Pregnant

Now that I have your attention, I must clarify something immediately. I am definitely NOT pregnant physically. (Tomorrow is April Fools' Day, so I'm posting this tonight on purpose... because it's the truth.) In fact, I believe that the only time in history that a woman in my, uh, singlechick predicament was ever pregnant physically was when Mary was expecting Jesus. I am going to talk about being pregnant, uh, spiritually? Maybe. Pregnant metaphorically? Definitely. I think I'm quite ready to give birth metaphorically. Or it's quite possible that I'm quite full of crap.

"The refining pot is for silver and the furnace for gold, but the Lord tests the hearts." (Proverbs 17:3)

My pastor has used the "pregnant" metaphor to describe what happens between the time a person hears the gospel and the time the person gets saved, so the concept of being pregnant isn't completely my idea. I've just noticed so many pregnancy metaphors wallpapering a certain section of my life lately like a tacky-looking paisley pattern.

If you've kept up with my blog and/or my Facebook posts, you know darn well (perhaps too well) how utterly, extremely, miserably unhappy I am in my current job. It keeps getting worse, but hopefully I've been growing throughout the long, grueling process of finding a new job. Yes, I'm pretty sure I've been pregnant with NewJob, and I think I'm around 44 or 46 weeks along. Yeah, that's right. I've been ready to pop for way too long, and I think I'm carrying a 12-pounder, and I don't know what the heck is holding up the anesthesiologist. I think I'm feeling the piercing contractions, and I'm screaming for the doctor to TAKE IT OUT!!! Sigh. I hope Bill Cosby would be proud.

I'm not usually a griping, complaining person, honest. But I've been souped up on metaphorical pregnancy hormones, and I've needed to vent somehow. When you need to vent, you have a husband, roommate, or family to come home to. I have God, two cats, and my computer. Sorry if this is all TMI, but I've been craving some deep-fried pizza burgers with chocolate-covered sausage and bacon on the side. I'm eating for two, ya know.

So, you know that I've been waiting for NewJob to pop out. Sometimes pregnant women are very surprised when they find out that they're pregnant, even though they've experienced lots of symptoms and have had lots of clues. CurrentJob was like that at the beginning: I had all kinds of symptoms and clues right under my nose of what kind of job I was getting, but I didn't see it right away.

I started CurrentJob several years ago tomorrow. Yes, April Fools' Day is the anniversary. Even before my first day at work, I was given all kinds of clues immediately.

When I interviewed for CurrentJob, I went through two interviews with five people total (none of which still work for the company). About two weeks before I started, the person who was supposed to have been my supervisor quit and got a job at another company.

My first day on the job, I was surrounded with April Fools' Day pranks, and I was involuntarily sucked into a couple of them. One of them haunted me later in a really weird way with a really weird misunderstanding. The coworker guy who had the really weird misunderstanding (and who made me feel really weird whenever I was around him) finally left the company after we merged with another company and had a first round of layoffs.

Speaking of the first round of layoffs, many of my coworkers were freaking out, but I was like, "What's the big deal?" Silly little workaholic. Wake up and smell the morning sickness. That was when God was very loudly like, "UPDATE YOUR RESUME." And I was like, "Eh, that can't be God." But it was. Silly little person. Schedule a prenatal appointment with your doctor, quick.

Then there was the day I finally noticed for the first time that NewJob was coming: when I first saw the bump. AAAAAGH! Oh, is that a whip cracking I hear? I am not a mule. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. Oh, I don't think so. I am not a moneymaking quota machine. I am a person, a human being who does not wish to check her heart and soul at the door every time she comes to work. Time to shop for some maternity dresses, 'cause NewJob is gonna grow pretty big.

Of course, there's an extended season of anticipation and preparation. There are resumes to update, jobs to apply for, a portfolio to dust off. Mama's gotta buy some diapers, wipeys, bibs, bottles, toys, the whole nine yards. And the cave at the end of the house must be transformed into a nursery. I mean, I gotta crunch the numbers and make sure NewJob will be able to sync well with my budget, schedule, etc.

And then the big day arrives. Mama knows it's time, so she finds a ride to the hospital. Last week, I had my first job interview during this entire search for NewJob. I would LOVE for this particular job that I interviewed for to actually be NewJob, but I'm very OK if it isn't. Sometimes Mama will have a false alarm. But she knows she won't stay pregnant forever. I think the fact that I even had an interview is a miracle in and of itself.

But meanwhile, she's got a bump. And she photographs it and wallpapers it all over Facebook. If you're not used to seeing these types of pictures, perhaps you'll be a little bit shocked at first. ("Why is she showing it off? She isn't ready to pop yet.") But after a short while, you'll see what's happening. You'll see that she's celebrating the new life that's growing inside her. She's sharing her miracle with everybody before it even happens, and it's beautiful, and it's hopeful, and it's worth celebrating every milestone. It's natural to rejoice with her. And it's also natural to weep with her. Not every Facebook post is pleasant. Sometimes she has morning sickness, afternoon sickness, and evening sickness, and she can't keep anything down, and she can't take any medication, so she asks for prayer. After all, it isn't just her life at stake anymore -- it's the life of that little one that's covered inside her bump.

I'm sorry if my Facebook and/or blog posts have been unpleasant for you to read, but this metaphorical pregnancy has been a long, painful one. Thank you for rejoicing and weeping with me. Thank you for walking with me. Thank you for being patient with me. I won't be pregnant metaphorically forever. Someday, the contractions will cease, the pregnancy will be over, and the misery will end. And so will the CurrentJob-related Facebook and/or blog posts. This is only for a season. And I'm thankful for the current weirdness.

And it's been interesting to see other people react to me during this season. Sorry, but Mama's carrying a NewJob that doesn't want to come out yet. She needs help sitting down, getting up, walking around, bending down, eating more, etc. Almost every aspect of her life is awkward, uncomfortable, and cumbersome right now. But she knows that her state is a temporary one. She knows that someday, her trouble will be worth it. Meanwhile, I've felt like I've needed to unfriend/block some people, I've seen some people's true colors, and I've accidentally offended some people. But I have freedom of speech, and I should be able to express myself when/if I need to, even if I waddle around awkwardly in a metaphorical maternity dress.

"Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." (Isaiah 43:19)

I very much look forward to snuggling little NewJob in my arms someday, looking at him in his adorable little sleepy newborn face, and telling him how much I love him, how wonderful our new life is going to be together, and how much he's already made me happy. He'll have brown eyes, and he'll look just like Jacques. Wait. Did I just type that out loud?

Or I may have to remain metaphorically pregnant for many, many, many more months to come. Or it's quite possible that I'm quite full of crap. We'll see. Regardless, it has certainly been an adventure thus far. I'm thankful for every step I've encountered along the way.

Like turmoil

I'm going to do a bit of channel-surfing in this post.

The title of this post could be interpreted and punctuated in several different ways:

Like turmoil.

Like, turmoil.

Like turmoil?

*Like* turmoil [as in, if turmoil had its own Facebook page]

Like: turmoil

Like turmoil!

Like! Turmoil!

