The dart gun

A few different things have been floating around my head lately, and I'll do my best to process them here. I don't have a photo for this post because I'm writing about something that doesn't exist for me anymore. It's gone.

When I was a little girl, I was rather tomboyish, and my birth mother was in denial about it. Sorry, but I just wasn't girly fru-fru like she was, no matter how much makeup, hair color, or pretty dresses she would throw at me. My style was, is, and always will be different than hers. Reader, perhaps you remember reading previously about the action figures I played with when I was a little girl, especially my He-Man toys. God works all things together for good for those who love Him and for those who are called according to His purpose, right? (Romans 8:28) Well, one good thing that came out of my action figures was definitely getting to sell them years later on eBay.

But there was one toy that I didn't get to keep long enough to sell on eBay. In fact, I didn't get to keep it very long at all.

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I owned a dart gun. It was the coolest toy in the world. I remember the suction cups stuck very nicely to my closet door. But I only owned this dart gun for a few hours. If memory serves, my dart gun was purchased on a Friday evening. The following Saturday morning, I was playing with my younger sister and her Monchhichi doll. The fleeing doll was my target, so I aimed my dart gun at it and fired. Unfortunately, I missed and accidentally hit my sister, who promptly began to cry. I'm sure any oldest-sibling readers understand that this crying noise spells instant doom. My birth father entered the room, confiscated my dart gun, and threw it away. That was the last I saw of it. The coolest toy in the world was gone forever.

I don't remember anyone confiscating my sister's plastic baseball bat, which she once used to maniacally chase me around the house (getting swatted with that thing really smarted), but that's another story.

"Do not be deceived, my beloved brethren. Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning. Of His own will He brought us forth by the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of His creatures." (James 1:16-18)

"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven... A time to gain, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away..." (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 6)

For me, this particular season of being unemployed has been more about simply looking for a new job. (Or about dodging unsolicited advice and/or guilt trips.) One theme in my life during this season has been "Out with the old, in with the new." This has definitely included material possessions, but I think it also includes beliefs. In addition to having to trust God with my finances and my job situation, I've needed to learn (or perhaps relearn) what He's really like as a Father.

I don't remember exactly what I was thinking about or concerned about one recent day -- perhaps it was money, or perhaps it was wondering if I'd done anything really bad to screw up my chances of ever finding work again. But God reminded me about my dart gun, the coolest toy in the world that I only owned for a few hours.

The way my dart gun was taken away from me was a no-grace situation. I made one tiny little mistake (I'm sorry that I accidentally hurt my sister; if I had been given another chance, I hope I would have learned from my mistake and been more careful in the future), and suddenly something that I treasured was gone forever. I don't even remember being given anything to replace it. I just remember being shamed.

Perhaps you could also say that the way in which my previous job was taken away from me was a no-grace situation. I made one tiny little mistake (honestly, I wasn't the only one; I was merely one of several who were in the same boat), and suddenly my paycheck was gone. The boss who had once praised me for improving my work performance was now suddenly escorting me out the front door and blocking it so that I couldn't return. I suppose in a way, I felt shamed. (But in this particular situation, I was also set free.)

I think I'm finally learning that God isn't a no-grace God. Sure, if we make one little mistake, we're toast for all eternity. But that's true for everybody. The way to fix it is by giving your life to Jesus, who in a nutshell, is the ultimate Scapegoat for all of humanity. Any kind of shame or punishment that would have been inflicted on us was inflicted on Jesus. Thanks to Him, I don't have to worry about losing my life over one little mistake. Thanks to Him, I can get another chance... over and over and over again... as many chances as I need.

Of course, any mistake has consequences attached to it. Every human being is responsible for enduring and taking care of the consequences of each mistake that he or she makes. But I'm not talking about that. What I'm talking about is the fact that all humans make mistakes. (Except Jesus, but that's another story.) And yet, love can pretty much snuff out all kinds of mistakes, right? (1 Peter 4:8)

"He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for My sake will find it." (Matthew 10:39)

Sometimes my "aha" moments come at very random times. For example, last night while I was cleaning out the litterbox, I suddenly told God, "I gave up He-Man, but You gave me Heman." I think maybe God was waiting for my very random "aha" moment at the litterbox, because He immediately replied with a smile, "Not bad, huh?"

I've blogged about Heman previously. He was one of the psalmists in the Bible and one of the praise/worship leaders around the time that King David established worship to God in Israel. Heman's name is Hebrew, so it probably isn't pronounced like "He-Man," but I'm a Texan, so I hope it isn't disrespectful of me to pronounce Heman the psalmist's name as "He-Man." (My name is Hebrew, too, but almost everybody here in Texas calls me "Teer-zuh." The Texan pronunciation rolls off the tongue so easily. Why fight it?)

