The Horse with the Golden Mane: Stories of Adventure, Mystery and Romance

The Horse with the Golden Mane: Stories of Adventure, Mystery and Romance

By Russell A. Vassallo

ERIC

He knew little of the man who befriended him. Only that he was an old man who was kind to him and who had known hunger and desperation. He did not even know how incongruous it was for such a man to befriend the very breed of dog that once hunted him for Nazi persecutors. Yes, Eric saw the tiny blue marks on the man's arm, but he did not know who put them there or that the man once waited in a crowded ship to be admitted to the newly formed State of Israel. Nor would he have cared about these things if he had known.

Eric only knew that when he passed before the clouded mirror in the man's store the reflection that stared back at him was black and tan, short-haired and muscular, with a narrow snout accentuated by black and tan streaks and short cropped ears. He was larger than the average Doberman.

Eric had once been sheltered by other people, for no one can truly own a Doberman. To be precise, he had been harbored by a young husband, his wife and their two pesky, noisy children who insisted on turning Eric into a play horse rather than a guard dog. And to be exact, Eric often wished he were elsewhere with voices not quite so shrieking or so loud that they hurt his ears. How he came to be the friend of the old Jew is not a matter of conjecture. He appeared in the old man's back alley soon after a fatal auto accident that happened near Sol's shop. It was thought he may well have been the sole survivor of that accident, for no one ever came looking for him.

Sol did not know where Eric came from. The man only knew that he was a lonely man. He only knew that the dog was abandoned. One summer evening as he emptied his garbage in the alleyway behind his store, he startled at seeing Eric lying near the cans, blood streaked across his muzzle. He felt no fear at seeing the dog and even when Eric emitted a low growl, daring Sol to come nearer, the old man went about his business as if the dog did not exist. Sol knew better than to approach. He'd seen Eric's breed in Germany and knew well enough to keep his distance. Handled kindly, the Doberman can be a staunch and loyal ally. But with attack training or mishandling, the same breed can be a lethal weapon. Eric knew nothing of this. He only knew he was hurting, hungry and frightened. He did not know that Sol had once watched German soldiers attack train shepherds and Doberman pinschers using Sol's bunkmates as quarry. But something about Eric seemed more frightened and wary than vicious, so Sol plied the animal with quiet words and slow, careful movements.

“So, vas is?” he cooed lightly, lifting the lid and slowly dumping the refuse into it. “Ve got neighborhood dawks, ach, I know dem all und dey are mutts. You got class, breeding. I know your kind. So, from vhere did you cum, ah? Maybe, I call you dawk until you haf a name. Is goot?”

Eric did not move but neither did he growl again. His eyes showed interest in the refuse being dumped in the trash; an interest Sol noted as he calmed the animal. There was something about the old Jew he liked, something that told him this man had been lost and hungry, too. His eyes never left Sol though. Wariness and suspicion were part of his breeding, and despite his injuries, he'd defend even the small piece of territory he now claimed. But Sol made no threatening move or gesture, and Eric felt himself relaxing.

The old man disappeared into the door only to reappear a moment later. He scooped a can of dog food into a round, small plate and pushed it slowly forward with his foot. He stopped when the dish was three feet from the dog. Though Eric had not eaten for two days, he did not rush to accept the offering. Instead, he crawled slowly forward as though stalking the dish, stopped to eye Sol, then inched forward. Only when he reached the bowl did he eat voraciously, stopping occasionally to eye the old man and take note of his position. The old man sat on the doorway step, unmoving, speaking calmly to the dog.

“I'm alone here. Ve could use a goot guard dawk. Mein store is vorthless. Still dere are men who vould steal from me. Ida, mein vife, is dead. Dey separate us in Germany. I tink I never see her again. Den, I go to Israel und dey find her for me. Vent to Israel und I tought ve haf a goot life. Den dey put a bomb in the place vhere she eats lunch und she is dead. Tventy-years gone mitt von bomb yah? Und I am not vit her vhen she dies. Such a voman dat Ida. So I leave Israel. I cum here. No more bombs. No more vife. Now, I jus' live alone, yah? A bomb snuffs out so many tings? So vhat is vun vife vhen so many udders are dying? So,” he drew out the words, “from vhere do you come?”

The dog still made no moves but neither did he growl again. The old man's voice seemed to reassure him.

“I don't get company. Und friends, I got none. Dead or in Israel. The Promised Land, ach. So I got nobody und you got nobody. Maybe ve stay togedder. You trust me. I trust you und ve stay. You tink about it. In der morning, if you are here, I feed you.”

And then he rose and entered the building again because he slept in the tiny back room of that ramshackle place. He left the door open, something he never did. He hoped Dog --for that is what he named him--might trust him enough to make it his home.