Hmm. I'm getting bored. Let me spell it backwards now: Liomrut ekil

What an awesome war cry! Liomrut ekil!

Now I have something to write on my protest signs! Yes!

Reader, I hope by this point, you're thinking, "What the heck is Tirzah doing, and why is she stirring up so much drama?" The answer is Yep.

"The Lord upholds ALL who fall and lifts up ALL who are bowed down." (Psalm 145:14, dramatic emphasis mine)

Sdlfksjf

Sdlfkjsldkfjsldkfjjjjjjjjjsldkfjsldkjflskdjflskdjflskjdf;laksjdf;lkasjdf;lkasjdf;lkasjdf;lkajsdf;lkj asl;kj;lkajs ;lkj;lkj ;lkj;lkj; ;lkj ;lkj ;lkj

Sorry, Microsoft Word was giving me some tab and margin errors just now, and I had to double-check to make sure everything was OK.

Wait. I didn't accidentally just type out a curse, did I? Yikes! How could something so harmless-looking yet so wordy be so damaging?! And why am I blaming my issue on Microsoft Word??!!??

Tirzah, chill out. You're OK. Focus. You're blogging. Breathe.

Reader, as you know (or as you may have guessed), I am currently undergoing psychotherapy. I feel that it has been very helpful thus far. As I mentioned previously, I am currently reading a book called Attachments as part of my therapy. In it, authors Tim Clinton and Gary Sibcy describe four basic "attachment styles": secure, avoidant, ambivalent, and disorganized/fearful. In a nutshell, "secure" is the healthy attachment style, and the other three are unhealthy attachment styles. Recently while I've been reading through this book, I've identified most with the disorganized/fearful attachment style. That means in the core of my being, I've believed that 1) I'm not loveable or worth getting comfort/support and 2) other people aren't capable of comforting/supporting me in a healthy way. These are lies, of course, and repairing this disorganized/fearful attachment style has taken / will take some time.

People who grow up in abusive homes tend to exhibit this particular style. (That's me.) People who have this attachment style were raised by functional parents. (Functional parents meet their children's physical needs such as food and shelter without meeting their children's emotional needs such as comfort.) People who have this attachment style tend to escape stressful situations through dissociation, i.e., fantasizing, so they likely have many suppressed memories. (Sorry, but when I feel trapped, I gotta escape. Did you know that I have two kitties?) And people who exhibit this particular attachment style are addicted to turmoil, so they have a tendency to create drama where there is none. (I used to pick fights with friends via email, Facebook, or text messages over really dumb things, but I hope I don't do that anymore.)

I think I've gotten a lot better in recent years because God already knew about my issues, and He already started to heal me. And I think He's redeemed some stuff. For example, my quirky way of escaping, e.g., creativity, has given me a very quick wit that has come in handy, in a healthy way, many times.

But now that I've been removed from the turmoil-saturated environment of my childhood, I've discovered a very disturbing state of mind: boredom.

Boredom can be a healthy thing. You can always find something constructive to do when you're bored, and you can always just take advantage of the calmness and take some time to rest. But boredom can also be an unhealthy thing. (I heard one speaker teach at a church once that boredom was basically a form of selfishness, because you supposedly become bored when you fix your eyes on yourself, but I think I disagree with this speaker.) When you're addicted to turmoil, I think your brain can shift to unhealthy thought patterns very quickly when you're bored and need a turmoil-fix. When you're addicted to turmoil, and you're bored, your brain can create its own drama.

I haven't talked about this with my therapist yet, but I suspect this may have something to do with my suicidal/depressed history. I mean, if a little kid grows up being abused, eventually she'll probably learn how to abuse herself, even if it's by entertaining "it's a mistake that I'm alive" thoughts. (I think I mentioned in an older blog post that I used to pour hydrogen peroxide on my fingers when I was in junior high... for no particular reason.)

Of course, God and I have had conversations about this, and He doesn't seem worried. He's excited about me using my obsession for tragedy in my creative/artistic endeavors. And He said, "If you're addicted to turmoil, just read the Bible." I like how He thinks.

"Then he went up from there to Bethel; and as he was going up the road, some youths came from the city and mocked him, and said to him, 'Go up, you baldhead! Go up, you baldhead!' So he turned around and looked at them, and pronounced a curse on them in the name of the Lord. And two female bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths." (2 Kings 2:23-24, talking about Elisha)

Whoa! Unnecessary drama! Random turmoil! Tirzah likes it! Wait. Am I supposed to like it? Hmm.

Actually, there's probably a spiritual significance and/or symbolism that goes with this story. I just haven't found it yet. But so far, to me, the moral of the story is "Don't mess with a prophet." (I mean, if a bald guy is walking along and minding his own business, just leave him alone. You don't have to stir up something that will eventually cause your horrific death.)

Time to change the channel. Why? Because I have control of the remote, that's why. Maniacal laughter!

"But He gives more grace. Therefore He says: 'God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.' " (James 4:6)

The above verse is talking about pride, which is usually thought of as a "Look at me!" arrogance. But there's also such a thing as inferior pride, which is also called insecurity, which is equally "Look at me!" in its attitude.

Currently, I have one coworker whose behavior I think exemplifies regular pride. Recently, she spent a great deal of time arguing over email about a comma. We follow certain guidelines at my workplace regarding grammar, punctuation, capitalization, etc., and I had pointed out to her that she needed to follow our guidelines and delete a comma. But she was pushing for an exception, and she wouldn't let it go. She finally won. But now I dislike her very much. Seriously, it was just one measly little comma. I, don't, think, the, world, will, end, because, of, one, tiny, little, comma. But dealing with the drama, especially over email, really sucked the life out of me.

I have another coworker whose behavior I think exemplifies inferior pride. Most of the time, she is a nice person, and most everybody likes her. Unfortunately, I don't think my boss likes her. I don't like her anymore, either. Even in her over-niceness, this coworker overly cushions her assertiveness with "In my humble opinion"s and severe hesitations in an almost patronizing way that I think often wastes our time. I usually try to avoid her at the office because her conversations ooze with complaints about deadlines and traffic. Why the drama? Why can't she just say Hello?

Hello, I'm going to change the channel again. Maniacal laughter!

Those of us who have disorganized/fearful attachment styles, according to the book I'm reading for therapy, don't often learn from the past. We often repeat it. If we drown in one abusive environment, we could leave it and end up swimming over to another abusive environment.

Take spiritual abuse, for example. I spent years swimming from one spiritually abusive church to another. One huge teaching that these churches tended to embrace was this: Doing anything other than Kingdom, soul-winning work was an unexciting waste of time. (Yes, doing God's work is awesome; please do it however He leads. Yes, evangelizing is awesome; please go for it however God shows you to do it. But to do it in your own strength, in a competitive way, or in a way that puffs you up with regular pride is just terrible. Trust me. I know.) But recently while I was discovering this new boredom in my brain, I was praying about it, and I was thinking that I should probably be doing spiritual stuff instead of being bored. Then God was like, "Don't use My Kingdom for your entertainment." Yes, Father. No problem. I'll need to get my turmoil/tragedy/trauma fix in a healthy way instead.