Heman is all over 1 and 2 Chronicles. It seems that almost every time the Bible talks about how a king finally came to his senses and started worshiping God the right way, and insisting that his people do the same, it talks about the priests and the Levites. The musicians, the praise/worship leaders, are all part of this worshiping-God-with-sacrifices family of ministers. This fascinates the heck out of me. For years, I was shown that church music wasn't that big a deal and that everyone should know how to make it. But music seems to be very important to God if He took the time to make sure that the musicians were established and ordered, to make sure that it was all written about multiple times in the Bible, and to make sure that many of their songs were recorded in the Bible. God likes it when we use music to sing to Him, right? (Psalm 33:1-3)

Considering Heman's history and his songwriting, I'm assuming that he had a rather hard life. Perhaps that is why God made sure that he was one of the praise/worship musicians in the first place. Sure, if you've got a guitar strapped around your shoulder and a mic in front of your face, that probably means that your musical skills are good enough to broadcast to a room full of people. But it probably also means that you have something important to say. More than likely, it means that you're basically saying, "God is worthy to be praised, He's worthy to be worshiped, and He's a good Father who never, ever changes, regardless of what life throws my way."

Heman's dark Psalm 88, his possibly terrible childhood, and the fact that he was entrusted to help lead Israel musically in praise/worship -- well, all of that encourages me. And I'm discovering that Heman wasn't the only composer who had dark things to write about.

Yesterday, I was randomly reading about composer Stephen Sondheim. He is a majorly successful Broadway-musical songwriter. He wrote such musicals as A Little Night Music and Sweeney Todd. Sure, some of his work might be a bit dark, but I'm guessing his history might have something to do with that. According to Wikipedia, he grew up in a broken home with an abusive mother. When she died, he skipped the funeral. But when he was young, he found a very important mentor: Oscar Hammerstein II. Can you guess how Stephen Sondheim overcame his early obstacles and became a very successful composer?

I learned a long time ago that creativity is one gift that God has given us to help us process the hard things in our lives. Perhaps when I read the psalms in the Bible (especially Psalm 88), I can see these processes at work.

It helps me to see that songwriters are human. It helps me to see that everybody makes mistakes. It helps me to see that if I make one little mistake, God won't take away the coolest toy in the world forever.

Because He's not like that.

Jesus isn't some holier-than-thou Pharisee who demands perfection out of me without getting to know me, protecting me, or caring about my well-being. He's fully God, and He's fully Man, so He experienced firsthand what it was like to be rejected, left out, and shamed. (And He still gets mightily dissed by all of humanity.) He's my Friend who encourages me every step of the way that He's with me and that I can make it.

No, I don't have my He-Man toys anymore, but I have Heman to read about and study about in the Bible. No, I don't have my white kitten Puff anymore (who ran away when I was 4), but I have Choochie my black-white-gray little cat (who is still mine after 14 years). No, I don't have earthly parents anymore, but I have a Father of lights who continually gives me good gifts and perfect gifts and who keeps me alive during unemployment famines. I think He likes me. Which is awesome, because I like Him back.

No, I don't have my dart gun anymore, but I have songwriting skills that are still developing. And I hope someday to hit the bull's-eye.

The tattoo

Today for the first time ever, I have seriously begun to consider getting a real tattoo. (Yes, there's a verse in Leviticus 19 that says to not mark your body, but I've kinda moved past that. There's also a verse in Leviticus 19 that says to not take revenge or bear a grudge. Can you please aim that first stone someplace else?) What has really prevented me from getting a tattoo is the fact that I hate needles. Perhaps you remember me mentioning that in this previous post.

In this post, I've shared a picture of my idea for the tattoo that I'm considering. I drew it with a blue pen on the inside of my left forearm (because I'm righthanded), but I would get the actual tattoo on the inside of my right forearm, and ideally it would be smaller and definitely more circular, more professional, and less doodley. There would be a lion and a cobra; circling overhead would be the reference to Psalm 91:13, and underneath would be the reference to Psalm 37:11. I seriously wouldn't mind getting something like this someday at all. (It would be when I have money and job stability, of course.)

For me, the whole point of getting a tattoo in the first place (if I ever decide for sure to go through with it) would be to remind myself of something important. And to look incredibly cool. But mainly just to remind myself of something really important.

