Thank You for Not Smoking
There was no question: I was an addict.
I had smoked for more than thirty-five years. Every morning, the first thing I did was smoke a cigarette. Every night, the last thing I did was smoke a cigarette. In between, I smoked after I ate, while talking on the phone, when I got in the car, before I walked into wherever I was going—at almost every point of every day of my life.
My father was a smoker when I was growing up, and my two sisters and I experimented with smoking in our teen years. I’ve often wondered why I was the only one who immediately got hooked.
Toni’s brief association with tobacco products was almost comical. We always knew when she had been smoking because she came home with a greenish cast to her face and spent the rest of the evening in the upstairs bathroom. Before long she gave up trying.
Wendi handled smoking like everything else she did. She mastered it but did not let it master her. She was a social smoker and had little trouble quitting when she decided to do so.
I was not so lucky.
I have never tried meth or been a coke addict, but I’ve read about how quickly a person can become addicted to them. That was my experience with cigarettes. Once I started at age thirteen, I could not turn back.
I married a man who was also a smoker. By then, the habit was such an ingrained part of my life, I never thought about it much. I didn’t see it as a problem until our first child was born. At that point, three things began to change my feelings about smoking.
Our son Matthew was born in the early 1980s when bans on smoking in public places were becoming widespread. Public opinion was shifting and, over the next few years, we would see a decidedly anti-smoking feeling permeate our society. I’m not sure when I noticed that people were beginning to look down on smokers, but I felt it more keenly as time went by. I became more and more secretive about my habit.
Around that time, we started hearing about the health risks associated with secondhand smoke. My husband and I decided to quit smoking in the house. We live in Florida, so I was spared the torture of snatching a few drags while shivering in below-freezing weather—except while visiting relatives up north. But I could no longer light up whenever and wherever I wanted. Smoking was becoming a hassle, and I was starting to wish I could give it up.
The third factor was that when Matthew was a toddler, I rededicated my life to Christ. I had accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was in elementary school but fell away from Him during my teen years. Becoming a wife and mother motivated me to renew my relationship with God.
I started going to church, and thankfully my husband soon followed. He became a Christian and we were baptized together. We got involved in a home group and Bible study. I joined the choir and became active in the women’s ministry.
But I didn’t quit smoking. I didn’t even try to cut down. The only difference was now I felt guilty about it. I had this secret sin I needed to hide from everyone. I would still puff away in the car before we pulled into the church parking lot, but I was careful to blow it out the window so I wouldn’t smell like smoke when I got inside.
For the next twenty years, I wrestled with my addiction. I knew the reasons I should quit and understood the dangers to my children and me.
In spite of that, I smoked all the way through my next two pregnancies. We still went outside to smoke at home, but I continued to do it in the car. Though I didn’t want to admit it, my kids were often exposed to secondhand smoke.
As for myself, I rationalized that my father had smoked for many more years than I had, and he was fine. And he smoked unfiltered cigarettes. Sadly, my dad died from heart problems when he was only sixty-three years old.
I could justify the health risks, but the spiritual implications of my addiction became increasingly bothersome. I was ashamed to be a smoker and felt like a hypocrite for calling myself a Christian while I continued my pack-a-day habit. As I grew in spiritual maturity, I couldn’t deny that it was a stronghold in my life.
My need to smoke controlled me. I planned my life around it. I always had to make sure I had enough cigarettes on hand. If I felt like I didn’t, I panicked. I often drove to the store late at night so I would have them in the morning when I woke up. I couldn’t commit to any event that lasted longer than a few hours if I couldn’t smoke there. Overnight trips—like a mission trip or retreat—were out of the question.
I suspected my smoking hindered my relationship with Christ in many ways. If I could only get free from the bondage of the cigarettes, I sensed it would open a whole new realm for me.
There was one big problem: I didn’t want to quit. I enjoyed smoking, and in spite of all the reasons I knew I should give it up, I had no intention of actually doing so.
I occasionally prayed, “Lord, give me the desire to quit!” But for the most part I just kept on smoking.
By this time, my husband and I were lay leaders of the marriage ministry at our church. Every Tuesday night for more than four years, we stood in front of hundreds of couples and encouraged them to trust God for all they needed in their marriages and in their lives. We then walked out and lit up as we headed home.
In the fall of 2009, I was working on writing the third and final part of a curriculum for the marriage ministry, and I was on a spiritual mountaintop. It seemed like God was revealing new truths to me every day, and I felt invincible—like nothing could pull me away from the amazing fellowship I was enjoying moment by moment with Him.
The lessons I had been working on for the curriculum opened my eyes to many things about who we are in Christ. A new understanding was dawning regarding what we have available to us as children of the King and co-heirs with His Son. My prayers were energized as never before, and for several days I had been praying for two or more hours every morning.
After my family left for work and school on November 5, I carried my Bible, prayer book, and cigarettes to the bench in our backyard where I always sat. Automatically, my hands reached for the pack and lighter, and I lit my first cigarette of the morning. I inhaled, held it for a few seconds, and then blew it out, enjoying the tiny buzz I felt as the nicotine entered my system.
I was raising the cigarette to take another drag when it hit me.
If I really believe God can do anything, why am I still smoking?
With my next thought, I casually tossed off a prayer: God, deliver me from smoking.
It was so offhand, I didn’t even pause from what I was doing. I placed the cigarette in my mouth and inhaled again.
But this time, when I went to blow it out, something strange happened. Instead of a solid white stream of smoke, I was shocked to see what looked like semi-transparent, puffy black clouds coming out of my mouth. They slowly floated up and away, even when I tried to blow harder.
I thought I must have imagined it. So I took another drag of the cigarette. I tried to blow out the smoke, but the same thing happened.
I still couldn’t believe I was actually seeing this. To make sure, I deliberately inhaled a third time. Once again, the black clouds came floating out of my mouth. I bent over and put out the cigarette in the grass at my feet.
It was the last one I ever smoked.
My desire to smoke was gone. I did not experience any physical withdrawal or struggle in any way to overcome the addiction.
Over the next few days and weeks, there were times when I was tempted. But I would say to myself, God has delivered me from smoking. I am free from the bondage I was in and I will not return to it, and the urge quickly passed. Those moments came less and less often, and soon I didn’t have them at all.
Praise God, I was free.
Most people would agree that kind of instant deliverance from a thirty-five-year addiction is a miracle, but it’s not the end of the story.
A little more than two weeks after my experience in the backyard, my whole world came crashing down. Problems had been in our lives, but I hadn’t really paid attention to them. Now I was forced to. All at once, I found myself financially devastated, my husband was hospitalized, our ministry was shut down, and many of our friends turned away from us. Almost everything that gave me a sense of security or comfort was suddenly ripped from my life.
But with all the stress I felt, I didn’t start smoking again.
More important, throughout that time of devastation, when I often had no idea where we would get our next meal or how I would live through the rest of the day, I did not despair.
I had nowhere to turn except to God. But He had delivered me from smoking. And I knew He did it to give me the strength, the faith, and the unwavering trust I needed to make it through all that was to follow. I kept thinking, He delivered me from this; He will surely take care of us.
And He did.
A while back I celebrated the one-year anniversary of the day I was freed from the bondage of smoking. Since then, I have seen God do many more miracles. He has provided for us and worked things out in ways I could never have anticipated.
And I can say with total assurance, “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer” (Psalm 18:2).