Galatians 5 lists all kinds of exciting-looking things like hatred, envy, and outbursts of wrath. This is the kind of stuff that used to be my normal. Galatians 5 also lists all kinds of boring-looking things like love, faithfulness, and self-control. This is the kind of stuff that is normal for Jesus, and He wants it to continue becoming my normal. Long before I discovered that I probably have a disorganized/fearful attachment style, God was already breaking chaos off me, like when I fasted last summer.

Peace has been foreign to me. But it isn't supposed to be. I belong to Jesus. He's the Prince of Peace. He doesn't want me to go hopping from drama to drama like a college student clubbing on a Saturday night. (Or, as Elton John would say, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday. Saturday, Saturday, Saturday. Saturday, Saturday, Saturday night's all right.)

And I don't want that, either.

"But we urge you, brethren, that you increase more and more; that you also aspire to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business, and to work with your own hands, as we commanded you, that you may walk properly toward those who are outside, and that you may lack nothing." (1 Thessalonians 4:10b-12)

It excites me that minding my own business is in the Bible.

I was raised by a very anxious emotional-basketcase of a man who made a big deal out of everything, refused to settle down, threw frequent temper tantrums, was constantly uncomfortable, flowed freely with complaints, and dominated with a constant barrage of arrogant criticisms. He was enabled by the woman who raised me, a micromanaging sloth who wove a tapestry of idle gossip, guile, and dishonesty all enmeshed together with a moral-compromising condescension that wafted a black cloud of fear with a subtle tyranny. When I was a child and when I would visit home as an adult, the house was noisy, I had to fight to get a word in edgewise, and I was constantly bombarded with verbal, spiritual, emotional, and psychological attacks. There was immaturity, unhealthiness, and spiritual pus everywhere. Am I doomed to inherit this myself? Is this my destiny? Will it ever end?

Yes. It ends now.

I have chosen, I still choose, and I will continue to choose life with Jesus. His Holy Spirit will enable me to walk in His fruits and enjoy His abundant life in ways that may seem boring at first but that keep me safe -- far, far away from the unhealthy drama. He doesn't want turmoil/tragedy/trauma for me. He doesn't want abuse. He doesn't want death. He wants life. And I want it, too.

And now I want to change the channel again. Did you know that I have two kitties? Maniacal laughter!

.thgir lla s'thgin yadrutaS

Dream

This extremely adorable cat photo is just a distraction of cuteness. In this blog post, I will talk about scary things.

In this season of my life, I usually only get about 4-5 hours of sleep each night. Sometimes on the weekends, I get to sleep in. I think last night, I got 9 hours of sleep. When I sleep for that long, I usually have crazy dreams. I will now tell you about one of them.

In my dream, I was employed by a very scary woman. I think she ran a retail shop, and I think I had a job organizing stuff or doing clerical stuff. Even though she was scary, she was honestly kinda dorky. She was Asian and nerdlike, and she was very fat, probably morbidly obese. I think she wore a sleeveless dress and was very sedentary, so she really didn't move, but she talked nonstop. And her face was covered with ice. It took me awhile during the dream to realize that ice was actually growing out of her face, almost as if she were sweating it out and it was sticking to her face like ice on a frozen, slushy sidewalk. She was evil. This part of my dream is a bit vague, but if I remember correctly, when customers would enter her shop, she would threaten to kill them, and they would actually die, sort of like a bad horror movie. I don't remember seeing any gore or hearing any sinister soundtrack, but I remember her destroying innocent people, and all she would do was talk. She just sat there in her morbid obesity, with ice growing out of her face, and she wouldn't shut up with her death words. So, the next day of my shift, I didn't want to go to work. I sat in my car, called the police, and reported her activity. Then I think I woke up.

I was drowsily trying to process that really crazy-scary dream, and I asked Jesus what He would have done if He had been in that dream. He showed me a picture of Him standing and facing the woman while He stretched His hand out, and He shouted, "Jezebel, come out!"

I was still trying to figure out what the dream meant, and He was like, "You escaped."

"I removed his shoulder from the burden; his hands were freed from the baskets. You called in trouble, and I delivered you; I answered you in the secret place of thunder; I tested you at the waters of Meribah. Selah." (Psalm 81:6-7)

"And to the angel of the church in Thyatira, write, 'These things says the Son of God, who has eyes like a flame of fire, and His feet like fine brass: "I know your works, love, service, faith, and your patience; and as for your works, the last are more than the first. Nevertheless I have a few things against you, because you allow that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess, to teach and seduce My servants to commit sexual immorality and eat things sacrificed to idols. And I gave her time to repent of her sexual immorality, and she did not repent. Indeed I will cast her into a sickbed, and those who commit adultery with her into great tribulation, unless they repent of their deeds. I will kill her children with death, and all the churches shall know that I am He who searches the minds and hearts. And I will give to each one of you according to your works." ' " (Revelation 2:18-23)

Since I was pretty much raised by a Jezebel spirit (and an Ahab spirit), it makes sense that Jezebel will show up at random times during my healing process. From what I understand, she's gone, she's not in my life anymore. I think it's kind of like my emotional healing process is like a long, drawn-out court battle, and Jezebel is one of the star witnesses. Maybe the prosecution is questioning her in prison or something. Or maybe Jesus is getting questioned. "Is it true that Tirzah was not even allowed to donate money to Compassion International?" "Yes, sir. Jezebel's intrusiveness was choking the life out of her. That is one reason why I prompted her to move into a completely different apartment without help from anyone but Me, even if it meant hiring movers with a credit card." [shocked gasps from courtroom audience]

Anyway, I think maybe that's why Jezebel showed up in a dream last night, but I don't think she was talking to me. I think it was like watching a movie, and Jesus was like, "I got this. You escaped. Didn't she look horrible?" Indeed. I think maybe that whole iced-over face was symbolism? Hmm. I think Foreigner could describe her well in my dream. She was as cold as ice. She was willing to sacrifice our love. She wanted paradise. But someday she'll pace the price. (Now that I think about it, she sort of looked like the Dune character Baron Harkonnen.) Have I mentioned lately that I'm in psychotherapy?

But I escaped. God led me out of my family, away from the rank unhealthiness, and to a place where I can take a step back and examine the living horror movie. I'm not saying that my story is more severe than anyone else's. I understand that many other people have probably experienced worse things that I have. But my story is my story. I belonged to people who created an environment that was hurting me so badly that I had to escape it forever.

Today while I was reading my therapy book and seeing so many pieces start to fit together, I told God thank You. I'm extremely thankful that He called me out of my family. My healing process has been taking forever, but I think I've been seeing lots of steady improvement, and I am so thankful that God has been helping me. I'm glad some Parent finally put His foot down and was like, "OK, that's enough. Tirzah, let's amscray."

I'm not exactly sure how to end this post. I'm just thankful. I'm thankful that God delivered me from Jezebel's power-clutches of obsession, her bottomless pit of toxins, and her torrent of stenchy death. I'm glad He thinks I'm worth rescuing.