"Because you have made the Lord, who is my refuge, even the Most High, your dwelling place, no evil shall befall you, nor shall any plague come near your dwelling; for He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. In their hands they shall bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone. YOU SHALL TREAD UPON THE LION AND THE COBRA, THE YOUNG LION AND THE SERPENT YOU SHALL TRAMPLE UNDERFOOT." (Psalm 91:9-13, emphasis tattoo-inspiring)

"But the meek shall inherit the earth, and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace." (Psalm 37:11, a tattoo-supporting promise)

I've read Psalm 91 probably a zillion times, but today verse 13 jumped out at me. If I hang out in the shelter of God's wings and He keeps me safe, I can stomp all over lions and cobras? Me likey!

I'm 100% positive that verse 13 isn't talking about literal lions or cobras. (Not that it couldn't.) I'm pretty sure in this cool-poetic psalm, lions and cobras represent demonic principalities, powers, etc. Or maybe even just trials. Life comes charging at me like a lion? If I'm hanging out in the shadow of God's wings, no problem. I can charge back at the lion and trample him so hard, he'll beg me to adopt him as my pet feline #3. Demonic forces come hissing at me like a cobra? If I'm letting God be my refuge, no worries. I can charm the hisser right into a corner and trample him so hard, he'll look just like that pancake-roadkill snake I accidentally ran over with my car last month.

Of course, this is all ideal. This is the goal. This sounds probably much easier than it probably will be. The whole reason I came across Psalm 91:13 today in the first place was because I was in so much emotional pain, I had to cry on my Daddy's shoulder and let Him comfort me like He would a 3-year-old.

But Psalm 37:11 promises that there's peace in my future -- nay, an abundance of peace. I guess it would be kinda like a Thanksgiving dinner where there's an abundance of food. After stuffing yourself silly with a meal that you've waited to savor all year long, there are so many leftovers that your host/hostess begs you to please take some food home with you. A huge part of my inheritance is an abundance of peace that's so humongous, I'll have to share it with people. This would delight me tremendously.

And, of course, more important than getting a literal tattoo on my physical body would be getting a glow-in-the-dark spiritual tattoo on my heart. It's more important for me to imprint this truth on my insides than it would be to draw it on my outsides (which could possibly distort the artwork by getting fat, sunburned, cat-scratched, etc.).

But the literal tattoo would look so incredibly cool.

There are plenty of ways for me to trample lions and cobras -- not on my own strength but in the authority that Jesus gave me. If a friend is sick, I can chase the spirit of infirmity away through prayer. If I'm struggling emotionally, I can punch the lies in the face by crawling onto my Daddy's shoulder and actually having a conversation with Him where He will be His forever strong, comforting self and I will be my spiritually poor, needy self.

Maybe getting a literal tattoo would be an incredibly cool way to "encourage myself in the Lord." I've noticed that that phrase gets tossed around a lot in the body of Christ. David strengthened or encouraged himself in the Lord in 1 Samuel 30:6, and David is an excellent example of how to follow God, no matter what, in all kinds of crazy circumstances. Incidentally, the context of David encouraging himself in the Lord, in 1 Samuel 30:6, is that, um, the people who were around him (the ones who I think were supposed to have been encouraging him in the first place) wanted to kill him. Now, that's something to think about.

Meanwhile, I'm still thinking about getting a real tattoo. Or maybe I'll dust off my really old idea of getting my eyebrow pierced. Who knows? Compared to what I've been through, maybe a body-art needle wouldn't hurt that badly.

Scorpions, serpents, and three-legged cats

Now that the title of this post probably got your attention, I hope I didn't alarm you. My cats and I are doing well. I'm going to use this post to process some things that I've been thinking about, so I might be all over the place, but I'll try to stay focused. I think perhaps another title could be something like "You get what you pay for... even though you could never possibly earn enough resources to pay for certain things in a zillion years."

I just returned from the vet, where Macho had his stitches and superhero bonnet removed. I keep asking him how he's enjoying his peripheral vision. He keeps positioning himself cautiously throughout the apartment. Check out his placement in this photo. He's lounging half on wood, half on carpet. I've never seen him do that before. He was flicking his tail and glaring at me suspiciously. Sorry, kitty. Didn't mean to freak you out. All I did was take you to the vet so you could get a surgical procedure that possibly saved your life.

