The gifts

In my previous post, I mentioned that I think my current soul-battles were conceived sometime back when I was 4 years old, shortly after the Christmas of 1980. I've been getting a better handle on that lately, and God has been showing me a very interesting combination of things that I'm still working through. This is gross, but the best way I can describe it is, it's as if somebody pooped a hairball into my soul, and God's unraveling it and helping me evacuate it out of my system. From what I understand, I will be working through this for the rest of 2013. If I've heard my Papa correctly, He wishes to take His time with this. I've learned the hard way to not rush Him. So, if it will bless you to check out this wound-healing / soul-evacuation while I'm experiencing it, please hang out here with me on my Therapist's cybercouch, and watch me take a step back while I process something that's extremely important for me.

Hairballs are messy by nature, but I hope you can see the parallels in the following.

1) This is Julie. I believe that's what I named her. She is the doll that I got for Christmas in 1980. (She is currently stored in a box with other childhood dolls and stuffed animals, which explains her unkempt appearance. And I think it's fitting that I propped her against my We Are The World poster and DC Talk cd for this photo opp.)

If I remember correctly, I asked for a doll for Christmas. When I received her, some relatives who love me explained that Santa Claus gave me the doll. I think this was the first time that I had ever heard about Santa Claus, and now he had given me a gift. My relatives' story was quite believable. Firstly, Julie was completely unwrapped and ready for me to play with. Secondly, we were staying at my grandparents' house that Christmas. Even though that particular house did not have a fireplace, my relative explained that Santa Claus came to the door and had a conversation with my relative while he delivered my doll. Thirdly, receiving Julie made me feel special. I was 4 years old and, frankly, overshadowed by my younger toddler sibling who more than likely absorbed her parents' attention.

Shortly after Christmas, when I excitedly told my (ex) mother about how Santa Claus had given me my doll Julie for Christmas, my (ex) mother exploded angrily, "Santa Claus didn't give that to you! [insert names of relatives here] gave that to you!" I think she further explained how/why there isn't a Santa Claus. I don't remember the details. I just remember that that was how the illusion of Santa Claus was shattered for me when I was 4 years old. I think maybe Julie, who had been wonderful, suddenly became unwonderful during that conversation.

Because Julie had been wonderful on more than one level. She more than likely came with a water bottle (which is probably lost now), because she is quite equipped to wet. I mean, come on. A peeing doll is cool. Also, asking for a doll was an unusual Christmas request for me, because I don't remember playing with girly things when I was a little girl. Years later, I remember playing with action figures and the computer and the typewriter and the Atari, and I remember playing with dolls that were BOY characters, but I don't remember playing with GIRL dolls. Julie had been special.

But not anymore -- not if the non-existent Santa Claus hadn't given her to me after all, and not if my well-intentioned relatives who loved me had lied to me all along. How much had they lied to me? They made me feel very special and very important. So, now I wasn't special or important?

2) This is Psalm 46:10. I can't take a picture of the Holy Spirit or His gifts because you can't see them with your natural eyes, but this is a snapshot of part of the Book that He authored. I received Him initially when I got saved in 1986, but I got baptized with Him for the first time in 1994, and He gave me the gift of tongues sometime in early 1995.

If I remember correctly, years after I got saved, I attended a special service that was hosted by an Assembly of God church, and I witnessed firsthand how weird being a charismatic could be. I had been raised as a Southern Babbdist, so staying away from that stuff was OK with me. Then I went away to college, a Babbdist school, and I happened to visit a charismatic Babbdist church where I saw semi-weird (but genuine looking) behavior. After it was explained to me biblically how the Holy Spirit still moves and gives His gifts today (e.g., tongues, prophecy, and other cool stuff that you can read about in 1 Corinthians chapters 12 and 14), I decided to receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit for myself. And I haven't been the same since. Immediately, I repented for living to glorify myself instead of to glorify God. Sometime after that, I started learning how to hear God speak and let the Holy Spirit lead me. I was devouring the Bible, and God was satisfying my hunger. A few short months later, while I was lying in bed one night and wanting to pray for somebody, I suddenly started praying in tongues for the first time.