In the morning, he placed a food dish and water near the rear step and went about readying the store for the morning crowd. Newspapers had to be opened and put out for sale. He reheated yesterday's coffee and placed fresh buns and rolls in the glass case that separated the front from the rear. The first morning customers liked their newspaper and their coffee. Some purchased hard rolls with chunks of butter in them. Others just took a donut or two, paid and left. No one tarried in the musty store with faded wooden floor boards encrusted with soot. And they ignored the walls with their peeling wallpaper and “Drink Coke” signs. Few even bothered to note the antique cash register perched at the start of the glass case. Even fewer bothered to note its contents, boxes of Dutch Master, Corona-Corona, Panatela cigars, packs of cheap cigarettes. Behind the counter lay shelves with straws, misted glasses, spoons, forks and other utensils. It was not much of a confectionery store, but it kept Sol alive and he enjoyed the few customers willing to tarry for conversation.

And he knew them all. The mechanic from down the street whose uniform never changed, the prostitutes chasing the evening hangover with cups of coffee and sugared donuts, the delivery man catching a quick break, the little kid who chose to spend his dime on something sweet rather than donating it to the Catholic Missions. They were part of his day, part of his existence.

Eric sniffed at the door. The smell of hot coffee melded with the odor of canned dog food wafting from the stairs. He was thirsty more than hungry so he finished the bowl of water, then ate. There was dried blood on his chest though he was not wounded. The blood dried and stiffened even though he cleaned himself. The old man stepped through the curtain that divided the storefront from his sleeping quarters in the rear, saw Eric standing over his food dish and slowed his movements somewhat. He wanted to do nothing to alarm the animal.

“Gooten tog, mein friend. Did you haf a goot sleep? Ach but you finish your vater. I get you zum.”

He approached the dish carefully as Eric studied him. He remained stone-like, observing Sol with deep, black eyes that pierced the man's every move. Sol filled the dish and the dog obediently drank from it as if wishing to reward the old man's efforts. What Eric saw smiling at him was a slightly-built old man, erect in stature, with thinning gray hair that flopped down over his ears and curled across his forehead. There was something almost boyish about the man as if he had once been young. Eric stared at the blue numbers on the man's arm as if he recognized them or knew their significance but he did not. He studied the worn shelves that lined the back room, dusty, unused shelves, yellow with age and dirt. A bed, a small round table with a single chair, a plastic tablecloth. Tucked in the corner, an old gas stove, buttressed by a small, rusty sink. Here and there, a glass or two, some cups, loose utensils completed the embellishments. The floor was faded linoleum with loose tiles that skidded across the floor if the old man didn't lift his feet high enough. It held the aroma of mold and mildew, stuffy and choking to the dog's sensitive nostrils, but he tolerated it. Somehow the claustrophobic room seemed little used except when the old man ate or slept there. But it was home.

A bell tinkled from the storefront signaling that a customer had entered and, before Sol could move, the dog strolled confidently toward the entrance. Sol experienced a tinge of fear that the customer might be in for a nasty shock, but Eric merely positioned himself by the cash register and sat. And so it was throughout the day. When customers came in, Eric stationed himself behind the counter. If they approached too near the cash register, he raised himself to full height and blocked their path. If nothing else, the dog's presence encouraged more conversation from customers than usual. The old man reveled in his new-found friend.

He marveled at the dog's protectiveness, too; and he was proud of his newly- acquired guard dog. Eric was beautiful, lithe and slender, his coat clean except for the dried blood. During lulls in business, Sol fed the dog tidbits from his own lunch and at closing time, he sat on the floor near the dog and softly groomed him with his hand.

“Vell, mein friend. Do I haf a beautiful dawk? Ve need to clean der blood, yah? Nicely, I do it. Sol has experience mit cleaning blood. I tell you sometime.”

He fetched a warm bowl of water, soaped it with gentle dishwashing liquid and soaked a cloth. Moving slowly, he held out the cloth, then made a slow swiping motion in front of Eric, barely touching him. When the dog made no movement, he soaked the stiffened hair and gently rubbed away the crusts of dried blood, stroking the nap forward and back until the coat lay bloodless. If Sol's supposition about the accident were correct, no one would come to claim this animal. They were all dead. Still, where had the dog been since the accident?

He removed the dog's damaged collar. A metal name-plate affixed

to the leather read Eric. Yes, Eric. He liked the name. He repeated it softly as he cleansed the dog's wounds. “Ach, tomorrow ve get you a collar und leash. Den ve valk at night by der railroad. Der Meadows is a goot place und der valk vill do us good, yah.”

Unexpectedly, the dog poked his snout into Sol's arm-pit and sniffed. Sol felt reassured by the animal's confidence. He knew that the Doberman did this to gain the scent of a friend. When the dog licked his hand, he knew he was gaining its confidence. He rubbed until the blood gave way to the dirt beneath and finally the dog was clean.

Sol always closed the store at seven. There was little point staying open beyond that. Tired from the long day, he settled into the small bunk and lay there looking at the grease on the ceiling. His hand drifted down and found the dog lying next to him, and gently, Sol stroked the bristly hair until he drifted into sleep.