"If a son asks for bread from any father among you, will he give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent instead of a fish? Or if he asks for an egg, will he offer him a scorpion? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!" (Luke 11:11-13)

Speaking of vets, years ago, I was a novice cat owner, so I would do what everyone told me to do regarding cats, including taking them to the (quack) vets where I was told to take them. The vet where I ended up treating both my cats was a tiny bit out of town near a country road, where I imagine many animals were accident victims. So, one or two three-legged cats lived at this particular vet's office. I remember on at least one occasion, Choochie and I were minding our own business in the waiting room. I kept her next to me inside her carrier. Then one of the three-legged cats hobbled up to her carrier and hissed at her. Excuse you, tripod. Leave my baby alone. Of course, I scooted Choochie (who was probably hissing back) closer to me and tried to shield her from the really rude host/hostess.

At this same vet's office, I remember taking Macho for shots once. While she was giving Macho a shot, the phone rang, and she had to answer it, while Macho tried to crawl off the table while a needle was stuck in his back. At the time, I was really impressed with the vet's multitasking skills. In retrospect, I'm appalled at the lack of care with which this vet treated my cat. Excuse you, lady. I don't care if you're really shorthanded or if you're so broke that you have to keep your entire operation glued together with Scotch tape and bubble gum. When you stick a needle in my baby, give him your undivided attention.

I'm a firm believer that you get what you pay for, especially when it comes to veterinary care.

And yet, there are some situations you find yourself in where you had no idea what you were in for.

"And when Pharaoh drew near, the children of Israel lifted their eyes, and behold, the Egyptians marched after them. So they were very afraid, and the children of Israel cried out to the Lord. Then they said to Moses, 'Because there were no graves in Egypt, have you taken us away to die in the wilderness? Why have you so dealt with us, to bring us up out of Egypt? ...And Moses said to the people, 'Do not be afraid... The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace.' And the Lord said to Moses, 'Why do you cry to Me? Tell the children of Israel to go forward. But lift up your rod, and stretch out your hand over the sea and divide it. And the children of Israel shall go on dry ground through the midst of the sea.' " (Exodus 14:10-11, 13a, 14-16)

Last night when I was thinking and praying about my financial situation, God reminded me of the story of the parting of the Red Sea. The Egyptians (the enemy) had released the Israelites (God's children) from bondage, but here they were chasing after their former slaves again. The Israelites were stuck between a charging army and a body of water. I think it was natural for them to freak out and accidentally forget about the miraculous way that God had delivered them from their bondage in the first place. I like reading about it in Exodus. It seems like God has this extremely laidback "What's the big deal?" attitude right before He delivers them from the enemy YET AGAIN.

I'm not exactly sure why God led the Israelites directly to a body of water (that probably looked like a watery grave), especially without warning. I don't think He was like, "Yes, come out to the wilderness and worship Me! But before you do, minor detail: You'll need to trust Me to lead you through an impossible obstacle." Nope. Surprise! This pop quiz has been brought to you by... I AM. You can't leave your bondage without Him. [theme music playing]

Why did God lead the Israelites to the Red Sea without warning them about it beforehand? I'm sure He wanted to glorify Himself. I'm sure He wanted to test the Israelites' hearts. I'm guessing perhaps He wanted an efficient way to conquer the Egyptians. I'm pretty sure He knew that this story would encourage me thousands of years later.

I like how in Exodus, God was like, "Why are you freaking out? Just keep moving forward. There's a body of water in the way? No problem. I'll move it out of the way for you." He's God then, and He's God now. He never, ever changes.

Then after the Israelites crossed the Red Sea and began life out in the wilderness, they encountered multiple other trials where God tested their hearts multiple other times. Hmm, let's see. What all did God do for them? Let me see how much of it I can remember:

- sent Moses, a former resident of Egypt, to deliver them from bondage

- sent 10 plagues to the Egyptians, the 10th of which finally convinced Pharaoh to release them from bondage

- parted the Red Sea so that they safely crossed on dry land

- resumed the Red Sea's normal flow so that the Egyptian enemies would drown

- rained down manna from heaven so that they could make bread in the wilderness

- sent water for them to drink smack-dab in the middle of the desert

- chose them, out of all the other peoples of the earth, to be His very own

- kept them alive during all of the above, and all they had to do was love Him

Dang. That's a lot. But that's easy for me to say because I have a laptop, A/C, and thousands of years of perspective. When you're going through an actual trial, it can be difficult to remember what God is really like.

What IS God really like?

