Tight

Perhaps this post could also be titled "A year in review."

"I will extol You, O Lord, for You have lifted me up, and have not let my foes rejoice over me. O Lord my God, I cried out to You, and You healed me. O Lord, You brought my soul up from the grave; you have kept me alive, that I should not go down to the pit." (Psalm 30:1-3)

I snapped this photo about a month or so ago, after I got a nice paycheck and restocked my pantry. Heck yes, I celebrate the contents of my pantry. I think it's nice to be able to afford to eat something besides peanut butter.

I think I've blogged about this before, but around the beginning of this year, I felt like God said 2014 was going to be "a tight year," at least for me. When He said that, I was like, "Oh, I'm going to get fired." And I did.

This was definitely a tight year financially. It was interesting getting to practice what I preach about tithing. ("So, the One who has the power to send people to hell gets paid first. Everyone else, too bad, so sad, you're gonna have to wait 'til next month to get paid.") I hadn't been in this tight of a financial situation in a long time, and it was awesome getting to see God take good care of me. Yes, at one point, I was living on peanut butter and raisin bran, I lost weight involuntarily, and on a couple of occasions I felt myself get a little lightheaded. But I'm still alive. God definitely made sure of that. (And I rediscovered the versatile, wonderful world of toast. Need breakfast? Soup crackers? Dessert? A new cat toy? No problem! It's toast to the rescue! Cheesy theme music playing.)

This was also a tight year emotionally. I had no idea that I would need to get into psychotherapy again, but I'm glad I did. (And I'm glad I blogged about it.) It was good to have professional validation that I'm not crazy. (Even though I did just write a public service message for toast. Cheesy theme music continues.) I had no idea that I would need to work through some depression issues and suicidal thoughts YET again, but I sure am glad I did. Hey, when you gotta poop, you gotta poop.

I discovered a huge wad of bitterness inside me that God had to uproot. I asked Him to suck out all the poison, just as if it were a venomous snakebite (which, metaphorically speaking, it probably was, multiple times). He encouraged me to just let Him draw it out. In the process (which I still need to participate in), I noticed that I had been using a forgiveness prayer (that one of my church's classes taught us to pray) like a formula. That formula wasn't working for me anymore. So, I just started kinda puking out forgiveness prayers however naturally they felt to me -- whatever seemed necessary to unclog the junk that was hurting me inside my heart. That seemed to work a lot better.

I guess you could say that waves of issues started charging toward me like a tsunami, and I just kinda surfed through them as best I could. God did say that I would find freedom by riding the waves that would come, and He was right.

And, of course, I'm still learning how to surf my way through life (because there are SO many things that just won't work with a formula), and there's still more work to do. And I'm very OK with that.

Speaking of work, hopefully without giving away too much information, I found a job nearly three months ago at a magazine that serves the metalworking industry. I've never worked in a machine shop, so I have to do quite a bit of research to edit and write materials at my job. In the process, I've learned a lot.

I didn't realize how huge the metalworking industry was all over the world. And I've learned that there is a huge variety of ways that you can cut metal. But the idea of it is pretty basic: All you need is a tool that's strong enough to cut through a hard hunk of metal, something to hold it down with, and a reliable computer-controlled machine to do it with. These machines can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, and they can use very sophisticated technology, but when you think about how many metallic parts a machine shop needs to produce in a given day, the cost is understandable... especially considering that all of the metallic parts usually need to look exactly like one another. And the unending quest for efficiency and productivity is also understandable.

An interesting thing happens when you cut a hard hunk of metal with a hard metallic tool: Your tools can break, if you're not careful, because of all the friction. It can get dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. So, these machines are equipped with specialized liquid that cools the hard hunk of metal while it's being cut.

The process is so automated that you don't always need a human being to do the job. Sometimes, you can just program a robot to do your metalwork for you, perhaps over the weekend or after you've gone home for the day (which I learned is called "lights-out manufacturing," a process that is often used in the automotive industry).

So, modern-day metalworking is pretty much everywhere, and it's a pretty big deal. And I'm really glad the technology wasn't around during biblical times.

"But now, O Lord, You are our Father; we are the clay, and You our potter; and all we are the work of Your hand." (Isaiah 64:8)

For me, in addition to having a "tight" year, I felt like God told me that themes in 2014 would be "fun" and "flexible." I did have fun this year. I relearned how to have fun this year. And I had to constantly be flexible for all the changes that would occur. I mean, it's hard to ride waves if you're not flexible.

I think the concepts of "tight" and "flexible" seem contradictory, but God recently showed me how both concepts are at work at a potter's wheel. The clay needs to be flexible, and it also needs to be ready for the potter to squeeze it tightly in His hands so that He can shape it into whatever He wants. (At least, I'm assuming that there is "tight"ness involved while working at a potter's wheel. Hmm. Maybe I need to do some more research. Or I could make some toast! Cheesy theme music resumes.)

But one thing is for sure. God is a potter. He isn't a manufacturer who entrusts lights-out, hands-off creation to a heartless robot. If I want Him to reshape me into something new, I need to be soft like clay. I can't be hard and cold like a hunk of metal. I'm not really talking about that iron-sharpens-iron concept that Proverbs 27:17 talks about. I'm talking about presenting myself to the Potter who insists on taking His time to restore me, reshape me, and re-create me into something original -- not manufactured, not copied, not mass-reproduced at a factory. God is a Potter. He isn't a factory owner.

I really think this is a huge misconception that Pharisees have. I know because I used to be one.

" 'How is it you do not understand that I did not speak to you concerning bread?--but to beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.' Then they understood that He did not tell them to beware of the leaven of bread, but of the doctrine of the Pharisees and Sadducees." (Matthew 16:11-12)

Leaven is dangerous. It makes bread rise. It makes things puffy. What if you were making bread, you mixed leaven into the dough, and then you suddenly realized that you were supposed to be making unleavened bread (i.e., tortillas or crackers (NOT toast)) instead? That would be tragic. You couldn't just identify a section of your dough and say, "OK, here's where all the leaven is. If I can just chop it off, I can still make my unleavened bread, no problem." Nope. That leaven is ALL mixed throughout the entirety of the dough. There's no way to get it out.

Unless, of course, you resort to drastic measures. Just using my imagination, perhaps you could hire a wizard to cast the leaven out of your dough. Or perhaps you could go redneck on your dough and hire a demolition crew to blow it up for you. Or maybe you could just pretend that your dough is OK and just invent a new kind of waffle. (Puffy competition for IHOP? Minus the toast.)