I will now offer you some distractingly adorable relief. Awww!

Happily ever after

Lately, I've been telling God, "I don't know how to do 'happily ever after.' Can You please teach me how to do 'happily ever after'?" I mean, that's why we read this crazy fairy tale or watch this crazy movie called life: to get to the "happily ever after." That's why we endure the quest, the conflict, the battles, the secret identities, the bewitching, the scheming villain, and the rescue from the knight in shining armor: It all leads up to the "happily ever after."

But what do I do when I get to my "happily ever after"? I feel like all I've known up to this point is the quest, conflict, battles, bewitching, scheming, and rescue. Now what? And why is this making me feel so darn insecure?

I think I know why. In recent posts, I've talked about my ex-mother. Now I will talk about my ex-father.

I think a major part of my healing has been trying to accept -- as my therapist calls it -- the fact that my ex-parents weren't really parents to me. I don't think I was raised by two people who cherished me and bent over backwards to give me wings to fly and protect me healthily in the process. I think I was raised by a live-in maid and a professor.

While the live-in maid would whisk away my toddler ex-sister for some quality girl time with auntie, the professor would whisk me away to a local university so he could study how I communicated in foreign languages. Yes, I definitely feel like I was treated like a lab rat. I have an audio recording of the professor and his professor talking to me, interacting with me, trying to get me to speak to them in Hebrew or maybe even Spanish. I spoke English. I drew pictures. Even when I was 5, I was an English-speaking artist. I was not a native speaker of Hebrew or Spanish, and I honestly don't care what linguistic theories they were trying to prove. So, yes, I was used. Not realizing it until I was in my mid-30s kinda sucks. But I realize it now.

I think it was further proven that my ex-father, the professor, didn't cherish me by the way he favored my ex-sister instead of me. When I would go to bed at night as a child, I rarely remember anyone tucking me in. Once in a while, my ex-mother, the live-in maid, would take a break from washing dishes and chitchat with me for a bit on my bed before literally squishing my body into the mattress in an attempt to make me drowsy. (Don't most children get sung to sleep, or at least a bedtime story or something? Seriously, what kind of redneck-Hispanic way of saying "good night" is that?)

But the professor would sit on my ex-sister's bed, and I think he would pray and read the Bible to her. He cared about her. He cherished her. He nurtured his relationship with her. And now he still has her. It makes sense that God saw all that and allowed the professor to reap what he sowed into me: nothing.

Isn't that when a little girl is supposed to learn that she's supposed to enjoy an intimate time with a human male at night? Aren't you supposed to process the events of your day with a father figure who wants to make sure you're sailing through life OK? My ex-sister got to experience this. Why didn't I?

I guess I'll never know. I guess I'll never know what prompted my ex-father to overtly reject me. My ex-mother knew this was wrong, and she told me that she had told my ex-father this was wrong, but it didn't change his mind, and it didn't change the situation.

One core belief I formed about myself that was etched very strongly on my heart was this: I will always be replaced by someone younger and cuter than me. This belief has bubbled up from time to time in a very painful way, and working through it has been surprisingly liberating, especially since I've discovered that I actually WON'T always be replaced by someone younger and cuter than me. People actually WILL accept me long-term. I feel robbed.

I've seen lots of fathers play with their children. I've even seen macho Hispanic fathers comfort and/or kiss their children in public. They don't do this because they want to spoil their children. They don't do this because they're weak men. They don't do this because they're overgrown children themselves. They do this because they love, cherish, and value their children. They do this because they're FATHERS.

A father is supposed to play with his children, not study them. A father is supposed to roughhouse with his children, not lecture them. A father is supposed to provide support for his children, not let dirty old men violate them in a church building. Seriously, if some sicko is making passes at your daughter, you beat him up in the church parking lot so the entire world can see how valuable she is to you. OK, so maybe my thinking that is a bit warped, but if your daughter's purity is threatened, roll up your sleeves and fight for her like a man. That's what a father is supposed to do.

A father is supposed to tuck in his little girl at night, tell her how much he loves her, and tell her a bedtime story. This is how she will learn how to experience, handle, and enjoy "happily ever after."

But what about me?

"Therefore you shall keep the commandments of the Lord your God, to walk in His ways and to fear Him. For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and springs, that flow out of valleys and hills; a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of olive oil and honey; a land in which you will eat bread without scarcity, in which you will lack nothing; a land whose stones are iron and out of whose hills you can dig copper. When you have eaten and are full, then you shall bless the Lord your God for the good land which He has given you... And you shall remember the Lord your God, for it is He who gives you power to get wealth, that He may establish His covenant which He swore to your fathers, as it is this day." (Deuteronomy 8:6-10, 18)

I think in the Bible, God instructed the Israelites to do "happily ever after" by simply fearing Him and remembering Him. I think He was saying, "Hey, when you come to this place that I've prepared for you, and you see all the cool stuff, and you're stinking rich, you'll be so tempted to think that you did all that yourself. Nope. It was Me. Who's your Daddy? Don't forget your Daddy." The Israelites learned how to worship God in the wilderness. When it was time to enter their promised land, they needed to continue to worship Him. That's exactly how you're supposed to do "happily ever after."

So, in order to heal me, God has had to Father me Himself. He started tucking me in at night about three and a half years ago, shortly before I started my "Kairos." Our bedtime routine has varied a great deal since then. But lately when He's tucked me in, He's told me to pull the covers over my head so that I won't get burned. (He's a consuming fire.) I think I usually drift off to sleep somewhere in the middle of our conversation, but He doesn't seem to mind. The thing is, He shows up every night. Because He's a faithful Father. He sings over me and comforts me. Because He's a loving Father. He doesn't lecture me, but He talks to me. Because He's a Father who's also my Friend. He's affectionate with me. Because He loves His little girl. Yes, I'm 37 years old, and God interacts with me as if I were 5 years old. But I think He does that on purpose. (And I don't ever want Him to stop.)

I understand now more than ever why I've heard some pastors say, "God doesn't want to use you; He wants to know you." God definitely uses the circumstances of my life to bring me closer to Him and to help other people come closer to Him. But He definitely doesn't use ME. He doesn't abuse me. I am not a lab rat to Him. I'm a daughter whose company He enjoys.

I think I'm OK now with watching my Father kill the fatted calf and throw a huge party for the prodigal son who comes home. I don't think I pout in the fields and whine about "You never did that for me" anymore. I think I'm OK now when my Father says, "You're always with Me, and all that I have is yours." (That's in Luke 15.) I don't think I see Him treating other people differently than I see Him treating me. I don't see Him tucking in my sibling in the room across the hallway while I'm left alone in the dark. I see Him tucking me in, too, and I don't hear Him comparing my siblings to me. I hear Him wanting me. Finally, Somebody wants me, and it isn't in a creepy way. It's in the way that my soul has been aching to be wanted all along: Somebody won't reject my intimacy.

And they both lived happily ever after.