"The wicked are estranged from the womb; they go astray as soon as they are born, speaking lies. Their poison is like the poison of a serpent; they are like the deaf cobra that stops its ear, which will not heed the voice of the charmers, charming ever so skillfully... The righteous shall rejoice when he sees the vengeance; he shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked, so that men will say, 'Surely there is a reward for the righteous; surely He is God who judges the earth.' " (Psalm 58:3-5, 10-11)

Well, God is certainly NOT like the cobras of Psalm 58. The other day during my quiet time when I needed calming down, God sat me down and reminded me that I grew up among serpents. I think when you absorb a toxic atmosphere, and it's all you know, it's easy to think that that's all there is to life. Then when you're rescued from the toxic atmosphere, you breathe in fresh air, and you gradually begin to realize, "Ah. That toxicity wasn't supposed to be normal." So, the concept of God being a good Daddy who provides for His children is one that's still sinking in for me -- possibly a concept that may require a lifetime to sink in fully.

I've blogged previously about how the concept of "If you, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more does God know how to give good gifts to you" is honestly fairly new to my soul. I've heard it and read it probably a hundred times, of course. But my heart is still learning it.

Not trying to hurt anyone's feelings, just trying to be honest, I didn't grow up with a strong daddy who would do whatever necessary to provide for his children, or who would stay up late on Christmas Eve wrapping presents that he bought for his children, or who would do all sorts of cool things for his children and delight in watching them enjoy all those cool things. I grew up with a wussy daddy who would freak out if we would leave the light on in a room that we weren't occupying, and who would only buy presents for his wife, and who would isolate himself in his study area while we children were left to do whatever. And if heaven forbid we were to make any sort of mistakes, he would whip his venomous fangs straight to our throats. If you ask your dad for an egg, would he give you a scorpion? Sure, why not? That's what my dad did. And I think I have the malnutrition and the scars to prove it.

But God's not like that.

When the Israelites asked Him for freedom, He didn't just deliver them out of their bondage. He obliterated their enemies. He sent them Moses, AND later He sent them Jesus. He didn't just give them relief from oppression. He squashed their oppressors to smithereens. AND He adopted them as His sons and daughters. AND He sent them His Holy Spirit to help them live life here and remember His truth.

So, when I ask Father God for bread, He won't give me a stone. He'll give me a bakery, and He'll rain down manna from heaven so that I can keep making as much bread as I want. When I ask Him for an egg, He won't give me a scorpion. He'll give me a Sausage McMuffin With Egg and a lifetime all-you-can eat gift certificate to IHOP. When I ask Him for a fish, He won't give me a serpent that will snap at me and squirt poison into me. He'll give me a banquet of huge, fat tilapia that will satisfy my stomach rumblings and permeate the banquet hall with an aroma that will attract fish lovers from all over the world. I'll be able to feed myself AND my cats, who will forget that canned tuna ever existed.

I think perhaps God is also a firm believer that you get what you pay for. In order to get me as a daughter, He paid for me by giving up His Son. Now I'm alive, and not only is He risen from the dead, but He's also the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords.

God doesn't cut corners, because He doesn't need to. God is never anxious about running out of resources, because He owns all of them. God isn't a quack vet who's barely keeping His office running, because He's a miraculous Doctor who already reigns over all the earth. He knows exactly what He's doing. Sure, of course, there are surprises for ME once in a while, but He knows where I am, and He knows what I need. He made me. He's much more interested in my life than I am.

I'm not exactly sure how much Macho realizes how much I care about him when I set my alarm really early on a Saturday morning so that I can transport him to and from the vet on a traffic-free road. But I think it's natural for him to freak out at least a little bit. I try to communicate with him what I'm doing as I go along, but in the end, I speak English and he speaks feline. He probably didn't know that I was driving him this morning to the vet for just a few minutes so that he could finally be free of his temporarily constricting equipment. I intended for him to come right back home with me all along. He was a kitten at PetSmart many years ago. Perhaps he's used to cages and carriers loudly, invisibly flashing DANGER.

Maybe the Israelites had trouble figuring out what God was really like, too. They probably didn't know that God was driving them to the safest place they could be, as opposed to a watery grave. They were slaves in a foreign country. Perhaps they were used to being herded around like cattle in strange places or being mistreated by Pharaohs or being manipulated by slavedrivers, to the point where any abrupt change of plans was like a loud, invisible sign flashing DANGER.

I can definitely relate to Macho and the Israelites, because I have trust issues, too. It's hard to trust a set of rules, because rules can easily be broken, and almost any system can easily be cheated. But God isn't a set of rules. He isn't a religion. He's a Person. Following Him is a relationship. The more you invest in a relationship with a Person, the more you'll get to know Him, and the more you'll trust Him.

I'm a firm believer that you get what you pay for, especially when it comes to giving up your entire life to follow a Person. And He's never, ever, ever disappointed me. I have always, always, always been able to count on Him. Because He's faithful. Because He loves me and is committed to me. Because He is exactly who He says He is: He's my Father.