The old man's slumber was never restful for the dream was always the same. He is hiding in a dark corner, near the fencing. The Nazi patrol is searching for him. Suddenly, a light flashes on him. He is discovered. They butt him with their rifles. Then the dogs are loosed. They savagely attack. One is tearing at his throat as he desperately struggles to protect the soft skin. In a blinding panic, he awakens. He is saturated with perspiration. The room is dark and quiet. No Nazi troopers. No attacking shepherds. Just an ominous din.

Sol remembers when he was a trustee in the camp. He ladled soup to the prisoners, soup that was watery and contained little nutrient. It was not the bountiful soup the kitchen trustees ate. Nor was the quantity the same. He saw the faces of his friends, pleading eyes, pleading for a drop more of soup, a larger hunk of bread. But he could give them nothing more than the command instructed him to give. So each night he saw their faces. Faces that remained only for a time and then were gone. Some lasted longer than others. None lasted forever. One awoke with the uncommon knowledge that he might be awakening to his very last day.

To have a friend now, one that could not be taken away, overjoyed the old man, whose heart was heavily burdened with guilt. All Sol had wanted to do was help his friends, help his wife. Life decreed that he do neither. He focused on the dog because the dog was his final hope.

“I jus' vant to help. In camp I try to help mein friends, der prisoners. I am only an inmate dere. I cannot help. All doz lonely faces. Dey haunt me. Und now I haf a friend. I help you und you help me.”

Sol bought Eric a bright orange collar to accent his short, black coat. He did not trust the smaller retractable leashes so he purchased one heavy enough to control a full-grown horse. That would give Eric twenty feet to roam. When the dog was better trained, Sol would release him at the meadowlands.

After closing, they emerged from the store for their evening walk. Sol locked the front door and turned to face the deserted streets. Newark, after working hours, loomed ominous and silent as if a huge cloth descended over the town and smothered all signs of life. The smell of burning rubber and sea wind blended together in a strange friendship. To the east lay the metropolis itself, stone buildings blotting out the sky, empty and forlorn now that people were gone. People worked in Newark, but most of them did not live there. It was no longer a city of mixed origins and social strata but a ghost town that sprang to life only with the daylight.

The store Sol owned was harbored in a huge, old apartment complex, twenty-four dwellings massed one upon the other and enveloped in a dark hallway that led to every apartment except Sol's store. Other buildings appeared much the same, drab and dingy, smothered with smut and pollution. To the south lay the industrial businesses, chemical factories such as Dooner-Smith, the East District fire station, Sherwin-Williams paint factory, Wilson pallets, then small, dark, faceless residences with stone stoops and lightless windows from behind which furtive shadows peered out into the empty streets.

To the west lay the highway out of Newark, heading toward Port Newark. A few blocks from Sol's store, the road swept sharply right, crossed the entrance to a highway ramp, then curved to the left. It was in the vicinity of the ramp that Sol walked in the evenings. He made the sharp right turn along with the road, crossed the street to the ramp. Directly before him was an elevated roadway that rose up over the swamps and meadows. Beneath the highway, to his right, was abandoned land. It was useless land. Made so by the highway that passed over it and by heavy rains and flooding that made it mostly swamp, but the area directly beneath the highway was kept clear and firm by the road department. But that was important only because it was where Sol walked, down near the roadway where the meadow began and sank into the tall, covering grass and mushy wet grounds. Occasionally young people ventured into the swamp roads to make love. Occasionally someone walked into the swamp never to retreat. But Sol found it quiet and comforting. He carried a heavy walking stick with a brass lion's head, so he felt well protected.

And it was only three blocks from the store, not far enough to drive. Even if he had done so there was no safe place to park. Drunks often swept wide on the curve, missed the ramp entrance, steered right and skidded into the marshy swamps where Sol walked. Two months before a pedestrian had been killed right at the crosswalk. It was where the accident of Eric's former owners occurred as well. People complained, but the city did nothing. What could it do? Drunks are drunks and drunks drive. So Sol kept his vehicle safely tucked in front of his store.

He pointed Eric in the direction of the open lands and, for the first time in a very long time, he felt proud. Proud to have the magnificent animal next to him. Secure for the first time that he had a friend. Eric maintained a steady pace beside the old man, stopping to stare into the dark alleys that lined the path to the highway. When they arrived, Eric studied the configuration of the land, eyed the tall grass and weeds that formed a small lake to the right, noted pockets of water scattered between islands of grass and debris. Unlike his human counterpart, Eric could sense and could smell. He tested the air and on it came the smell of rats, raccoons, possums, snakes, coyotes, even other dogs. They scurried in the grass like vermin fading before the light.