Word

I love fried chicken, which pleases my taste buds, tortures my waistline, and possibly teases my gallbladder. But this week, it seemed peaceable to enjoy some fried chicken from the Kroger deli and graze on it for dinner. Since I live alone, a family-sized portion of fried chicken will usually feed me dinner for several nights out of the week. Since I live with two cats, a family-sized portion of fried chicken has become a source of drama.

In the past, Choochie has stayed away from my fried chicken, but Macho has tried to claim it for himself as a meat-hunting prize. Unfortunately, he has succeeded a couple of times. While I eat on my bachelorette banqueting table, Macho will usually meow, claw at my clothes/arm/leg, perch onto my leg so that his mouth can have better aim at my plate, and/or snuggle on my lap, where he will either wait for crumbs to fall and/or sneak his little mouth near my plate. A couple of times, I became very frustrated because, well, who wants to eat dinner while a wild animal is meowing and clawing at you, and you're yelling NO with a mouth full of fried chicken? So, I would take him to the other room so I could eat my meal somewhat in peace. (In my previous post, I wrote about how he sometimes howls when he feels separated from me.) One time, I made the mistake of utilizing my restroom facilities while leaving my pantry door open ajar. (My pantry is where I keep my trash can.) While I was utilizing the facilities, I heard a loud thud, and, sure enough, Macho had knocked over the trash can and helped himself to my fried chicken bones, etc.

So much heartache over fried chicken! I've repeatedly vowed that I'll never bring fried chicken into my home again... and yet, I still keep bringing it. I believe we have a better handle on the drama now. I've learned to always keep my pantry door closed and to never take my eye off my Macho. This evening, I decided to give him a sample of fried chicken (just a tiny bit of grease on my fingers) before I heated it up in the microwave. The photo I displayed at the beginning of this post is my attempt to capture this heartwarming moment. I haven't quite figured out yet if the look in his eyes is saying, "Why are you trying to take my picture?" or "I want meat, but all I can taste is chicken grease."

All that to say -- Macho and I have known each other for many years, and we've bonded considerably. (It's the same with Choochie and me.) I know he loves me and that his tummy is a bottomless ravenous pit. He knows I love him and that I have plenty of access to magical food that's currently off-limits for him.

"So He humbled you, allowed you to hunger, and fed you with manna which you did not know nor did your fathers know, that He might make you know that man shall not live by bread alone; but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord." (Deuteronomy 8:3)

If you've ever wanted to hear God speak to you, yes, please read the Bible. That's how He speaks. But if you've ever wanted to hear Him speak to you conversationally, you'll learn how to do so really quickly when He's the only One available to talk to. And it might not necessarily be a major ethereal experience like the kind you have at a church retreat. It might be while you're in the trenches. You're crouching in a foxhole, the enemy is firing bullets over your head, and all you have is one grenade left. If you don't follow orders, or if you mishear your General's instructions, you're toast. But in the heat of the battle, you bond with Him.

Or maybe you know that He keeps the fried chicken in His refrigerator, so you follow Him to the refrigerator, even though you know it's a dangerous place for cats, but you meow-beg for some anyway, without any sense of shame whatsoever, because you know how wonderful the fried chicken tastes. When it's time, He lets you sample some. If you try to sneak in some bites without His permission, you could completely forget that you're a cat and He's 10 times bigger than you are, and all hell could break loose.

My point is that sometimes, one of the deepest ways you can bond with the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords is to just charge into battle with Him, walk into a green pasture with Him, enjoy a special moment with Him, or just live life with Him, with all its highs and lows.

Living life by hearing from God and letting God hear from you is, in my opinion, the only way to live. After you taste it once, you'll crave it so badly that you won't want anything else.

Take my job, for example. I know that God spoke to me approximately 10 months ago and told me to find another job. My knowing this has come in handy, especially now that my current job has gotten better. (For now.) It would be very easy to take a step back and logically say, "I should stay here for a few more years, because things aren't really as bad as I thought they were. Maybe I was just overreacting." Nope. I've done that before, let my guard down, and then wham, gotten knocked down again. God has spoken lots of times that I need to find another job, and He's confirmed it zillions of times.

One of these confirmations was pretty cool. A few months ago, I was driving back home from my cousin's house, but I didn't exit the highway in time. I kept driving, and I saw one of those yellow "FREEWAY ENDS" signs, so I had no choice but to keep driving, and I was OK with having a spontaneous highway adventure late at night, anyway. I drove over a suspension bridge, and I was amazed at its beauty. The bridge led to a part of town that I didn't remember visiting before, but it was brightly lit, snazzy, and inviting. After a block or two, the snazziness quickly wore off, and I noticed that I was in a dark, dangerous-looking, scary part of town. I turned around as quickly as I could and high-tailed it out of that neighborhood. Of course, on the drive back, I got to admire the snazziness all over again. I drove over the suspension bridge again, and I marveled at how beautiful it was. Then, if I remember correctly, God told me, "That's how you're going to exit this job. When you first started, it was beautiful. Then it was dark and scary. Then on your way out, it will be beautiful again." I don't remember His exact words, but that's basically what He said.

That's how I like to live my life -- that's how I've always liked to live my life ever since I was first baptized in the Holy Spirit almost 20 years ago -- just conversing with my Friend who's in charge. Where He leads is where I want to follow. Where He goes is where I want to go. What He's OK with is what I want to be OK with. This morning, I told Him that I don't want to be at a job unless He can be there with me every day. I don't care where I work -- whether I'm flipping burgers or whether I'm giving speeches at the White House -- but if He can't come to work with me every time I clock in, I don't want to be there.

Recently, I've been watching episodes of a show called My Cat from Hell. It's a really cool show, and it's similar to Dog Whisperer, but it's about cats. After watching this cat show, I've caught myself feeling a tiny bit insecure about how I live with my cats. Are they bush dwellers or tree dwellers? Are they really supposed to be tree dwellers, but I don't give them enough vertical space? Do I feed them too often? Do I play with them often enough?

So, of course, I've had to ask them. Yes, of course I talk to them. I'll ask, "Do you feel that your accommodations are satisfactory?" And Choochie will often blink and have this, "Wow, you really need to chill out" look on her face, and Macho will often meow and walk away. (Those are yesses, right?) So, I've come to the conclusion that because they behave (almost) exactly the way I want cats to behave in my home, and because they're comfortable around me, and because they love me and I love them, we're happy together. (How is the weather?)

While the three of us have lived under the same roof for many years, we've bonded quite a bit, especially since the roofs have changed. They have faithfully adapted to every living situation I've had since I've known them. They've lived with me in tiny apartments. They've been escorted from my room to another room so as to limit their interaction with shiny things and indoor dogs. They've endured hours together inside a pet carrier while I moved out of town with them or while I hired movers. Their needs have changed as they've gotten older. I've cleaned up their puke and hairballs. I've introduced them to new litter and new foods. I've prayed for them while they've leaked blood in places where cats aren't supposed to bleed. I've whisked them away to vet offices and plunked down hundreds of dollars for their treatments. I've gotten awakened in the middle of the night because they've wanted to play or snuggle. I've wrestled with fried chicken, I've shared my yogurt, and I've coaxed with psychedelic kitty experience. (Catnip.) We've lived life together, and we've been through a lot together. So, we know each other.