I think maybe God uses very drastic measures to miraculously squeeze the leaven out of us ex-Pharisees. I think this happened in the Bible, too. In John 3, a Pharisee named Nicodemus was serious about following Jesus, so when he asked Him how to do it, Jesus replied with the famous "You have to be born again" explanation. Of course, Nicodemus was flabbergasted. "Um, I'm a grown man. You're saying that I have to crawl back inside my mother's womb and do the whole birth thing all over again??" In a metaphorical way, yes. And it ain't easy.

I think perhaps the most drastic example of transforming a Pharisee in the Bible happened with Paul (the Pharisee previously known as Saul). After dedicating his life to killing Christians, Paul's life came to a screeching halt when Jesus showed up one day and asked him why he was persecuting Him. The incident blinded Paul for three days before he ended up dedicating his life to converting people to Christianity.

As an ex-Pharisee, I can say that self-righteous, hyper-religious people have some severely wrong, terribly skewed, tragically inaccurate ways of seeing God and His Kingdom. Sometimes Pharisees need Jesus to show up in a blinding way and be like, "Um, you need to stop what you're doing before you kill anybody else. It's time to stop spreading your death-filled life around. Enough is enough. I'm about to go redneck on you and blow up your leaven-poisoned dough."

One major mistake that Pharisees make (and I used to do it a lot) is teaching, in a nutshell, that God is a manufacturer who treats His children like just another hunk of metal that needs to be machined... and that advancing in His Kingdom is like becoming a lights-out, hands-off, heartless robot that's supposed to machine a certain quota of metallic hunks, or else.

That's one major way that I was hurt at a spiritually abusive church where I was deeply involved many years ago. We were all basically taught, in a nutshell, that God wanted to put us on an assembly line. Get saved --> learn about the Father-heart of God --> get some inner healing --> become a lifegroup leader --> go on a short-term mission trip --> get "called" to a foreign country --> go to missionary school --> become a long-term missionary for at least 2 years. That was life. Everybody had to do it, or they were considered to be spiritually inferior.

My gosh. I understand now that that is totally NOT how God's Kingdom operates at all. I think it's more like the following. Get born --> get born again --> find out why you were born --> cling to the One who made you get born in the first place --> learn to like Him, because He doesn't ever, ever, ever want to leave you, and the more you get to know Him, the more you realize how you deserve to not be born at all, and the more thankful you are that you were born in the first place. Or something like that.

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will guide you with My eye. Do not be like the horse or like the mule, which have no understanding, which must be harnessed with bit and bridle, else they will not come near you." (Psalm 32:8-9)

God's Kingdom isn't a machine shop. It's a potter's wheel. Freedom isn't a formula. It's a Person.

For me, lately it's been Him telling me to not rush my freedom and to let it happen very gradually. It's been me learning how to be flexible and to be ready for the tightness to squeeze in around me. It's me having fun with the most wonderful Friend, the most faithful Father, the most powerful God in the universe. It's me not really caring about all the things that I used to care about.

I really just want relationship. And I have it with Him.

Happy new year!

Food, family, and fellowship

I should warn you that this post is long and rambling. (In fact, it's probably my longest blog post ever.) Warn you about it, yes. Apologize for it, no. If I don't tell my story, who will?

To be perfectly honest, in this season of my life, it is easy to tell who is close to me and who isn't -- or at least who takes the time to read my internet posts. The ones who don't, and the ones who still keep me at a safe distance, will ask me this question: "Are you going to spend time with your family during the holidays?"

Nervous chuckle. Um, well, it's an innocent, legitimate question. But the short answer is no.

The long answer is once upon a time, there lived a little girl named Tirzah who grew up with what her therapist would call a disorganized attachment style (please check out this previous post if you would like more information on that). The little girl grew up to become a woman who desperately needed some major inner healing which, unfortunately, involved permanently disowning herself from and cutting herself off from her immediate family. To process this event and its multitude of consequences, repercussions, and effects -- and also because people who have disorganized attachment styles need to spend time reflecting on their lives in order to properly heal -- I am going to blog about it here yet again. My intention in doing so isn't to be like, "Oh, look at me and how über-wonderful I am!" Rather, it's to be like, "This is my blog, and I need to unravel some stuff out of my brain. Thank you for reading, and please feel free to relate to any of it if you need to... although I honestly hope you won't ever need to."

The way I see it, Christmas is a holiday that you're supposed to spend with family. You buy or make them presents, you observe traditions, and you enjoy the day as cozily as you can while trying to not stuff yourself with too much food.

So, since Christmas ought to be spent with the family that's closest to you, that's exactly what I decided to do this year. I don't have an immediate human family anymore, but my immediate family is God and my cats. So, after praying about it, I gladly spent Christmas with Him and them. In this post, I have shared a picture of the food spread that I enjoyed yesterday. Since my cats have their own food to eat, and since God never gets hungry, I was the only one who ate my Christmas lunch. (I ate at 10:56 a.m., so I guess technically it was a Christmas brunch.) Forget turkey, ham, or steak. Give me some chips, dips, and sandwiches, and I will be in holiday-food heaven. Seriously. When I had an immediate family, my favorite holiday meal was a picnic-style deli spread that mom would make (usually around New Year's). So, my extremely simple palate and I went to town yesterday.

And I totally disrupted my babies' nap schedules with my classic rock DVDs. I know it wasn't your typical traditional way to spend Christmas, but so what? I enjoyed myself. Merry Christmas to me!

"Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth. I did not come to bring peace but a sword. For I have come to 'set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law'; and 'a man's enemies will be those of his own household.' " (Jesus talking in Matthew 10:34-36)

"And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands, for My name's sake, shall receive a hundredfold, and inherit eternal life." (Jesus talking in Matthew 19:29)

"Then a certain scribe came and said to Him, 'Teacher, I will follow You wherever You go.' And Jesus said to him, 'Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.' " (Matthew 8:19-20)

Last weekend at church, while I was singing in the choir during one of the services, Jesus and I were having a conversation (which caused me to miss at least one of my entrances, but I don't think He minded). He caught my attention by randomly telling me, "I don't have a place to lay My head, either."

After I wrapped up that afternoon at church and was walking to my car, I thought about how awkward it must have been for Jesus to have grown up with Mary being His mother, God being His Father, and Joseph not really being His father. ("Hey, Jesus, how come You don't look anything like Your dad?" "If I were to tell you, you wouldn't believe Me.") When I arrived at my car, Jesus asked me, "Now do you get it?"

