A Half Smoked Cigarette

He was looking for a cigarette in the cracks of the sidewalk. Not one he’d dropped, but one that had been half smoked by some cold individual just wanting a fix and to get back inside.

Thinking he’d found a good one he smiled and pulled a rag from his pocket. But as he stooped to pick it up he saw it was just a filter. Quickly he returned to his walk past the window.

The urge had probably begun a few blocks back, thinking a smoke would warm him up on the sunny yet chilly day. But the urge would return, he knew even if the one he spied had been worth the smoking.

Just on the other side of the window pane a man tore a page of The Wichita Eagle into long strips after he’d read it’s entirety. He’d done it to every page he’d finished, his OCD spurring him to do so.

The urge was so strong and the satisfaction so immediate, but so short lived. He’d begin reading the next page with a fever.

The fix didn’t fix anything.

Another and another and another would be needed throughout the hour throughout the day. Tomorrow a man would walk the streets looking for a half smoked cigarette while another would tear every page of the paper into long strips.

This boat is full of all of us.

Thinking the fix will cure us. Thinking the outcome will save us. Running from temporary to temporary, wanting them to be our saviors. But we know tomorrow will bring the same hunt for satisfaction.

Maybe we’ll get it, we’ll understand nothing but Jesus will satisfy and save, or maybe we’ll keep hunting for the next fix. But writing can’t save and neither can music. Her beauty isn’t enough and his style won’t do. We need the living God to do it, not a cigarette or some paper.