I made the naive mistake of excitedly calling home and telling my (ex) father, "I got a prayer language!" I don't remember the exact words of the conversation. I just remember this being the spiritual-abuse shot heard 'round the world. This was the conversation in which my (ex) father started deprogramming me. In a matter of months, I was subjected to countless lectures, forced to listen to sermon tapes, forced to read a book, accused of hypnotizing myself, etc. Eventually, I inspired my (ex) father to preach his own sermon series (during which he would not-so-tactfully glance at me) against the current validity of the Holy Spirit's gifts. One day, he got me to confess that the baptism of the Holy Spirit occurs at salvation. (It doesn't. Unfortunately, I think I was spiritually bullied and manipulated during this conversation.) So, my beautiful experiences with the Holy Spirit, my renewed relationship with God who spoke to me, led me, spent time with me, empowered me, encouraged me, and gave my life new meaning, was gradually explained away.

This was tragic on multiple levels. Firstly, I had let down my ultimate spiritual leaders: my (ex) parents, the ones who first told me about God's existence, the ones who were supposed to have developed a relationship with me that was supposed to have reflected God's Father-Mother characteristics. Secondly, my new life, which felt safe and exciting, was now questionable. Thirdly, even though the entire ordeal had driven me to search the scriptures for myself, a wrench of confusion had been tossed into the works.

So, who could I depend on now? If I'd go home, I'd be cornered, bullied, manipulated, and lectured anytime my (ex) father would feel like it, and my (ex) mother would enable it if not plan the entire thing herself. If I'd go to friends, they'd lecture me about how I had to honor my father and mother, who were supporting me financially, and just grin and bear it, because you're a child under their covering, and they'll always be your parents, even though you're an adult. If I'd go to God, well... how could I believe He was real if one-third of the Trinity was now a freakshow put on by charismatics who were controlled by their carnal emotions? Who could I trust now? I was trapped. There was no way out. I was hopeless. There was no future. I was doomed. Tirzah was just another worthless, mindless churchgoer whose life would never have any meaning because she was a useless, single female.

3) This is Choochie. This is a rare snapshot of her not playing with my camera strap. She was given to me back in 2000. The more I get to know her, and the more I get to know God, the more I realize how meticulously He created her just for me. She's perfect for me. (I have another cat, too, but my relationship with Macho is different.)

I remember an extremely important moment in my history when Choochie played an extremely important role, even indirectly. The day before I attempted suicide in 2000, I was supposed to lead worship that morning for a class. Instead, I got in my car and drove from Waco to Bastrop, Texas, in a mentally wild attempt to escape life and reconnect with my childhood. I was NOT in my right mind, I did NOT tell anyone that I was leaving, and I did NOT have a cell phone or any other way for the people in my life to get in touch with me. So, after aimlessly wandering around Austin and Bastrop for the day, I remember sitting alone in a Pizza Hut that evening with my hardened, confused heart. I looked out the window at the dumpster outside, and I saw a cat that looked just like Choochie. Instantly, my heart broke, and I wanted to be back home with my kitten. Long story short, I eventually got home and got help.

Technically, God saved my life and pulled me out of a pit during a long, grueling process. But there were times along the way when He left little gifts for me to find.

And here's why: I can count on Him. He exists, and I have faith that He exists, and He has a relationship with me in which it would be downright foolish of me to deny His existence.

No, He isn't Santa Claus, but He's the Father of Lights who doesn't ever change.

No, His spiritual gifts aren't always easily understood, but He's the God of the universe who likes to communicate with us in as many ways as possible -- through His word; through His still, small voice; through tongues, interpretation, prophecy, and knowledge.

No, He doesn't wish to remain anonymous through coincidences, but He's the Great Shepherd who knows how to draw a wayward sheep back to Himself.

God is real. He's mine. I'm His. People around me have let me down, but He has never let me down. He goes through a lot of trouble to give me good gifts, because I'm special to Him. If there isn't a fireplace available for Him to invade for His gift-giving, He'll knock on the front door. If I don't answer His knocking on the front door, He'll sneak in another way. He's the Lord of my house, so He can come in however He wants, whether I see Him or not. He exists, whether I believe in Him or not. And I choose to believe in Him.

Evacuating somebody else's pooped hairballs isn't fun. But massive hairballs can be fatal. I choose to lean on my Surgeon who delights to unravel the foreign filth and help me spiritually purge my way to spiritual health. I choose to be still and know that He is God of this process. Choosing to follow Him has been painful, but I don't care. I want Him.