It was five miles to Port Newark. A break in the overgrowth provided a passable path so one could walk. Even on a humid, summer's eve the sea breeze wafted across the grasslands and the path beneath the ramp that led to Newark Bay. But no one ever walked there, and Sol never walked very far. He wanted just enough exercise to keep him fit. He did not venture beyond safe boundaries. With Eric, he walked a bit further than usual, happy for the dog's company. At first Sol did not release Eric when they reached the outer edge of the city. He let the leash out to its end, then summoned the dog, rewarding him with a treat each time he returned. In time he'd let Eric run free, but only when certain he'd return.

So they walked in the evenings, listening to the wind whoosh through the cattails and wild reeds. They halted when something slithered into the high grass and disappeared. Sol was not afraid of rats. He'd seen too many. Seen too often when rats were the only food for desperate men. They had no weapons so they stoned them, lifting rocks in feeble and trembling hands to cripple them. He recalled men fighting over dead rats, watching them torn apart. It repulsed him now to think that he had been reduced to eating rats, to fighting with fellow prisoners for a piece of leg, stomach, anything that would keep him from cramping. And he'd seen guards turning their dogs on living beings just for the sport of watching them ripped apart.

But that was before he became a trustee. After his assignment, he enjoyed more scraps from the kitchen. Often they had whole potatoes and even some meat. The Germans were not inclined to mistreat the trustees as they didn't care to do the work themselves. So he enjoyed the benefits of his work while other men starved and died. But it troubled him deeply for Sol wanted only to help. Yet, the same guards who granted him privileges turned on him when he attempted sharing small favors with other prisoners.

Why had men done this to other men? He often thought of the Merchant of Venice: the Quality of Mercy is not strained. And yet it was. There was no mercy. Men died upon whim. Upon quotas. Men too weak to live had to die. It was ordained. But he always wondered why. And the dream was always the same, men in black, in brown, in gray --- boys, hovering over fallen men, whopping them with truncheons, lashing them with whips and leaving them dead in the streets.

But Eric knew none of this, and would not have cared if he had. He had his own history. He was the largest of his litter, big-boned and brawny, too large for show, and thus he'd been given to a local family on condition that he not be credited to the breeder. In terms of dogs, Eric was a misfit. He did not even have registration papers. He was massive. His thick, long legs made him appear much taller than he was, and he had the rapier, sleek lines of a greyhound. For the most part, he was quiet except when he rumbled that low, threatening growl that displayed a pearly row of jagged teeth.

And Sol was proud of his new friend. He sensed in Eric a power he had never possessed. Certainly not while Nazis swept Jew after Jew out of homes and hiding places, crammed them into trucks and trains and delivered them to waiting deaths. Sometimes in the dream he saw their faces, haunted, frightened, questioning. He saw their bodies shoved with bulldozers into waiting pits while the gas showers pumped more death into humanity. But now he was safe in America, safe with a fine friend.

When they returned from their evening walks, Sol made himself a cup of tea and read the Newark Evening News while Eric laid alongside him. He shared a few cookies with the dog and rested his hand on the animal's back, stroking lightly until, being an old man, he tired and drifted to sleep. Somehow, with the dog lying next to him, he slept more peacefully, but it was never completely restful. Sometimes, in the darkness, he woke suddenly and let his hand search for the dog. Finding him still beside him, Sol patted Eric gratefully and slipped again into slumber.

Sometimes, he remained awake long enough to read the newspaper to Eric, telling him about the day's events. Other times he told him how the German government promised a better way of life. Changes were so subtle. First, the designation of all persons of non-German origin and Jews to be marked with a star so they could be identified. Then, the registration of guns and soon after, the confiscation of all weapons for the safety of the state. Without them, the Jews were helpless when Germans arrested them. How much resistance would they have given? Sol didn't know. He had always been a peaceful man. He knew that Jews fought in Warsaw. He heard some survived too. Others were driven into open fields where they were machine-gunned. He had wanted to help his fellow prisoners. Yet, he was helpless. It was the way of war. People die.

In this new land, this America, there were places where a man could still carry a weapon, but not in New Jersey. In his state, a man could only carry a walking stick or a cane, something with which to defend himself. He could not carry a gun. And so, Eric was doubly reassuring to the old man.

Eric knew none of this though. He only knew that when he settled near the old man he felt a strange surge of security, a sense that he was home. He pushed his snout under the old man's hand, stained with liver spots and stiff with age, and he was content. Occasionally wind rattled the front door and Eric went to investigate, his feet tapping rhythmically on the linoleum floor. The sound reminded Sol of German officers tapping windows with their riding crops as they inspected the darkened rows of barracks. And then they would decide who might live and who might die. In the end, most would die unless they were able to work. Sol was assigned to work as a cook and then to ladle food to the inmates.

The old man rubbed Eric's head until sleep overcame him and when the hand went limp and did not respond to Eric's urging the dog took his evening turn around the store, drank a little water and settled into sleep beside his friend. Thus man and dog bonded as friends rather than as those owned or possessed. The dog vigorously protected the old man as friends might do. People who came into the store feared Eric and gave Sol deference. If they approached him too closely or ventured too near the cash register, Eric warned them away. Otherwise, he sat obediently in his station, watching, waiting.