I can't take it anymore!

So, I decided to write my two cents about actor Robin Williams' passing. Due to the nature of his passing, I might get a tiny bit graphic in this post.

In case you haven't heard, he died yesterday of an apparent suicide. If I'm interpreting the most current Wikipedia entry correctly, it appears that he hanged himself after he cut himself. Rest in peace, Mr. Williams! You never, ever failed to entertain me.

I read a news article that said that his family wants privacy while they're grieving. I totally don't blame them. However, since Robin Williams has been one of the most memorable, recognizable, talented celebrities for decades, his death was inevitably made public, and it has wallpapered the internet.

I never met Mr. Williams, so I can't grieve like somebody who knew him. But if you've ever followed my blog and/or heard me share a bit of my testimony, you know that I have an idea of what might have been going through his head while he was deciding to take his own life. I hope I don't think about his death every time I see one of his sitcom episodes or watch one of his movies. But that won't change the fact that his death was an apparent suicide.

And that won't change the fact that I think I know suicide like the back of my shiny tanned, lightly freckled, guitar-calloused, mole-decorated hand.

Oh, my gosh. So many people have opinions about suicide. Anytime anyone in the public spotlight commits this act, it releases a new opinion deluge. We live in an era when the internet makes it possible for people to share every opinion they have about everything. And most of these opinion-sharers (even though they have every right to form and share their opinions, just like I do) probably don't have a clue of what it's really like to actually battle a suicidal thought.

I can't take it anymore! I want to set the record straight for the world. So, earlier today, I almost composed a Facebook status update that would have gone something like this: "If you're trying to talk somebody out of committing suicide, don't lecture them, yell at them, or accuse them of being selfish. The last thing they need is more violence in their head. Hug them, tell them you want them to stay here, and love them."

But then I realized that I would just be adding to the opinion din. Here's the deal regarding suicide: There are no easy answers.

Even in my case, even after writing this previous post, I've been very surprised to find myself battling suicidal thoughts YET AGAIN in recent months. Hence my pursuit of psychotherapy. Hence my blogging about "emotional healing." It's been kind of embarrassing and yet frustrating, honestly. I mean, I thought this was over and done with, I thought this was gone forever, and then to see it back again is really frustrating and scary.

And yet, I feel like I should celebrate by getting a new tattoo or something.

I think the first time I found myself tumbling down another pit again, which was probably around Januaryish 2014, I came out fighting with fists swinging quite sloppily, but as passionately as I could. I won't repeat what I actually said, but it was a very angry prayer in which I rebuked demonic forces with a torrent of profanity. Then I collapsed on my living room chair in a flood of tears and begged God to help me while reading Psalm 86 out loud. Then He talked to me and said that my healing would come if I would ride the waves that would come. I think that was around the time that I wrote this previous post.

I think the scariest brush with suicidal thoughts that I've had in this particular leg of my journey was a few months ago. I believe it was a Monday morning or early afternoon in May. I think perhaps the added stress of unemployment was enough to smack me down onto my couch and attract invisible buzzards. On the weekends, loneliness has triggered it. I don't think I'm depressed per se. I think perhaps my wounds become unraveled, and suicidal ideas have been part of them, sort of like untangling a jungle vine that's been buried under rotting leaves and moldy logs.

As I'm typing this now, I'm honestly fine. I'm not depressed. I'm not suicidal. I'm just discovering that I can't guarantee that that old struggle won't come back again. But I'm definitely not going to let it lick me.

One thing I've discovered this year is that if I'm going to live my life, it's up to me. If I'm going to stay the heck away from the pits, it's up to me. If I'm going to strangle the demonic forces whenever they form a dark posse and come after me, it's up to me.

Incidentally, the biggest middle finger I could ever wave to the devil is simply living my life. The fact that I'm still breathing while I type this means that he's a loser. Heh.

And, of course, the fact that Jesus already conquered death for me means that I'm more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37-39). One thing that I appreciate about Him is that He's never slapped me away for being honest with Him. He's always helped me. He's always given me exactly what I need.

Not trying to hurt anybody's feelings, just trying to be honest, going to Jesus' people (my brothers and sisters) during an emotional crisis (that is sometimes code for "I am fighting suicidal thoughts") hasn't always been a pleasant experience. I've been lectured, yelled at, and humiliated by different people on different occasions. And yet, I know that these people love me. They probably just don't know exactly how to respond to me because they can't read my mind. That is definitely understandable. And yet, a disappointing response is always better than no response at all.

