To a smoker, oh! how sweet it is. It’s not until one quits that the foul stench becomes apparent. In fact, when one starts the addiction, in most cases, it’s rather unenjoyable, to say the least. A whole show of choking and coughing, the aftertaste, the burn of the throat, the tickle of the nose, the lightness of the head, the constriction of the lungs. One does their best not to look disgusted in the presence of others which is where they learned of such novelty in the first place. Usually. But soon absolutely not turns to questioning the oddity turns to curiosity turns to (what’s that called when you let your guard down?) vulnerability turns to a sort of internal conflict, albeit briefly, as the building pressure gives way to the seemingly irresistible throes of passion, intoxication of power, thrill of money or in this example… the sweet smell of addiction which took place right after the words you want a drag? Or maybe I’m the only one who felt that way…

I was nine when I started smoking cigarettes. After that initial drag offered by a quasi-friend, my protective fortress began to crumble as addiction slowly crept through a breech in the wall. Soon thereafter, Mom would send me down to the store with food stamps (the paper money kind, not a fancy EBT card). I’d be instructed to buy some penny candies (no problem, mom!) and with the resulting change, I was to purchase cigarettes with the accompanying note that read something to the effect Hi, Gary! Please let my daughter buy me a pack of Salem 100’s. Thank you! Have a great day! -Marie. How easy to tell Gary that mom needed another pack but I must’ve lost the note in the alley.

But that was only when I had the money to buy some. Usually it was a seek and find mission. Ashtrays and curbs were a hunting ground. I would continue to smoke for thirty-five years. A closet smoker of sorts. Mostly at home and mainly at night. But still, a smoker. In 1990, at the age of thirteen, I’d write in my journal (and repeat these thoughts for the next thirty-five years) how I needed to quit, how I recently quit but that I’d sneak a drag sometimes, how I really should quit but seemingly… never could. This at-one-time-oddity became my new normal. Funny how that is… with sin.

But God! He took this addiction away. With the snap of His fingers, and a wave of His hand, the Good Lord (Love by another name) reprogrammed my mind and recreated my land. And all because I slowed down enough to simply question my reality. It was in that lull that God made His way into my heart. I tell you… a caterpillar, no doubt once enjoyed itself all tucked in tight but, oh! how it must have felt when it finally took flight. Just think of it!

The moral is, Little Caterpillar, I know you’re comfortable where you’re at… but you were born to fly. No matter who you are and what rut you’re stuck in, you gotta keep moving. I’d hate for your life to become stagnant like the Dead Sea or worse, become harmful like cigarette smoke. In the words of Susan Powder, Stop the Insanity… and breathe.