Winter slipped into spring and then spring into the long days of light and warm evenings. The sea wind rippled through the high grass of the meadows. Sol and Eric walked there each night to enjoy the freedom and the quiet. Crickets chirruping in the darkness. Katydids buzzing like chain saws in the far swamps. Often the sea wind smelled of salt air and brought to Sol's recollection the smell of wave and wind as he waited to enter the Promised Land of Israel. But it did not remind Eric of anything in particular because he scented the wind but also the stench of decaying vegetation and dead animals. The wind kept the insects from annoying attacks on man and beast, and thus they welcomed the freshness of its glow upon them.

As they strolled along the high grass, the old man spoke, more to himself than to Eric.

“Vhat I belief is dat ve all going to be togedder in der next life. Yah, I belief dat. You und me und Ida, Ve all going to meet. Und ve can help people because ve vill be spirits und spirits can do anyting, yah.”

But the dog only sniffed the ground, marked his territory and kept near to the old man. Although the old man allowed Eric to run loose, he experienced a tinge of fear when the dog did not immediately return when called. And when the animal returned, Sol felt a confidence and command he had never before enjoyed.

But fate has a way of intervening and changing things, and so it was that on a breezy July night, when the moon illuminated the earth, Eric did not venture far from Sol. Instead Eric paused frequently, peering into the darkness at the swamp's edge, alerting at every slight sound. His staring unnerved Sol. Then the old man spoke to him as much to quiet his own nerves as that of his dog. “Ach Sol, you're gedding old. Und Eric, you seeing tings vot isn't dere. Vot is, mein friend? Dere is nothing dere except der rats. Ve see dem every night. Ve hear dem. Rats. Cum now, Eric. Ve valk a little more und den ve go home.” And Sol was happy to turn around.

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Hungry Souls: What the Bible Says About Food Disorder

Book Title: Hungry Souls: What the Bible Says About

Eating Disorder

Author: Catherine S. Boyle

Chapter One

In the Beginning

Man does not live by bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.¹ Deuteronomy 8:3 (NIV)

It starts innocently enough: you want to lose a few pounds before beach week. You diet and exercise, work and sweat, and soon you've accomplished your goal. But then you sneak a donut when no one is looking, and the next day your scale shows a bigger number than the day before. You panic: the man who likes you so much better now that you're thinner will see that extra pound! He won't want you with your added padding! You must eliminate that pound of flesh!

And so you starve and exercise and work and sweat some more. The pound goes away, then another and another. Suddenly, you can't get away from the thoughts of losing weight, of the number on the scale, of the worthiness that will come when you are the smallest of all. Yet even as you shrink, your burdens grow. You now know that on top of all your struggles, you are a complete failure if you cannot conquer the hideous beast that is your body. You know the condemning words in your heart are true, that you are utterly worthless if you are fat.

Where did this all-consuming inner loathing come from? How did it arise so suddenly, from nowhere? How can you go from normal person one day to a slave to your destructive thoughts the next? You can't get away from the imprisonment, yet strangely, the prison grows more comfortable the longer you're inside.

Scenarios like this are true; this happened to me. My struggle with eating disorder arose just as suddenly, pulled me down as quickly; it was as if I stumbled into a black hole.

While it seems to happen overnight, the truth is that eating disorders are years in the making, and generally years in the breaking.

Seven times the Bible says, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (NIV).² The Bible, God's own Words, is the authority on how we find God, how we learn the truth about real love and how we recognize evil. Fear, or reverence for God and His Words leads to knowledge and relationship with Him and understanding about the struggles we face. Truth is the truth, no matter what era we live in, no matter our problems. Therefore, the Bible must have some things to say about the destructive things that people do to themselves.

A few questions naturally arise: Does the Bible really yield any insights into the mysteries of eating disorders, and how to resolve them? Are eating disorders an age-old problem, or are they relatively new? Are eating disorders sin, circumstance or disease--or a combination of all three? Most who have suffered with eating disorder will acknowledge that the problem is with the whole person--mind, body and spirit--not merely a refusal of appetites. One of the reasons for this book is the enormous lack of information about the intricate interweaving of eating disorders and the underlying spirit. Our three-in-one selves (mind, body and spirit) cannot be divorced or compartmentalized from each other. Each affects the other.

There are many references to food and sin in the Bible; there is no leap of faith required when it comes to understanding God's position on misuse of food. While the words 'eating disorder', 'anorexia' and 'bulimia' are not found in the Bible, the Bible extensively addresses depression, anger, rage, jealously, insecurity, fear, sexual deviancy and immorality, and eating disorder is tangled up in of all of these.