"If anyone comes to Me and does not hate his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and his own life also, he cannot be My disciple. And whoever does not bear his cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple. For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not sit down first and count the cost, whether he has enough to finish it -- lest, after he has laid the foundation, and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, 'This man began to build and was not able to finish'?" (Jesus talking in Luke 14:26-30)

"But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ. Yet indeed I also count all things loss for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead." (Philippians 3:7-11)

A few years ago, I was walking through some heavy situations with some leaders at church. After they prayed for me about something, they said that they felt like God was saying that He was giving me a gift: I was feeling His pain. At the time, I thought that meant for that particular situation. Now I think I understand that God has been allowing me to feel a lot of the pain that He feels anytime He feels misunderstood, rejected, neglected, left out, or just plain stuck in a very awkward place.

Gosh. Jesus knows how I feel. He can relate to me. And I think maybe I can relate to Him a little bit now.

Jesus was, no doubt, the most patient Person to ever walk this earth. And He still is. He would plainly talk about Himself and the things He was going to do, but so many people didn't understand it.

"Jesus answered and said to them, 'Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.' Then the Jews said, 'It has taken forty-six years to build this temple, and will You raise it up in three days?' But He was speaking of the temple of His body." (John 2:19-21)

As far as my life and all its current awkwardness is concerned, I've come up with three analogies to describe what it's like to disown yourself from your parents and/or explaining it to people:

1) In the movie Home Alone, Kevin McCallister is, quite frankly, a little turd to his entire family. Due to an innocent oversight, his family leaves for Christmas vacation without him. When he notices that they are gone, he thinks in horror that his turd-like actions caused his tragedy: "I made my family disappear."

Then when he realizes how mean his family was to him, he rejoices: "I made my family disappear." No, dear sister, he was in fact NOT what the French call les incompetents. He turned out to be quite the little powerhouse who singlehandedly prevented his entire house from being robbed.

Yes, when I first "made my family disappear" a few years ago, I grieved tremendously hard. But after I realized how terrible they really were to me, I eventually rejoiced pretty hard. And, as it turns out, I am in fact NOT what the French call les incompetents, either. Bless this highly nutritious dinner and the people who sold it on sale. Amen.

However, unlike Kevin McCallister, I won't be reunited with my family.

2) In my favorite movie of all time, The NeverEnding Story, Bastian is very interested in reading Mr. Coreander's book. Perhaps trying to use reverse psychology, Mr. Coreander tells Bastian that he isn't really interested in books. But Bastian insists: "I've read Treasure Island, Last of the Mohicans, Wizard of Oz, Lord of the Rings, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Tarzan..." Mr. Coreander says, "The books you read are safe. By reading them, you get to become Tarzan or Robinson Crusoe." Bastian says, "But that's what I like about them." Mr. Coreander is like, "But afterwards, you get to be a little boy again."

I often hear people talk about how they're away from their family and how hard it is. And I understand that it is; I'm not minimalizing that at all. But my situation isn't like theirs. They are only away from their family temporarily. Maybe they'll get to see them once or twice a year. They still have a relationship with them.

When I first joined my choir, I tried to get to know people, and I dove right in during one conversation. The girl I was talking to was like, "So, do you have any family here in town?" I braced myself and replied, "Uh, I left my family." She was like, "Oh, OK." Then I think she talked about how her family was in Louisiana. And she asked again, "So, do you have any family here in town?" Um... never mind. I was hatched from an egg. Yeah, let's go with that.

In my particular situation, I don't have a long-distance relationship with my immediate family. I don't have them anymore, period. I didn't set a boundary with them. I amputated myself off from them. I'm not connected to them anymore, period. I'm not living vicariously through some fictional book character. I AM the book character, and the story is occurring in real life.

And if you don't understand that, I don't know what else to tell you. Unless I make stuff up. Um... my parents are international spies. That is why I never see them. I'd tell you who they are, but then I'd have to kill you.

3) Leaving your parents is like allowing your hair to turn gray in due season. (Some people look very good with dyed or highlighted hair, so what I'm about to say doesn't apply to them.) Sure, you could just color it red or black. But after a while, your aging skin and countenance are going to be a dead giveaway -- even against your jet-black dyed hair -- that you are getting older. You won't be able to hide it anymore. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face the truth, embrace it, and just let your hair turn gray and eventually white. You'll talk openly about your aging process, and maybe you'll say something like, "Honey, you're gonna have to speak up, because I'm an old lady. Now, what did you just say? I couldn't hear you."

I'm finding that the subject of my family isn't an easy one to avoid in conversations anymore. Sure, I can change the subject or encourage the other person to talk about himself/herself instead, but I won't be able to do that forever. I can cover up the truth for as long as is humanly and honestly possible, but sooner or later, the truth is going to show up quite loudly at the roots. It's awkward and uncomfortable, but I'm just gonna have to come out and say it: "I disowned myself from my parents because they were abusive. It's a very long, very terrible story."

"Then one said to Him, 'Look, Your mother and Your brothers are standing outside, seeking to speak with You.' But He answered and said to the one who told Him, 'Who is My mother and who are My brothers?' And He stretched out His hand toward His disciples and said, 'Here are My mother and My brothers! For whoever does the will of My Father in heaven is My brother and sister and mother.' " (Matthew 12:47-50)

Leaving my family has been the hardest thing I've ever done, and I think it's been the most awkward cross I've ever had to bear. I say "I think" because I don't know what my future is going to look like. Maybe God has way more awkward stuff up His sleeve for me later on. He isn't mean or cruel. He just likes surprises. And I really don't know anything. He knows everything.

So, permanently walking away from my immediate family has been excruciatingly hard, and yet it has been excruciatingly freeing. Yes, I was raised by wolves. I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just trying to be accurate. If you were suddenly released from a lifelong bite-grip of wolf-fangs at your throat, you'd probably feel just as free as I do.

While I'm on the subject, I truly don't think my birth mother is saved. I think she thinks she is, but when I pray for her, I get the impression that she isn't. I think the fruit I saw in her life confirms it: She would only read her Bible whenever she was at church or whenever she had to teach a Sunday School lesson, she constantly lied, she always gossiped, she hated everybody, and she only cared about looking good. I hope I'm completely wrong about this, but I don't think she knows God at all. (When I knew her, she wouldn't ever log on to the internet, and she often wouldn't listen to me. Maybe if my relatives are reading this, they can help point her to the Way, the Truth, and the Life.)

"Better a dry crust with peace and quiet than a house full of feasting, with strife." (Proverbs 17:1, NIV)

"In the meantime His disciples urged Him, saying, 'Rabbi, eat.' But He said to them, 'I have food to eat of which you do not know.' Therefore the disciples said to one another, 'Has anyone brought Him anything to eat?' Jesus said to them, 'My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me, and to finish His work.' " (John 4:31-34)

When Jesus was on this earth, He was accused of extremely ridiculous things. I wonder if when people were cruelly telling Him that He had a demon, or when they told Him that He was being blasphemous, or when they were beating the crap out of Him, if He was thinking something like, "Eh, this is nothing compared to the sting of being betrayed by a friend for 30 measly pieces of silver."