I think that's how it is with me and God, to a degree. I think that's kinda how He wants it to be with all of us.

I know when He speaks to me because He's the One who hangs out with me wherever I am. He's the One who goes wherever I go. I usually know when others are trying to mimic His voice, because He's the One who's shown me what they sound like, and He's helped me kick them out. And I still go through a lot of maintenance in this area; that is, I still constantly seek discernment, and I still often ask for confirmation. I need His voice. His voice is my food. Without it, I'll starve to death.

I need Him.

I need Him!

I NEED HIM!

Heard

Reader, I hope you're not too tired of hearing me rant about my childhood, 'cause I've got more to say.

Macho has separation anxiety that bubbles out of him every once in a while. I spent all day at home today in my small apartment, with both my cats. And yet, this evening after I stepped outside for a few minutes to take out the trash and check the mail, and after I settled back in, Macho forgot where I was. At least, I think that's what happens. He dozes off (as cats tend to do), and when he wakes up, he's alone by himself in the dark, and he howls. Sometimes he even does that when I'm in the same room with him, with the lights on. It's OK, kitty, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.

So, the photo you see here is him after he howled in the dark from the other room. I called to him and invited him to join me here in the living room where I have the lights on. He trotted over, meowed "Ma-Maow," and snuggled next to my feet for a moment before perching on top of my couch as you see here. (Yes, he talks to me, and I listen.)

I think that's what a good cat-mama is supposed to do. (At least, I hope that's what a good cat-mama is supposed to do.) She listens, she responds, she comforts, she reassures, and she remains available.

That's what God does, too.

"The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His ears are open to their cry. The face of the Lord is against those who do evil, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth. The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit." (Psalm 34:15-18)

With what I'm about to say, I don't mean any disrespect; I just want to be honest. A huge part of my healing is accepting the fact that I just had bad parents. Why else would God tell me to separate myself from them for the rest of my life here on earth?

I don't remember this, because I was too young: I'm told that when I was a baby, I didn't cry real tears, and it freaked out my then-parents. So, they asked my pediatrician about their little freak-- I mean, about me. They explained to him that they would run to me every time I would cry, but they would never see tears. So, he was like, "You've never let her cry long enough to see her tears. If you let her cry long enough, you'll see tears." So, the next time I cried out to them, they let me cry, they ignored me, and it pained them to do so. But they got to see my tears.

Unfortunately, I think I was told a heck of a lot of lies while I was crying all alone with nobody to heed me. I have already blogged previously about my deep rejection and abandonment issues. I have already blogged previously about my neglect issues. I hear stories about people having issues with not being "seen." I have issues with not being "heard," and I think I understand why.

This might also be one reason why I'm working through my issue of hating prayer. (I hate prayer, but I don't really hate prayer, but I hate it, but I don't really hate it, but I don't like it, but I like it. Have I mentioned lately that I'm in psychotherapy?) If authority figures won't hear you when you cry out to them, why would God hear me when I cry out to Him?

I understand more than ever that God isn't anything like my earthly then-parents. He isn't a whitewashed hypocrite Pharisee who only wants to look good in front of other people. He isn't a power-hungry little wuss who condescends down at His own family for the sake of keeping His ego inflated. He isn't an elitist, guile-saturated snob who allows dirty old men to prey on His own children in a church building. He isn't a spiritual abuser who vomits confusion into spiritually hungry souls who have finally found the only One who can heal them from all of the above.

Nope. God isn't like that at all. But He is eternally serious about restoration and justice.

"Lift up Your feet to the perpetual desolations. The enemy has damaged everything in the sanctuary. Your enemies roar in the midst of Your meeting place; they set up their banners for signs." (Psalm 74:3-4)

My rejection and abandonment issues have affected my relationship with God, too. Recently, I've had to face a major fear of intimacy with God. Admitting that I was petrified of God -- the One who wants to be closer to me than anyone else does -- has been a bit embarrassing. But it makes sense in the context of everything else. If everyone else abandons me as soon as they see who I really am, why wouldn't God?

That was a rhetorical question, of course, that was voicing one of the lies that was floating around inside me. Dang. No wonder it felt easier to simply cloak myself in "religion" and hide behind hymnbooks and Sunday School literature. If I keep "God in a box," I can study Him from afar and remain safe.

Pffffft. I barely understand "safe." God invented "safe."

You won't find any Queen songs in a hymnbook. (Except for "God Save The Queen," but I think national anthems are public domain.) They don't explain in Sunday School literature that God will heal a cat-loving little artsy chick by prompting her to sing Queen songs to Him during her "quiet time."

Yep, that's a good way to get me to cry real tears: Let me sing a Freddie Mercury song to my God who wants to be scarily close to me. You know how He knew that? Intimacy.

Spiritual abuse really is heinously destructive. After God finally pulled me out of an unhealthy environment and transplanted me into a place where I learned about the Holy Spirit and started to enjoy intimacy with my God, and after I started getting fed poisonous lies telling me that what I was experiencing wasn't really God... well, it makes sense that God told me to separate myself from my spiritual abusers for the rest of my life here on earth.

With all due respect to my then-parents, I know how to cry now, with very visible tears, at the drop of a hat, as a result of genuine pain. But, unfortunately, they don't get to see my tears now.

I am not a guinea pig. I am not a linguistic experiment. I am not a science project. I am not an inconvenience. I am not a waste of time. I am not a burden.

I am a person who has every right to live on this planet. I am an artist who feels very deeply and who aches to express very honestly. I am a daughter of the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords -- a daughter who is welcome on her Daddy's lap, in her Daddy's arms, between her Daddy's shoulders. I am a woman who longs to know her God and to be known by Him. I am a cat-mama who knows how to heed her babies' cries.

Seriously, what kind of an ogre allows her young to cry in the dark? How dare you. That isn't "safe." No wonder God whisked me away from you forever. You weren't "safe" for me. You blocked me from the One who invented "safe," from the only One who will always be able to keep me "safe." I mentioned respecting you earlier, but I think my respect for you is gone now.

Can you hear me now?

Prisoner on the thigh

Technically, it's still winter, and it was cold outside this evening, so I wore my blue cap. This particular cap brings back thankful memories because I bought it in the fall of 2000 the same week I attempted suicide and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. In the fall of 2000, long story short, I walked into a grocery store with the intention of buying a toothbrush with my last $2, but I ended up buying this cap instead. (When you're dangerously depressed, your survival skills are really out of whack. At the psych hospital, my teeth were all kinds of unbrushed-nasty, especially after drinking/ejecting activated charcoal.)

Two years ago, I took a picture of myself with my blue cap and posted it on Facebook with a slightly longer version of the story you read above. I was encouraged by the very positive comments I received about my story. People were basically like, "OH, MY GOSH, YOU HAVE A PAST!"

Yep. And I have a present, too.

As Morpheus would say, "This will feel... a little weird." As Neo would say, "Déjà vu."