I conquered my most recent battles with practical thoughts. I can't die. If I do, nobody else would know how to take care of my cats. If I try to kill myself, and if my attempt is unsuccessful again, I would have to endure life at a hospital. Heh. Like that's gonna happen again!

I repeat: I'm honestly fine. I'm not depressed. I'm not suicidal. Goodness knows I'm not going back to a hospital again. No way. Do you know what those places are like? I do.

Here's what happened to me about 14 years ago. After I found a friend to drive me to the ER, I had to explain to an admitting nurse that I had taken 2 bottles of aspirin on purpose. While the nurse was asking me admitting questions, she asked if I had ever had any kidney or liver problems. I said no. Referring to the aspirin that I'd just ingested, she barked at me, "You will now!" Thanks for the lecture, mean lady.

Then while I was waiting to see a doctor, my stomach pumped itself in the men's room (because the ladies' room was occupied). Then I changed into a hospital gown and lay down on one of those flimsy beds. At one point, a girl from church that I barely knew came in to visit me. She asked me when was the last time I was happy. I replied when I was 6 years old. (I was 24 at the time.) Then a pastor that I actually knew showed up, and I began to cry. I think maybe they prayed for me, but what I really remember was the late-night counselor showing up and interviewing me to see if I would be interested in being admitted to the neighboring psychiatric hospital. During this interview, the activated charcoal that I had drunk suddenly caused my stomach to pump itself. Heh. That nice late-night lady.

Then when I was finally getting admitted to the psychiatric hospital, a male nurse went through my backpack and removed any items that I possibly could have used to hurt myself. I remember him asking me if I collected stamps. Not that it's really your business, but yes.

Then I slept... longer than I had slept in a long time. It was wonderful to be able to face a sterile wall, snuggle up in a strange blanket, and drift off peacefully. (That wasn't sarcastic. That was sincere.) In the wee hours of the night, a nurse woke me up to take my blood pressure. In the morning, I was fed, and I was treated to cable TV for the first time in a very long time. That was when I was introduced to Animal Planet. I believe something that evening triggered the fire alarm, so many of us were in the hallways.

Eventually I was moved from the intensive care wing to a lower-security wing where I was introduced to Turner Classic Movies. Many of the people in the hospital with me would go outside frequently to take smoke breaks. I remember marveling at how we were being hospitalized to treat an addiction (which is how I viewed depression at the time), and yet we were allowed to continue in a nicotine addiction.

We started group therapy during the day, and we had to share our story of why we were in the hospital. I think I shared about how I was in a missionary training school and about how I was mad at God. (Nice witness, right? Now I'm being sarcastic.) One night, one of the nurses on duty recognized me because she had been a visitor in my lifegroup. She was very gracious, but of course I felt humiliated.

I'm assuming my condition was listed right by my name on the hospital roll call, because every time a new nurse would come on duty, he or she would call out each of our names, administer various medications, and check on us. (Yes, one of the male nurses was pretty darn cute. Sigh!) When they would get to me, they'd usually call out my last name immediately followed by, "Do you still want to hurt yourself?" By this point, heck no, I didn't want to hurt myself. I had already gotten it out of my system. And I was pretty annoyed with this whole hospitalization thing.

I would see a therapist pretty much every day, and I learned some important things about myself. One day, she asked me, "What are the 3 most important things in life?" Without missing a beat, without thinking or blinking, I replied, "Security, closeness, and artistic expression." I realized immediately that those were my 3 biggest needs (and still are). She talked to me about my method of suicide and laughed at me. "You can't die from taking 2 bottles of aspirin!" I was like, "Great. I can't do anything right." She was like, "So, just don't try it anymore!" Thanks, lady. Way to heckle a chick.

At one point, my roommate visited me in the hospital and told me that my attempting suicide made her feel rejected. Um, sorry. I was kinda feeling rejected myself. She also brought me a change of clothes but wasn't allowed to give me my drawstring pants because I could have supposedly hanged myself with them. Um, no. Later, I found out that she had told my therapist that I was behind on my rent and that I would need to find another place to live. Um, heck no, I didn't appreciate her doing all that behind my back. But what choice did I have? My freedom and independence had been zapped to smithereens, and I was at the mercy of my support system.

Then I was required to phone my parents (who I honestly should have disowned myself from already, but I hadn't yet) and inform them of what I had done and why I was in a hospital. My mother answered the phone and immediately blamed my missionary training school. She and my father drove all night and met me at the hospital the following morning.

I really wish I hadn't witnessed my parents' responses to my actions/condition/plight.