When I realized that God was telling me to leave my parents, and when I was counting the cost of doing so, there were a lot of things that I didn't realize that I needed to factor into my cost-counting. I didn't know that I would need to permanently separate myself from my sister or her in-laws, too. I didn't realize that there would be certain geographical areas that I would need to avoid because I would no longer feel safe there. I didn't know that I would have to hear one aunt choke back tears or that I would endure another aunt feeding me a guilt trip. I didn't realize that my walking away from my parents would eventually contribute to my walking away from my former best friend as well. I didn't know that I would encounter a seemingly endless deluge of disappointments as time went on and that the only replacement immediate family that I would have would be God and my cats.

But they're good company, and I'll certainly take them. Truly, they are enough. Father God takes impeccably good care of me, the Holy Spirit is the most faithful Coach you'll ever know, and Jesus especially understands how I feel. He likes me enough to let me know Him in the fellowship of His sufferings. For example, if anyone from church word-slaps me, of course it stings, but I sometimes work through it with the logic of, "Eh, this is nothing compared to the sting of being abused by your family who supposedly loved you."

"Fellowship" is an interesting word. I'm discovering that it can have more than one meaning. My college pastor helped me see this for the first time. He explained that "fellowship" isn't necessarily hanging out in the fellowship hall at church and eating refreshments with a bunch of people who you're only socializing with on a surface level. According to this pastor, "fellowship" is really supposed to mean digging deeply into one another's lives and living life together.

I think maybe Jesus does this when He lets us share in the fellowship of His sufferings. Maybe He'll say something like, "You feel rejected? Yep, I do, too. All of your friends left you when you needed them the most? Yep, Mine did, too. You feel like your father turned his back on you? Yep, I know how that feels, too. You feel like chopped liver? Yep, I do, too, and so does My Father; why do you think He likes to reward those who diligently seek Him?"

"If the world hates you, you know that it hated Me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I said to you, 'A servant is not greater than his master.' If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you. If they kept My word, they will keep yours also." (Jesus talking in John 15:18-20)

I think I get it now. And yet, I may never fully get it at all. At any rate, Jesus, if You're looking for a place to lay Your head, please come lay it right here between my shoulders, or in my lap, or in my arms, or in my hands, or on my pillow, or wherever You like. Please consider me to be Your friend, Your family. Please make Yourself at home in me. 

Candy dish

You know how sometimes you go over to somebody's house, or maybe you're at the doctor's office, or maybe even the breakroom at work, and there's this big candy dish there? It usually gets filled around Halloween, but most of the time you will find a candy dish just about anywhere, and it's often faithfully filled up by whoever maintains it. Whoever is in the room as soon as the candy dish is refilled gets first pick of all the good stuff. It's a bummer to visit the candy dish a few days later, after all the good stuff is gone, and see all the reject candy sitting at the bottom of the dish with some bits of stray wrapping. Then if you're desperate for a snack or a sugar rush, you're stuck with all the reject candy -- like Mary Jane candy. Sorry, but I didn't like that stuff when I tried it. I prefer Jolly Ranchers, any flavor. Or Tootsie Roll, any flavor. Or even that plain dollar-store peppermint stuff that's especially plentiful this time of year. (But not Mary Jane. Yecch.)

Well, I don't have a candy dish, but I do have a blog. I intend to fill this post with bite-size nuggets -- and you get first pick! Maybe you won't like some of them. Maybe you will reject the ones that taste like Mary Jane to you. Or maybe you'll like all of them and gobble everything up immediately. But I hope you will enjoy, and don't spoil your dinner!

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I wonder if the same people who complain about stores selling Christmas stuff in September also complain about people posting sonogram pictures of their baby on Facebook. It's the same concept, right? Early celebration?

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A small stretch of road in my general vicinity is maintained by a local chapter of atheists, according to a sign posted there. When I drove by it recently, I wondered if perhaps I should confront these road-maintainers about how the road doesn't actually exist; it's really just a figment of their imagination. But I decided not to after all. I think that would be too snarky, even for me.

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I recently received snail-mail correspondence regarding a 401k that I never had, and I got email spam in my personal inbox regarding a company website that I no longer have access to... because that particular company fired me 8 months ago. I was about to raise a stink about it (it's just inconveniently humiliating), but I was reminded about how wonderful it is to no longer work for a company that isn't anywhere close to having its act together. Thank you for proving my point yet again!

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During recent visits to the vet, I felt like the doctor was trying to psyche me up for what it's like to own a really old cat -- that my cat won't be very active and will move more slowly. OK, I get it. If I had cataracts, I'd probably move more slowly, too. But doc, you ain't never seen my Macho in full swashbuckling action after dinner. He puts Errol Flynn to shame.

And I'm getting older, too. I'm totally OK with Choochie taking an almost-nap next to me while I'm slouching here typing this. I think all three of us have been very good company for one another while we've been growing old together.

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I've lived in my apartment for two years now, so I've gone two years 1) without my own washer/dryer 2) without cable and 3) without really cooking for myself (except for cereal, toast, sandwiches, or junk that you can heat up in the microwave like TV dinners, soups, and hot dogs). Heh. And I'm still alive. How about that? Thanks, Lord!

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Galatians 5 talks about spiritual fruit. I've heard pastors talk about how the fruits of the Spirit take a while to grow, just like how regular fruit like apples, oranges, grapes, etc., take time to grow. That makes sense. If you try to rush the growth of your fruit, you could get into all kinds of trouble.

I think the Robertsons learned this the hard way on a classic episode of Duck Dynasty. Willie bought a vineyard, and he had every intention of turning it into a fully operational wine-producing wing of his business. Unfortunately, he didn't do his homework before he made his purchase, and he discovered that wine is actually produced from a very specific type of grape. He decided that he didn't have time to wait for the right type of grape to grow in his new vineyard, so he recruited his family to help him make his own vintage redneck wine with store-bought grapes and sugar. The results, of course, were disastrous. I believe Jason described the wine as tasting "like a cross between doe urine and jalapeño juice."

So, don't rush your fruit growth, and make sure you're letting the right type of fruit grow in the first place. And I am also preaching to myself.

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Ever since I was preparing to go off to college more than 20 years ago, I've heard and experienced all types of reactions anytime I mention the words "writing" or "writer." The following two examples are my favorites.

Me: "I'm a professional writing major."

Somebody else: "UGH! I hate writing!"

