling of satisfaction a god. Yet, like all false gods, the god of self-satisfaction is never satiated.
Same with me when it comes to food.
Who’s in Control?
If you knew you were going to get a pink slip at work next week, especially in this tough economy, could you say, “It’s not going to bother me. The Lord knows best”? That’s what Paul said. If you’re a student, how would you respond if your boyfriend ditched you? If you flunked a final exam? Could you still say, “God is in control. I trust Him”? The only way we can respond in such fashion is to take up our cross daily, follow Christ, and allow the Holy Spirit His rightful role of Controller and Guide.