By examining the characteristics of eating disorder--what an anorexic thinks, feels, and fears--and applying what the Bible says about such thoughts, emotions and behaviors, this book will clearly demonstrate that God's Word has much to tell the world about the epidemic of eating disorder. By applying the principles of the Bible, this book will plainly show the spiritual roots, physical manifestations, and emotional struggles that make up eating disorder. Additionally, current research about eating disorder and associated behaviors, as well as physical, psychiatric and neurological characteristics of anorexia and bulimia will all be examined to provide thorough understanding about this heartbreaking sickness.

One thing worth mentioning is that eating disorder--a condition where a person strives to lose weight in a way that becomes compulsive--is really the mirror image of obesity. Most of the principles detailed in this book apply to overeating as well. However, the express purpose of this book is to focus on the traditional view of eating disorder, that is, anorexia and bulimia.

In the Great Commission Jesus commanded that disciples must be made and that the disciples must be taught. Implicit in Matthew 28:20's command to 'teach' is that the teachers will know what they are talking about!³ I know what I am talking about when it comes to the thoughts, behaviors and obsessions of a person with eating disorder. I endured anorexia first and later bulimia. But this book is much more than just another diary of heartbreak. This book has resulted from insights born from experience, observations of and conversations with other women with eating disorder and extensive research.

The ultimate purpose of this book is to apply biblical truth to the monster that is eating disorder, to provide understanding, knowledge and insight, and to set the eating disorder captives free.

Eating disorder is a paradox, an upside down way of living. A paradox can be aptly described as '…a truth standing on its head…to get our attention.'¹ Much of

what the Bible says is blessed and good is the opposite of life with an eating disorder, so the negative of the Biblical position is the reality of anorexia and bulimia. God loves a good paradox, and eating disorder is a study in the bizarre: the right gone so wrong and the lovely turned so foul.

The Bible is layered with truth; the lessons are not merely superficial. Actual events that forever changed ancient civilizations have important spiritual lessons for us today. While the famines spoken of thousands of years before Christ were physical, the application for our time is at a minimum a spiritual one. And like our ancestors of old, the issues that we struggle with today end up as our legacy, a spiritual lesson for those to come.

It is easy to read the Bible in a cursory way, never really thinking about the people whose lives are etched into history. But their stories, their struggles, were not romantic. Their agonies were often tersely recorded, worthy of mention because of their brutal power. Yet we read over them as if they were nothing. God brought forth the Bible from lands where paper and ink and the ability to read were the ultimate luxuries. We must not gloss over even one word.

God loves us so that He gave us His recorded Word as a model of instruction and insight for problems we encounter even today. Over 3000 years ago the words of Ecclesiastes 1:9b were penned, “…there is nothing new under the sun,”⁴ and that applies even to eating disorder. God's Word provides examples of every type of spiritually debilitating condition, even eating disorder, so that this and future generations will not be doomed to repeat unlearned history.

Food's First Entanglement with Man and Sin

In the beginning of the beginning, food was a component of the first and second piece of information that God gave to man. God created man in Genesis 1:27.⁵ In Genesis 1:28, God commanded mankind to be 'fruitful', that is, to sustain life, to be creative, to bear new life.⁶ Then immediately afterwards, in Genesis 1:29, God informed man of His plan to sustain our physical lives: food.⁷ God gave all plants and trees which yielded seeds to be food for people.

Seeds contain life, and so from the very first week of the earth, the concept was begun that food is meant to contain and sustain life. Life comes from God and life comes from the food He gives us. Without God there is no spiritual, and eventually no physical life; without food there is no physical life.

The first recorded stress-point over food happened almost as soon as people were created. In Genesis 2:17, Adam was commanded by God not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil.⁸ Free-will just hates being told what it cannot do! And perhaps Eve accepted this command less willingly than Adam, because it was given directly to Adam, not to her.

That stress-point quickly led to the first crisis over food. In Genesis 3:3, Eve responds to Satan's question that she and Adam are not to eat or touch the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.⁹ She embellished (translation: lied) about what they were to do with the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Perhaps understanding that the tree would produce knowledge gave spiritual ground to the question of whether or not the food on the tree itself was good or evil. The truth is that food is neither good nor bad. It is a tool God gave to sustain life. Food itself has no quality of sin or conscience or choice, that it could be good or evil.

In Genesis 3:3, Eve's only real issue was a misunderstanding. She saw a non-existent lack in her life that she thought food could fix. Eve had everything she needed. She was perfect, just the way God made her. But she mistakenly thought that she was not perfect.

Genesis 1:27 and Genesis 2:20-23 say that very last creature God made, arguably His crowning achievement, is woman.¹⁰ God said all His other accomplishments were good, but on that last day of creation, after He finished making woman, He said His creation was 'very good' (Genesis 1:31).¹¹ Women should take holy pride in the fact that God regards womanly beauty as very good, the ultimate finishing touch for the world He created.

But Eve thought wrongly about herself and about food, and what food could do for her or to her. Eve fixated her attention on food, instead of what God told her about herself, instead of what God created her for, and instead of God Himself.