Um, thanks for making me feel socially desirable?

Me: "I'm a writer."

Somebody else: "Oh! You must really like to read!"

Um, no, I really like to WRITE.

--------------------

Recently, I took my car in for some maintenance that turned into several more repairs than I had anticipated. I was thankful to have been able to pay for it all, and I'm thankful to still have a car that works after driving it around the Metroplex for nearly 6 1/2 years.

While the car was in the shop, the dealership insisted on sending me away for a few hours in a loaner car, even though I would have been content to hang out in the waiting room instead. So, I drove a brand-new car for a very short while. I wonder if perhaps it was just a ploy to get me to see what driving a brand-new car was like. Although the drive was smooth and high-tech, I intensely missed my old car. Forget the GPS, the upgraded digital readouts, and the fancy reverse back-out camera. I missed MY old car. I missed the CD player, the felt seats, the wider view in the windshield, and the fact that I've spent the past 6 1/2 years making myself comfortable and making tons of memories in MY car.

And while I was driving around the brand-new loaner car, it clicked for me that God feels the same way about me. I don't want to replace my old car -- MY car -- with a brand-new one. And God doesn't want to replace me -- even though I still need a lot of work and have failed Him plenty of times and have lots of scratches -- with another person. He wants to keep me. He wants me. He has a lot of sentimental value attached to me. I'm in His family. I'm HIS. So, while I was driving around town for a very short while in a brand-new loaner car, I received some majorly deep inner healing.

Hmm. I wonder what my therapist would have charged for a session like that. 

SEXUAL SIN!!!!!

Due to its subject matter, this post is rated R.

I think maybe this post is kindasorta in a way like a sequel to this post, but not really. I mainly just wanted to get your attention with the title. I know. I'm like that. Perhaps this post could also be titled "Things aren't always what they appear to be." One main reason why I blog is to process things -- get them out of my head and onto a computer screen where I can get a better handle on them. I'm not really hoping to initiate an online discussion with this particular post; I simply would like to share some of my processing with you. Thank you in advance for kindly taking the time to read this.

"That which has been is what will be, that which is done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun." (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

"Brethren, if a man is overtaken in any trespass, you who are spiritual restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness, considering yourself lest you also be tempted." (Galatians 6:1)

I don't usually keep up with the news unless coerced (which is ironic, because my current job is in journalism), but when I do see glimpses of headlines here and there, I remember them. One trend in the headlines nowadays is Bill Cosby's rape allegations. This is alarming on many levels, of course. I mean, it's Bill Cosby, America's favorite, funniest dad. The very idea of all the rape stuff being true about him is just eww. And the very possibility of any of it truly happening to those women is horrific.

And yet, another major truth is that you can't believe everything you read. I know. I work in journalism. I tweak words here and there all the time. Did you know that Columbus didn't really discover America in 1492? Did you know that America was actually discovered in 1244 by a Mayan warlord named Ichexthaxetl?

See what I did there? I completely made up that last part. You just now Googled it, didn't you? At least, I hope you did. Then you could have verified for yourself that I was just typing whatever the heck I wanted to type. I know. I'm creative.

I grew up in a household where lying was so acceptable that it was instructed. The unspoken rule was that you had to look good at all times, so you had to constantly cover your tracks. The spoken rule was that you had to make everyone else in the household look good at all times, so you weren't allowed to ruffle any outsider's feathers. One bad thing is that I have had to unravel a lot of deception out of my life throughout the years. One good thing is that I learned how to be quite diplomatic. Just ask Ichexthaxetl. He can tell you how great a year 1244 really was. (I'm kidding about that last part.)

And another good thing that came out of it was that I grew up to become a woman who is on a constant quest for truth. I mean, I currently work in journalism. I know. I'm powerful.

During my quest, I have discovered -- from what I have been told and from what I have experienced -- that things aren't always what they appear to be.

So, regarding Bill Cosby -- whose DVDs I own and whose comedy I will always enjoy, regardless -- there is the definite possibility that the media is simply slinging his name through the mud and that every word written against him is completely false. For everybody's sake, I hope that last part is the complete truth.

And regarding sexual sin, I have discovered firsthand that things are definitely not always what they appear to be. In fact, tracks are often covered up for the sake of looking good.

That definitely doesn't mean that we can't be diplomatic, cautious, or sensitive when we talk about sexual sin or sexual issues in general. In this post, I'd like to talk a little bit about my journey, and I'm honestly going to keep it as vague as I possibly can. I'm struggling with and working through some stuff, so it might be premature and unwise to talk openly about it at this point. And, more importantly, I don't want to be graphic and cause anybody to stumble (especially myself). "Oh, Tirzah, I would really like to discuss your struggle in more detail... at my house... with nobody else around... while I drug you and have my way with you." D'oh! I've been reading too many news headlines!

As I was saying, another thing I've learned during my quest/journey is just how freakin' EASY it can be to fall into sexual sin. I'm being 100% honest when I say that. I used to think it was so easy to resist. How wrong I was!

And how mistreated I was.

Revisiting my much-blogged topic of spiritual abuse, I 100% honestly would like to beat the crap out of my past mentor who totally shamed me when I confessed a sexual sin to her. (In retrospect, I understand now that I wasn't even sinning.) She immediately gave me the third degree and demanded to know what I had been doing leading up to it. We were at the altar at church. I cried in her lap.

Now that I am OUT of a spiritually abusive environment and surrounded by people who have a better handle on grace, I am learning that what happened at that spiritually abusive church altar on my mentor's lap was NOT supposed to be normal. (Hence my wanting to beat the crap out of her now. I know. I need to work on my forgiveness skills.)

So, all that to say... I can't believe everything I read about Bill Cosby.

I know firsthand what it feels like to cover up one's tracks. I know firsthand what it's like to be a victim. I know firsthand what it feels like to be preyed upon by a married man. I know firsthand what it's like for his wife to smile at you at church because she has no idea what's going on. I know firsthand what it's like for everybody to trust her husband except me. I know firsthand what it's like to reach out to somebody for help and to have that somebody do the equivalent of nothing. I know firsthand that sexual sin seems to blossom and grow the fastest when there is total isolation and no accountability.

And I also know what it's like to be wrongfully accused. The usual perpetrator is somebody named the devil. He's pretty much the universal expert on evil, and he hates my guts. (That last part was 100% true.)

To my knowledge, the only Person who ever walked this earth and lived a 100% sinless life was Jesus. That alone, coupled with the fact that He graciously hasn't zapped me off the face of the earth, is enough to make me want to cling to Him for life. I need to learn from Him. I need to abide in Him. I need to find out what makes Him tick. I want to know how He stayed so pure, all the while being tempted just like the rest of us are. He found the way out of it. And now He IS the way out of it.