The title of this blog post may seem... a little weird, but I have two different ideas that I've been processing through lately, and I thought it would be interesting to combine them here. Thank you in advance for reading.

"Then Joseph's master took him and put him into the prison, a place where the king's prisoners were confined. And he was there in the prison. But the Lord was with Joseph and showed him mercy, and He gave him favor in the sight of the keeper of the prison. And the keeper of the prison committed to Joseph's hand all the prisoners who were in the prison; whatever they did there, it was his doing. The keeper of the prison did not look into anything that was under Joseph's authority, because the Lord was with him; and whatever he did, the Lord made it prosper." (Genesis 39:20-23)

In the passage I quoted above, the word "prison" or "prisoner" appears eight times. Wow. I wonder if that's the Holy Spirit's artistic way of communicating, "Prison, prison, everywhere!"

If you've been following my blog, you know that I hate my current job almost as much as I hate the devil. What God has been showing me recently is that while I'm there, He's teaching me about being in a prison. I believe that He's spoken to me many, many, many times that I need to leave my job... and yet I can't, because I have debts to pay off. Proverbs 22:7 explains that my bills keep me chained to my job. I'm like, I gotta go-- AAAGH! I can't go! It's a miserable cycle.

I wonder if Joseph felt the same way in Genesis. I wonder if he was like, I don't belong in here because I didn't commit a crime-- AAAGH! I'm stuck in here! Joseph had a really hard life that seemed to come upon him suddenly and that seemed to last for many years. In the end, his dreams came true, and he lived happily ever after.

But meanwhile, he was stuck in prison. And God gave him favor there. Even while he unjustly remained in a confined space -- unjustly ripped away from his family, unjustly accused of doing something heinous that he didn't do -- he was trusted with some duties inside the prison that trained him for his future. He was destined for awesomeness, but there was Prison, prison everywhere, and not a drop of freedom to drink.

Then in one fell swoop, he was finally released from prison and appointed to a high government position. He went from Prison, prison everywhere to Mercy, mercy everywhere, and not a drop of injustice to drink.

Jobwise, I definitely see the Prison, prison everywhere. I'm definitely looking forward to being released and/or escaping as soon as possible, because it's not fun, especially when I know God doesn't want me there. He's my Friend. It's gotten to where He almost teases me every morning with, "Have a good day." And I'm like, "...wait. Aren't You coming with me?!" And He's like. "No. Of course I am. No." Or He'll be like, "OK, I'll come with you today. But they don't want Me there." Or He'll be like, "Nope," and then He'll suddenly show up at my desk and hug me, and I'll be like, "YOU'RE HERE!" Sometimes He'll be like, "I changed My mind," and I wonder if maybe He just wanted me to ask Him to join me at my job that day... and yet I know that He lives inside me and will come with me regardless... and yet I know that He isn't there with me anymore because He doesn't want me to be there and/or my employer doesn't want Him to be there. It's truly ridiculous. He isn't ridiculous. The job situation is.

Prison is torture. I wonder how Joseph survived it.

"Now out of His mouth goes a sharp sword, that with it He should strike the nations. And He Himself will rule them with a rod of iron. He Himself treads the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God. And He has on His robe and on His thigh a name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS." (Revelation 19:15-16)

With my job, I'm in a prison, or I guess you could say I'm enslaved in Egypt. However, in other areas of my life, I think I'm in a wilderness. And in still other areas, I believe I'm killing some giants in the promised land. And wow, are there some giants.

This weekend, especially at church, God was speaking to me in a progressive picture. (I believe it was confirmed by somebody at church with one of the verses in Revelation I quoted above.) It was pretty intense. During one Saturday service while I was singing in the choir, I remembered that I was supposed to be interceding for the congregation. When I did, I got a picture of myself hugging God's thigh. I thought that was cool. But it got me very curious. Why was I hugging His thigh? Why wasn't I hugging His neck or His face or snuggling between His shoulders? I'm still looking into this, but from what I understand, in the Bible, a person's thigh symbolizes their strength. In my research, I learned that people used to hide their swords on their thighs. So, I was very intrigued about why God was showing me that I was hugging His thigh this weekend.

This morning, I woke up early and was doing fine until I got hit pretty hard with some emotional pain that was bubbling up from within. So, I spent a good deal of time journaling like my therapist told me to do, and I was crying. I arrived at church this morning still trying to stop crying. (Choir people, I love y'all, and I know you want to support me, but I couldn't talk about this yet because I was still processing it.) Then during the Sunday services while I was singing in the choir, God kept showing me more details about the picture of me hugging His thigh. In one picture, I was crying and leaking my tears onto His thigh. In another picture, I was reminded of a time many years ago when I literally cried into the lap of a mentor chick while I was confessing a "sin." (God was basically saying, "Don't cry in her lap. Cry in Mine.") I was like, "Why am I not snuggling between Your shoulders?" He was like, "You need My thigh."

Then He started showing me images that were more disturbing. He showed me a picture of me lying on His lap while I was face up, but I was wearing a wedding dress that was soaked with my blood, and I looked like I was in a lot of pain. It reminded me of a scene I saw in a horror movie. (In my previous job, I was sometimes assigned to compose closed captions for horror movies. Unless coerced, I try to avoid horror movies like the plague. That was one reason why I was very OK with getting laid off.) So, in this terrible picture, God was like, "You're hemorrhaging." He meant that my soul was hemorrhaging. I was like, "Doesn't that require emergency surgery?" Then I kept seeing a picture of Him sewing up the wound to stop the hemorrhaging, but I was still hurting emotionally. During parts of the day, I had crazy thoughts zip through my mind, and God was like, "You can't control your thoughts when you're hemorrhaging. It affects everything."

Finally, I realized that I couldn't perform surgery on myself. I think I was overanalyzing myself emotionally. (My therapist would be proud...?) So, God showed me that I needed to let Him do the surgery. And I also realized that in the picture He kept showing me, I needed to hug His thigh in order to stop the bleeding, form a clot, and let Him do the surgery and stop the hemorrhaging. So, I took a break from the emotional stuff and tried to relax this afternoon and get my mind off my issues. Then God was showing me a picture of a happy me, no hemorrhaging, hugging His thigh. (I hope my therapist doesn't disapprove of me taking a break from working through my issues so that I could let my brain rest. Meh.)

And I'm fine now. My emotions are calm, and my cat is literally purring between my shoulders while I type this.

I liked seeing pictures (I guess theologians would call these "visions") of me hugging God's thigh. I like the idea of drawing my strength from Him. I want to depend on Him for strength. I can't kill giants all by myself.

Maybe Joseph realized this, too, while he was stuck in prison. I mean, when you're suddenly thrown into a pit and sold into slavery by your own family, serving a bunch of foreigners, one of whom makes a pass at you and then accuses you of rape after you rightfully turn her down, and then are thrown into a prison and virtually forgotten, wouldn't you need Somebody strong to lean on? Wouldn't you need Somebody explaining to you what's happening before and after they warn, "This will feel... a little weird"? Wouldn't you need Somebody with a sturdy, dependable lap to surrender your weakness into? Wouldn't you need a place to rest, a place to hug, a place to wait for deliverance?