The tree of the knowledge of good and evil was unusual, not only because it was solitary, not only because of its location in the middle of the Garden of Eden, but also because it bore no seed. God said specifically in Genesis 1:29 that every living thing (not just people) could eat any seed-bearing plant. The picture of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil bearing no seed is indicative that just because we understand the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, there is no life in merely understanding the difference. The life comes in choosing what is fruitful, choosing to obey God.

As we struggle with the Life-Giver (God), so we also struggle with the way He has chosen to sustain us (food). It is a great mystery and no coincidence that the fruit appealed so greatly to Eve, not Adam. The result of Eve's sin in our time is that women have far greater struggles with food than do men. It is also a great irony--and no accident--that women are typically the food gatherers and shoppers and preparers in their homes. Women touch food and shape it, fashion it, refine it and combine it. Food is much more a part of the average woman's life than the average man's life.

Thus, it is no surprise that women are susceptible to believing many unhealthy, inaccurate things about food. While we may not actually articulate that certain foods or diets will make us wise, or like God, what we often desire is a perfect body. There is not a great leap from desiring bodily perfection to being perfect, or being God-like in a self-serving, narcissistic way.

Eve was perfect, because she had perfect relationship with God and she was created without being marred by sin. Unlike us, Eve had to deliberately accept into herself this willful desire to be perfect (to be like God); that desire came from Satan. Her choice resulted in all flesh struggling with this desire for perfection. The drive for perfection is relentlessly unsatisfying because perfection is unattainable apart from relationship with God. We are wired to seek and want perfection, but there is only one way we can attain it. Colossians 1:28 declares that followers of Christ are to “…proclaim him, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone perfect in Christ” (NIV).¹² The only way to true perfection is to become like Christ. The way that Christ displayed perfection was to so align His will so with God's that His will became identical to God's will. The only way we can become perfect is by taking into ourselves godly teaching, pushing our will down and holding God's will up. In so doing we will be made excellent and Christ-like.

Food's Tangled Web is Woven

The web of deceit began with Satan's rhetorical question in Genesis 3:1: “Indeed, has God said, 'You shall not eat from any tree of the garden'?”¹³ Man's first temptation involved food. While Satan did not lie in Genesis 3:1, his intent was clearly to deceive. In Genesis 3:4-5 Satan put Eve to a test: he challenged what God had said, effectively asking Eve to choose whether to be her own master or follow the Master.¹⁴ He challenged God's truthfulness to Adam and Eve, and implied that having additional information would be worth the disobedience.

Adam and Eve were certainly more innocent before choosing to eat the forbidden fruit, but that did not excuse their disobedience. Knowing that they were innocent, and no match for the wiles of Satan, God wisely gave Adam and Eve only one true choice.

It is unclear how much time lapsed before Eve was tempted by Satan, but the wording of Genesis 3 makes it clear that Satan had set his sights on Eve. Satan picked his time and place carefully, with malice aforethought. Satan deliberately approached Eve instead of Adam. Perhaps Satan rightly understood that Eve's beauty could be ruined by her disobedience.

Genesis 3:6-7 describes Eve's thought process.¹⁵ It is interesting to note that before any sin is committed, the sinner goes through each of these steps to rationalize his or her behavior. Though God said it was not good for her, Eve saw that the food was edible and could satisfy her perceived need. Eve saw that the fruit was beautiful. Eve saw that the fruit could make her wise. Eve just did not see that the fruit of the fruit was death. Eve did not think through to the point of

understanding that the knowledge of good and evil would in itself yield nothing. Only following God's commands would make her life truly wise and beautiful.

And so Eve ate the fruit, and then Adam. What an incredible disappointment it must have been to see the physical world with fallen eyes for the first time. Before their sin, they had purity in heart. They saw God, the beauty of His creation, the beauty in each other. Their sin took their focus off God and on to lesser things.

I wonder what happened to Eve physically as she committed that first sin. Did her heart pound, knowing she was deliberately disobeying the God who had made her? Did she clutch her chest in fright, to still its pounding, to keep it inside her chest? Or was she more cavalier, disdaining the very words of the Father who cared for her? This side of Heaven, no one will ever know.

Because their hearts were no longer pure, they could not behold the complete radiance of God's glory. Never again would they, or any of their offspring, fellowship with God so freely. Never again would they relate to God without a physical and spiritual barrier between them. Never again would they feel the contentment and peace from the absence of sin or impediment in their relationship with God or each other.

Adam and Eve's natural response was to hide from God. “…And the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden” (Genesis 3:8).¹⁶ Ever since this act, mankind has tried to hide sin from God. As Adam and Eve hid within the garden, we mask our sins by keeping ourselves among real fruit. Whether the fruit is good words or kindness or philanthropy, all these things can only mimic the relationship with God that makes our lives truly fruitful.