So, that's the stuff that's zooming through my head this rainy autumn evening with no eyes except God's and my cats' to watch me writing this.

Ichexthaxetl says Hi. (I'm kidding about that last part.)

See my fist?

Through the years, I've heard several worship pastors talk about how we shouldn't come to God in anger with a clenched fist but in surrender with an open palm. And, of course, that's true. But can I be honest with you?

If I'm angry at God (and I have been in the past), I'm not going to shake my clenched fist at Him. I'm going to wave my middle finger at Him, and I'm probably going to cuss like a truckdriver at Him. I'm pretty sure I've done that to Him on multiple occasions. (I say "pretty sure" because grieving is such a vague process, and my memories of grieving are probably a bit cloudy.) So, if I worship God by raising a clenched fist at Him, it probably isn't because I'm angry at Him.

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength." (Deuteronomy 6:5)

"Be angry, and do not sin. Meditate within your heart on your bed, and be still. Selah. Offer the sacrifices of righteousness, and put your trust in the Lord." (Psalm 4:4-5)

"Deep calls unto deep at the noise of Your waterfalls; all Your waves and billows have gone over me." (Psalm 42:7)

I'm a deep well. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes that can be a major problem. I think I'm like a former classmate at missionary school. I remember the head of the school told us about my classmate, "I've usually just seen him sitting at the back of the room like he's about to fall asleep, and then he just came alive when he started to lead worship." So, my classmate ended up leading worship a lot that year.

That's what a lot of us are like. Outwardly, we may not look like we're enjoying ourselves. We may appear enormously standoffish. We are probably very socially awkward. But if you zoom into our brain activity, you might be overwhelmed... probably in a good way or probably in a disgustingly bad way. Those of us who are deep wells store a lot -- A LOT -- on the inside. And sometimes it all comes tumbling out during the most inappropriate times.

So, speaking for myself, I'm currently (re)learning how to walk in self-control. And I'm (re)learning how to submit to authority. I'm fighting a lot of private battles. (Trust me, they need to remain private.) And I'm extremely thankful to be able to unleash everything I've been storing in my deep well at Somebody who never seems to be jarred, disgusted, or surprised at the things I puke at Him.

I'm learning that when Psalm 4 says to meditate on your bed, sure, sometimes that means a literal bed. There have been many nights when a battle has been raging inside my head, I've been pouring out my heart to God in all sorts of ways, and then the next morning, everything is calm, and what seemed extremely important the night before suddenly seems trite and silly. (See Psalm 30:5.)

But I'm also learning that the "bed" mentioned in Psalm 4 also means "intimacy." If there's something raging inside my heart, I don't have to let it control me. I can work it out -- morning, afternoon, evening, on my bed, in my car, in my bathroom, in my kitchen, in my office -- with God, who wants to be my Father, my Friend, my Counselor, my Healer, my Straightener, my Surgeon, my Safe Place. One recent evening, I participated in a special event, but the morning and afternoon before, I was working through offenses that were blazing through my head. Then during the actual event, I was fine. I got home afterwards and marveled to God at how well that went. He was like, "Would you have rather worked through it during the day, or would you have rather it all come out tonight?" The former, please. Thank You.

Almost 14 years ago when I started to get free from depression, God taught me that I needed to keep the flow going by pouring out my heart to Him. (See Psalm 62:8.) Now He's teaching me that He wants my passion. He wants all of it.

So, when I'm in a corporate worship setting at church and there are other people singing around me, I'm trying to find the balance between not distracting everybody with my loudness and just letting God have it, because He wants it, and He keeps pulling it out of me. Sometimes when I'm leading worship, He tells me something to the effect of, "If you don't put your all into it, it doesn't count." What do you say when the God of the universe tells you something like that? Yes, Lord. You want me to pretend I'm all alone in my living room with nobody to hold me back? You got it.

So, that's why I worship God sometimes with a clenched fist. I hope I'm not being disrespectful when I do so. I'm not expressing anger. I'm expressing triumph. I'm worshiping Him with all my strength, which, as a human being, I tend to express with my fists. And my clenched fist usually softens into an open palm. And sometimes it turns into a pointing index finger. It really just depends on what I'm singing, because I really do like for my body to express the words I'm singing. I think usually if I'm singing to "You," I'll point at God. If I'm singing about blessing my Friend who continually rescues me, I'll raise my open palm at God in surrender and in blessing. If I'm talking about conquering sin, death, and the grave, I'll raise my clenched fist, because that's my way of saying, "I won, enemy, and you lost."

But that's just me. I also like to worship with crazy eyes... especially if I'm singing a certain Chris Tomlin song about a certain God of Angel Armies. Or maybe I really am just crazy...

Whatever I am, I think God just wants me. However I tend to express myself, I think God just wants it. He hasn't zapped me off the face of the earth for being honest with Him (believe me, He's had zillions of chances to do so). Actually, I think it hurts Him when I hold myself back from Him. I think perhaps Adam and Eve could vouch for this, too.

But that's a glimpse at where I am right now in my journey. And I look forward to continuing to cling to God during the rest of my journey. I hope I'm not being disrespectful when I say this, but maybe He's a little bit crazy, too? Hmm. I guess I'll find out. Maniacal laughter!

Anniversary

I got a small wound on my finger a little while back. In this photo, you can see it -- mostly healed up -- next to my tiny mole-freckle. It hurt when I first got it, and it took a couple of days for the swelling to go down completely. But I nursed it and kept washing it out as best I could, and now I forget that it's there. I think my finger will be completely back to normal in no time.

Wounds are funny like that. When you first get them, they hurt like crazy, and all sorts of weird things go through your head like, "Oh, my gosh, I'm going to get an infection and lose my finger!" It's irrational, but it's a real fear. (I'm a writer and a musician. I need my digits.) Enter a magical substance called hydrogen peroxide. This miracle liquid permeates the wound, ironically causing it to hurt even more for a little while, and then as it flows out of the wound, it brings all the impurities out along with it. After several of these treatments, the wound shrivels up and dies as the surrounding healthy tissue regenerates and takes over. (Actually, that might not be the accurate scientific explanation for what really happens, but I'm gonna stick with it anyway.) Yeah, that's right. Life wins... again.

"He sent from above, He took me; He drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy, from those who hated me, for they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad place; He delivered me because He delighted in me." (Psalm 18:16-19)

14 years ago today, I attempted suicide. I've written plenty about it before (especially on this previous post), and it is kind of a strange anniversary to celebrate, but I think 14 is kind of a big deal. I've been told that 7 is the biblical number for perfection and that 14 is double perfection. And in the Bible, didn't Jacob work for his father-in-law for 14 years so that he could marry Rachel? I think that's pretty darn romantic. "Baby, I love you so much that I'm going to do back-breaking labor for you, for as many years as it takes to grow a teenager."