I know I did. I know I do. I know I will.

As a side note, I respect my therapist, and I appreciate the professional help I'm getting during this season of my life. But my therapist definitely doesn't have all the answers. In fact, she's been confirming lots of stuff that God had spoken to me previously. God was my only Therapist last year. He knows me better than anyone else is ever going to know me, so He knows exactly how to treat me with 100% pinpoint accuracy, beyond anything I could ever detect with my five senses. He was, is, and will always be The Perfect Counselor.

So, I want to hug God's thigh for the rest of my life. And I want to hug His neck. And I want to hug His face. And I want to hug His arm. And I want to hug His waist. And I want to hug His nose. And I want to hug His ear. And I want to hug anything else that He will let me hug. I need Him.

"I whisk you away"

I think one awesome thing I inherited from my ex-mother is a playful creativity while communicating with our little ones. For example, when I was growing up, if any child had his or her two front teeth missing, my ex-mother would call the tooth-gap a "garage door." If I had a hole in my sock, my ex-mother would call the hole an "air conditioner."

I think I've been communicating with my little ones, aka my cats, in similar ways. (Cats really can be trained, or at least conditioned, honest.) If I want them to leave a room, instead of telling them to shoo, I'll ask, "Would you mind exiting the room, please?" Then Macho will usually meow, make a 180, and strut out of the room. I often have to reinforce my request/command with a few other utterances of "exit, exit" and/or nudge them out of the room gently with my foot. If I'm about to do something that will disrupt their world, e.g., brush past them or sit down next to them or gently scoot them out of the way, I'll say, "Excuse me." That worked earlier this evening right before I opened my wet umbrella so that I could allow it to dry. "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me" warned them of an event (the umbrella suddenly opening) that has scared them in the past. So, that's how we roll here in Tirzah's home.

In a previous post, I wrote about how I need to feed Choochie some special food for her thyroid issues. And I need to keep Macho away from Choochie's food, so I have to feed them in separate rooms now. What works well for most meals is if I give Macho his food in my room first. While I'm feeding Macho, Choochie will show up and usually try to eat from his bowl. Then I'll pick her up, I'll tell her, "I whisk you away," and I'll transport her to the bathroom in my arm(s) so that I can feed her there. I tried to capture this heartwarming routine with a photo of her in my arm, but, uh... I think maybe I accidentally spooked her with my camera, her nail got stuck in my clothes, and then she tumbled awkwardly to the floor, and after I scooped her up again, she escaped onto my shoulder. That's why I posted a photo of her on my shoulder. She's a cat.

I'm a shepherd. It's what I do.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters." (Psalm 23:1-2)

One of my cats' vets has been practicing veterinary medicine for several decades, so he's very familiar with every procedure he performs on them and recommends for them. Here's how he describes their dental cleaning procedure, for which my cats are put under general anesthesia: "It will be like a religious experience." He means that I'll drop them off at the vet hospital for several hours, and when I pick them up and bring them home again, they'll be really out of it, and it'll be a while before the drugs wear off and they're back to normal.

I've had quite a few "religious" experiences like these myself, minus the dental procedures and minus the drugs, of course. I know what they feel like. I know what it's like to go off to a retreat, or maybe a mission trip, or maybe a church camp, or maybe a church conference, or maybe an extended special event. The atmosphere there is 100% different than what you're used to in your everyday life. You encounter God in a very powerful, intense, sweet, heavenly, life-changing way. You suddenly realize that your beliefs and/or behaviors and/or attitudes need to be different, so you change them during your retreat/trip/camp/conference/event. God's presence is so strong that you don't want to do anything to spoil it or scare it away. Then when you leave your retreat/trip/camp/conference/event, you're afraid of doing or thinking anything that will snap you out of your buzz. You convince yourself that if you don't sneeze too hard or breathe too loud or sin too badly, you can stay in your buzz forever. Then when life resumes as usual and kills your buzz, you kick yourself for being so fleshly or unbelieving or just a spiritual slob.

Of course, when I say "you," I mean "me."

During one of these conferences, I heard a pastor explain something that has helped me tremendously. He actually was one of the people who established that particular conference, and he explained that they set them up to where you can go away for a while and get pumped with lots of vision, but life isn't meant to be one long neverending conference. After you get pumped up with vision, you have plenty to think about and process while you're living your everyday life.

I'm glad he said that, because I think he's right.

Of course, I'm pretty sure there are exceptions to this. For example, in Luke 2, Simeon and Anna were constantly hanging out in the temple; Simeon was waiting for the Messiah, and Anna was fasting and praying. From what I understand, people from other denominations still separate themselves from the world completely in order to seek God and enjoy His presence in a sort of monk-like way.

But I'm learning more than ever that I don't have to officially become a monk or a nun to enjoy God's presence in powerful, intense, sweet, heavenly, life-changing ways. I don't have to whisk myself away to a retreat/trip/camp/conference/event to encounter God in an almost buzz-like way.

God can whisk me away anytime He wants, even in the midst of my everyday life.

                                                                                                                                                        

Yes, I whisk Choochie away every time I feed her her "special medicine food," unless she already happens to be in the bathroom waiting for me there. But she only enjoys her "special medicine food" with me several times a day. Her experience is temporary. When it's over, I open the bathroom door and resume life as usual in Tirzah's home. (Macho's usually happy to see us again, too.)

Choochie is my baby. My whisking her away to feed her is only one special time that we spend together. She's also welcome to join me while I eat breakfast, while I type up blog posts, while I watch YouTube videos, while I play my guitar, while I read my Bible (known to my cats as "The Word," or sometimes "Aaah! Don't eat the bookmark for The Word!"), while I sleep at night, while/if I nap during the day, while I prepare my lunches, while I load/unload my dishwasher, while I watch my DVDs, while I dance around my apartment and listen to music, etc. (The dancing especially is more enjoyable with a cat in my arms.)

Yes, of course I have boundaries (which have kind of a touch-and-go reinforcement with cats), but my cats are my babies. I want to be close to them, I want them to be around me, I want them to enjoy life in my home, and I want them to feel welcome with me, with whichever parts of my life that are boundary-permissible.

Of course, God can be the same way. Yes, participating in retreats/trips/camps/conferences/events are definitely excellent ways to enjoy God's presence. But He can meet with me in my living room, too. He can meet with me in my kitchen, too. He can meet with me in my bathroom, too. He can meet with me in my car, too. He can meet with me at my desk at work, too. He can meet with me while I'm reading my Bible, crying at my keyboard, interceding for somebody, driving on the highway, staring at my sink, folding my laundry, watching my television, or pretty much anytime or anywhere I'll let Him. I don't have to hold on too tightly to the buzz that I get when He whisks me away to retreats/trips/camps/conferences/events. I can hug His face and kiss His cheek anytime I want.

I like that about Him.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's almost time for me to whisk Choochie away again. Then maybe I'll try to coax her into enjoying some "psychedelic kitty experience." (That's Tirzah-house lingo for "catnip.")