God immediately dealt with Adam and Eve's sins. He dealt with the one that had caused them to sin (Genesis 3:14-15), then He told the woman, who had sinned deliberately, what the consequences of her choice would be.¹⁷ God specified pain in childbirth as a consequence to Eve's sin, but He also said something intriguing. In Genesis 3:16b, God said to Eve “…your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you” (NIV).¹⁸ Eve's sin with food led to her desire for her husband. The word 'desire', used in Genesis 3:16b, is only used three times in the Old Testament. The Hebrew word used here for desire is 'T'shuwqah', which literally means a yearning, a stretching out after.² It is an overpowering urge, with needy undertones.

Food and sexual desire and children, the fruit of sex; food and desire for an honorable marriage; the fruit of food on our hips and thighs will forever be entangled with our relationship with men. What food does to our bodies is inescapably interwoven with who women are, how women see and use their bodies, particularly in a sexual way, and how women relate to men.

Ramifications of the First Conflict with Food

What is the natural progression of the conflict intertwined with food? As with all sin, the consequences of sin with food do not appear immediately. But God specifically spelled out what would happen: sin with food would lead to death. Along sin's path to death, women face consequences in their relationships, both with God and with men. Eve's desires were misplaced, and so modern desires are easily misplaced. Whether we settle for the false security that money or romance provides or how food (or the lack thereof) changes our appearance, we all desire fool's gold.

The first sin paved the way for all other sins with food. There is an undeniable compounding effect of sin; no sin is ever alone for long. And so it was from the very first sin: Eve lied and committed an act of rebellion and enticed her husband to join in her disobedience.

One obvious consequence of the first sin was that an animal had to be sacrificed to make clothing for Adam and Eve. “The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife, and clothed them” (Genesis 3:21).¹⁹ Man also began to regularly kill to provide food for himself.

Meat and leather goods became staples of man's life, and living creatures had to die so man could survive. Health issues arose with the preservation and preparation of meat, issues which do not exist with fruits and grains. For the first time, rot and spoiling were realities.

Another less obvious consequence of the first sin was that Satan used food as a mechanism for Eve to break faith with God. And Satan continues to entice women to sin with food to break relationship with God. Eating disorder is therefore primarily an issue for those who have some manner of claim to the true God.

Yet in all the terrible, immediate consequences of the first sin with food, even then God painted a picture of Christ and His future sacrificial death. As animals shed blood to cover Adam and Eve and preserve their lives, so a vision of Christ was cast, His blood covering our sins so our spirits can live. During the wanderings in the desert some 2600 years later, God commanded that man not eat the blood of animals, because the blood contains the life. Animal blood was ordained to cover man's sins and restore man's spiritual life, and foreshadowed that Christ's blood would be the only way for mankind to receive real life.²⁰

Eve thought wrongly that the path she chose was parallel to the path of God, that it was an equally righteous way. She could not have been more wrong. Divergence from the path of God, if not corrected, will always lead to an end far from God. Like two lines apparently parallel but slightly 'off', so we will be if we allow small sins into our lives. On the surface the sins may appear insignificant (the little white lie), but often pack enormous repercussions. Perhaps this is one

reason why God hates all sin so passionately, because He knows the terrible ends to which small sins lead.

In this present age, the results of the first sin with food are both visible and hidden. Visible misuse of food can reveal itself as obesity, a barrier for intimacy. Forsaking food leads to starvation, which can also be used as a barricade against intimate relationships.

But the inner results are worse. The outward manifestations of overeating and starvation have common roots in the heart: the desire that life would be different, less chaotic, more secure, more controlled. Deep is the desire to be in control of my own life. No one can be forced to eat--or forced to stop eating.

The diet pitches bombarding airwaves and magazines challenge listeners and readers to look this way, eat this food, turn your body into something new so you can be cool, in control, master of your universe. These promises and pitches all sound frighteningly similar to the first suggestion of Satan, 'You won't die, you will be like God. So just EAT it' (MSG).²¹

So how and where does this monster called eating disorder begin in the lives of young women? Since struggles with food started with Eve, is eating disorder unavoidable? Is it hard-wired into our DNA like hair color or dimples? Can it be stopped? Are women doomed to repeat this cycle of sin and sickness with every new generation? Can those with eating disorders truly change, and set aside their obsessions?

Like most serious issues in our lives, eating disorders do not just arise overnight. Isaiah 47:15 states that there are some issues in life that Satan has “…labored with and trafficked with since childhood” (NIV).²² The roots of this problem go very deep, to the earliest days and relationships of our lives. Before they can even tie their shoes, little girls are predisposed towards beauty enhancers, stories of princesses and castles and ornaments with which to adorn their bodies. Couple this natural propensity with the marketing of computer-altered, un-Biblical images of beauty targeted to ever-younger consumers, and the recipe for eating disorder is already cooking before little girls get to kindergarten. Eating disorders start in the hearts of young girls looking for beauty in themselves. Eating disorders start with what we see and hear, they start with what we take into our minds.

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