So, in 14 years, I've learned a lot. Pardon my French, but I've learned a hell of a lot. Or rather, perhaps I've learned a lot from hell?

"The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly." (Jesus talking in John 10:10)

"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. Resist him, steadfast in the faith, knowing that the same sufferings are experienced by your brotherhood in the world." (1 Peter 5:8-9)

"Blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle -- my lovingkindness and my fortress, my high tower and my deliverer, my shield and the One in whom I take refuge, who subdues my people under me." (Psalm 144:1-2)

I heard a pastor teach once that the Bible says the devil comes to steal, kill, and destroy -- not to annoy or bother. She's right! The devil is serious about stealing, killing, and destroying, and he doesn't play by any rules. He doesn't care if God is about to break through or if God is about to "use" you for something big or that he's so scared about God's plan for your life. You can try to analyze the devil's activities if you like, but my experience has been that the devil doesn't care about any of that. I don't even think he waits for us to accidentally open any doors for him. I think maybe he tries to pry doors open unless they're cemented shut or unless we allow God to use explosives and blow up the door to smithereens. I think maybe sometimes the devil tries to build a trap door and attack from below. I think maybe sometimes he disguises himself as a damsel in distress, like the villains sometimes do in the movies. I think he's an expert at any type of evil you can think of, any type of evil that hasn't been invented yet, any type of anything that will steal, kill, and/or destroy anything that moves. He just plays dirty, period. I think he just attacks us because he hates us, and he's the devil, period.

Take my life, for example. I was a victim of adultery while I was inside a church building. I attempted suicide while I was in missionary school. And I was bombarded with suicidal thoughts for the first time in years as soon as I came home from Kairos (in 2010). Seriously, what the heck kind of slimeball attacks a chick with atheistic, suicidal thoughts while she's minding her own business, worshiping God on her guitar, right after she's returned home from a Freedom ministry event? The devil, that's what kind of slimeball.

I hate demons. I hate the devil. I hate his guts so bad, and I hope people get saved just from reading this.

Spiritual warfare used to creep me out, but it doesn't so much anymore because I've had lots of practice slapping my armor on (or whatever type of weapons I could find on extremely short notice) and charging into battle... or at least swinging my fists at the demonic forces that were belching in my face. As a result, I'm a very sloppy fighter. I pray very sloppily. But it's sink or swim, ya know?

And yet, I probably shouldn't give the devil all the credit for the misery I endured. I had plenty of issues, made plenty of bad decisions, and experienced plenty of pain that kept me plenty weighed down, depressed, and struggling to surface for air. Sometimes when you're drowning, you don't really have time to analyze why you're drowning. You just need help. I repeat: Sink or swim.

But I digress. Over the years, my healing process has had SO many ups and downs. I think perhaps my issues took root very gradually and very deeply, so my healing process also had to be very gradual and very deep. In my particular case, God strongly urged me to not rush anything. He is definitely the most patient Person in the entire universe. I had many close calls along the way, as you have perhaps read about. But God has been faithful... no. Well, yes. But "faithful" isn't a big enough word to describe God, in my opinion. Faithful? More like Stubbornly, Lovingly Insistent On Never, Ever Letting Go Of His little girl Who Often Has Trouble Knowing Which Way Is Up And who Is Usually Way Too Weak To Walk On Her Own; He Props her Up, Holds her Together, Covers and Protects her, Clears The Air For her, And Refuses To Stop Pursuing her, Because He Knows That she Is 100% Helpless Without Him. There. If you can smush all that together into one brand-new adjective, I think that might be able to describe Him a teeny-tiny bit.

So, during this long, gradual process of healing the wounds that drove me to suicide 14 years ago, God has been nursing those wounds in a similar way that I was nursing my finger. Enter a Powerful Being called the Holy Spirit. I think He can sometimes operate like hydrogen peroxide. He flows through the wounds and stirs them up, ironically causing them to hurt even more for a little while, and then as He flows out of the wounds, He brings all the impurities out along with Him. There were several occasions where, after I would internally writhe in agony, God would smile, pat me on the shoulder, and be like, "Feel better?" Oh, my gosh. He doesn't use anesthesia when He operates.

But it works! His ways are the best ways!

Over time, the wounds shrivel up and die as the surrounding healthy spiritual tissue regenerates and takes over. (Metaphorically speaking in my artsy-fartsy way.) Yeah, that's right. Life wins... again. And again. And again. And again. Times fourteen.

"And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

In my opinion, it's way too trite and, frankly, immature to say that when bad things happen, it's God's will, or when trauma occurs, it's because God has a purpose for it. "God wanted you to be molested so that you could have a wonderful ministry to victims of sex trafficking later on." Um, really? Um, no.

In my opinion, it's more like my life is a junkyard. God is walking through it and looking for stuff that He can "use." Maybe He'll find something disgusting, raunchy, and unrecognizably defiled, pick it up, smile, weep, and say, "This is terrible. This is horrendous. I don't like to look at this. And yet, I can't take my eyes off it. I want to take this thing home with Me and recycle it. I want to make something beautiful out of it. Maybe someday, My little Tirzah will be able to see My handiwork in the finished product."

God didn't hurt me. But I think He has used many of my hurts to help me understand how His heart beats and how to help other people. I can accept other people because I know what it's like to be rejected. I can be kind to other people because I know what it's like to be abused. I can avoid "the appearance of evil" like the plague because I know what it's like to participate in evil secretly while people in the other part of the building were trusting you. I can treat people like human beings because I know what it's like to be treated like an object. I can walk deeply with a person because I know what it's like to be ignored and blown off. I can love and protect people because I know what it's like to be hated and attacked. I can honor other people because I know what it's like to be shamed. I can relate to a person who is mentally tormented and confused because I know what it's like to endure a living hell inside my head... and I know what it's like to survive it.

And I know I didn't do it alone. God was with me every step of the way, just like He's with me now, just like He will be throughout eternity. He's the One who reshapes how I think, how I feel, how I exist.

Yes, it is kind of a strange anniversary to celebrate, but I think 14 is kind of a big deal.

"I sniff your eyeball"

On mornings when I sleep in, I often see something kinda like this: Macho's orange face sniffing my eyeball. (This photo doesn't quite do it justice. It's more of a giant white chin with gigantic whiskers about to devour my eyeball.) Macho is about 15 years old. He's officially been my cat for almost 13 years now. Why does he keep sniffing my eyeball? Doesn't it smell exactly the same every time he sniffs it?

And what kind of thoughts go through his head? "I sniff your eyeball; now you will feed me breakfast." "Oh, my gosh, you're still alive!" "Wait. Do I know you?" "Um, in case you were wondering, you promised me last night that you were going to feed me tuna today... lots and lots and lots of tuna."

Nice try, Macho.

"You crown the year with Your goodness, and Your paths drip with abundance. They drop on the pastures of the wilderness, and the little hills rejoice on every side." (Psalm 65:11-12)

A major motif this year in my relationship with God has been intimacy. I've been learning and re-learning about intimacy in general and just how exciting and scary it can be simultaneously. God knows everything about me -- even before I ever existed -- and yet He still wants me to pour out my heart to Him. He still wants us to communicate with each other as closely as possible, because He and I are friends. We're family. He's always there for me. I need Him, or I'll die. He feeds me. He quenches my thirst. He satisfies my inner aches, and then He revs up my curiosity for more.

I watched and videotaped an interview a few years ago on a Christian TV special. A pastor or just a host guy interviewed a worship leader and asked her about her relationship with God. "Do you have a routine?" he asked. Wait. Did he want to know about her relationship with God, or did he want to know about her quiet time? Those are two different things. I think that would be sort of like saying, "Hey, I'd like to know if you're a good driver. What kind of car do you drive?" Um...

God isn't just an ethereal Being that you interact with during your quiet time routine, and then that's it. However, He is a Mystery who's worth pursuing, digging into and, quite frankly, obsessing over.

So, this God who feeds me from Himself, this Author of the most alive Book in the entire universe, has dropped little mysteries for me to find all over His word. It's sort of like a treasure hunt.

While I was unemployed, I was zipping through Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, and Job, but when I got to the Psalms, I skidded to a molasses-slow halt. I got to Psalm 18, and I've been stuck there ever since. Did you know that Psalm 18 is almost identical to 2 Samuel 22? Why did David change certain phrases and add certain things to his psalm between the time he gushed it out in 2 Samuel and the time it was published in the songbook of the Israelites? Or was it the other way around? And did you know that Psalm 68 is based on Judges chapter 5? (according to one commentary?)

"She stretched her hand to the tent peg, her right hand to the workmen's hammer; she pounded Sisera, she pierced his head, she split and struck through his temple. At her feet he sank, he fell, he lay still; at her feet he sank, he fell; where he sank, there he fell dead." (Judges 5:26-27)

Hmm. I wonder if Deborah was headbanging with an electric guitar while she was leading that song.

And have you ever seen Psalm 65? Whoever heard of a path dripping with abundance? And whoever heard of a drippy-abundant path dropping on a pasture in the wilderness??

Apparently God did. I think it was His idea. And I think He does it all the time. But He's definitely revved up my curiosity to find out more.

Earlier this week, I voted. In case you can't tell from the Facebook pages that I "Like," I'm a Republican. But I don't like to vote straight ticket. I like to reserve the right to vote for a Democrat (or a member of any other party, for that matter) in case the Republican in a particular race is being a total dork, or in case a race is uncontested because a Republican couldn't get off his/her butt to actually run against a Democrat (or a member of any other party, for that matter). But that is just my personal preference/quirk.

Perhaps it's because I'm lazy or uninterested, or perhaps it's because I'm burned out from years of having politics crammed down my throat -- whatever the reason, I just haven't been keeping myself informed with political issues during the past several years hardly at all. During this particular election, I discovered that I was almost completely uninformed. So, voting was pretty fun. I showed up at the booth, and to my surprise, another Bush was on the ballot. I got to vote for another Bush! Sweet!

Perhaps I'm a terrible example of how to vote, but I hope all the candidates I voted for appreciate the fact that I actually got off my butt and voted for them. I may not have spent hours of preparing or studying for the election, but I did something extremely important: I showed up.

In my struggle with friendships and relationships in general, I've learned that actually getting off your butt and showing up is extremely important. Forget the five love languages. Forget the personality tests. Forget everything you thought you knew about friendships and relationships in general. If you don't make some sort of effort to actually show up -- and if you don't keep showing up -- you and I certainly won't become intimate friends, and we may not even have any kind of relationship at all in the end.

Don't you appreciate it when God "shows up"? I think He appreciates it when you show up, too. And, of course, when I say "you," I mean "me."

Speaking of cats who sniff your eyeball, years ago I was kitten-sitting for a friend. I was alone in my friend's living room when the baby cat randomly walked up to me and started licking my eyelid. I'm not exactly sure why she did this, but I think it was one of the most innocent expressions of affection that an animal has ever given me. (And I think it was also heartbreaking when my friend told me I could have her kitten and then changed her mind.) I don't think I needed to have my eyelid exfoliated that day, but I was definitely blessed to have a kitten get close enough to me to say Hi in a very special way that day. (Maybe it was also her way of thanking me for feeding her?)

I think maybe in the same way that Macho sometimes sniffs my eyeball in pursuit of breakfast, I need to sniff God's metaphorical eyeball in pursuit of His feeding my metaphorical belly, quenching my metaphorical thirst, and satisfying my inner aches. I mean, it's not like I've never sniffed His metaphorical eyeball before. Maybe it smells exactly the same as it did the last time I sniffed it.

Or does it?

If He really is full of grace and truth, what does His eyeball smell like after He's been grieving over humanity? What makes Him tick? Why does He love? Why did He choose me? Why hasn't He ever zapped me off the face of the earth? Why wait until I die and get to heaven to ask Him my deepest, most itching questions?

I don't think He wants me to wait. I think He wants me to be comfortable enough around Him to walk right up to Him and say something like, "I sniff Your eyeball; please feed me, because I am starving." He'll probably reply something like, "I thought you'd never ask." I'd probably reply, "Wait; if You're God, what do You mean You thought I'd never ask, even though You already knew that I would ask?" He'd probably reply, "You got a problem with Me talking to you like a Friend?" I'd probably say, "Please don't burn me to a crisp." He'd probably say, "Never." I'd probably sigh, "Daddy, please hang out with me today." He'd probably whisper, "Of course, little girl."

Why did David re-publish 2 Samuel 22 as Psalm 18? Why did he base Psalm 68 off Judges 5 (according to one commentary)? And how the heck can a God who's so gentle with His children be so gory in battle?

This inquiring mind wants to know. This little girl wants to know her Daddy as intimately as He will let her. Maybe tomorrow morning... or maybe even later tonight... He'll let me show up, walk right up to Him, and sniff His eyeball all over again.