My mother acted as if nothing unusual had happened. My father had just had laser surgery on his eyes. He is a very socially awkward person as it is, but him keeping his eyes closed for most of his visit made things extra awkward. We had a family therapy session in which I agreed to visit my parents more often. Then the therapist left the room so that the 3 of us could speak privately. Heh, heh, heh. She assumed that we would work out our issues, did she?

The first words out of my father's mouth were, "[Insert statistic here] percent of all suicides happen between the ages of 18 and 24. Tirzah, how could you do this to us?" Thanks, dad. Nice to be treated like a number. At least you were consistent. Also nice to hear how embarrassed YOU were about all this.

I rest my case.

So, I'm glad that God has used my previous experience in a psychiatric hospital to at least remind me of what it's like in those places. I don't mean to offend you if you work at any of these facilities. Honestly, if you do, thank you. I appreciate what you do. You have to patiently put up with people like me. But please understand that remembering the public humiliation of an unsuccessful suicide attempt is plenty of a reason for me to NOT want to go back there again.

Please understand: If you're seriously contemplating suicide, don't. Please get help, even if it means visiting a hospital and blogging about it later. Suicide isn't worth your trouble. You, on the other hand, are a life worth saving. Please don't go. Please stay. We want you here, even if we do a terrible job of showing it.

That being said, I think unsuccessful suicide attempts can serve other purposes, too.

"O Lord, God of my salvation, I have cried out day and night before You. Let my prayer come before You; incline Your ear to my cry. For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to the grave. I am counted with those who go down to the pit; I am like a man who has no strength, adrift among the dead, like the slain who lie in the grave, whom You remember no more, and who are cut off from your hand. You have laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the depths. Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and You have afflicted me with all Your waves. Selah." (Psalm 88:1-7)

Psalm 88 is one of those "What the bleep is this kind of stuff doing in the Bible?" passages. From what I understand, it was written by a man who was the father of 17 children, the grandson of Samuel the prophet, one of the musicians who was appointed by the Levites to serve with music when the Israelites would worship God. This is the kind of stuff he wrote? Something that easily could have been done emo-style on an electric guitar in a coffee shop or on a street corner somewhere? And what the heck was up with his theology?

Well, all I know for sure is that God liked it, because it was inspired, canonized, and voilà, now it's scripture. And I know that this type of stuff speaks to me big-time. Yes, some of us can relate to this type of stuff. At least, I'm assuming that Heman didn't just use his imagination. I'm assuming he lived through what he wrote.

At any rate, I understand that suicide can be a confusing, puzzling, WTF thing. I know. If you're trying to understand it, honestly I'm thankful that you DON'T get it. Please be thankful for the peace that you currently enjoy, and keep waving your middle finger at the devil simply by living your life.

Speaking of, I recently led worship for my choir peeps. It was the first time in a long time that I had led worship solo, and it felt really good. Considering my journey, it was also my way of waving my middle finger at the devil. Yeah, that's right. I'm still here. I ain't goin' anywhere. When I sing stuff like "You have set my feet upon a rock" and "You have made me glad," I mean it.

I wonder if maybe God likes to write cool post-trial tattoos on my soul that say things like "She's still here" or "She's still Mine" or "Told you she'd resist" or "If you try to touch her again, you're toast" or "I knew you'd make it, little girl." No, I don't like suicide or depression or anything related to it. But I almost feel like I know it so well, that it's been neutralized so thoroughly, that I can squish it through my fingers like clay and make something useful out of it -- something that could help somebody else. Or maybe God has been doing that all along.

But I repeat, regarding suicide: There are no easy answers. Maybe even reaching out to a friend and asking for prayer won't always help. But honestly, I think if I'm ever in trouble and I'm already praying for myself, I've probably already won.

It's too late for me to tell Robin Williams how much I enjoyed his acting, but it will never be too late for me to appreciate who he was.

THAT guy

I'm going to process my emotional healing again. Yes, this is going to be another emo post. If you're not comfortable reading about this type of thing, and you choose to skip this post, no problem, and see ya next time. Otherwise, thank you in advance for reading this really long post.

I'm thankful to have friends who pray for my cat when I ask them to, or at least who remember that I have a cat who's been recuperating from surgery. When they ask how he's doing, I reply something to the effect of, "He's good... almost too good."

When I was preparing for Macho's surgery, I was concerned that maybe my other cat Choochie would be lonely during his overnight stay at the animal hospital. But she seemed to function just fine without him. I noticed that she's developed a routine that's completely separate from his. Then I was concerned that maybe Choochie would bypass his superhero bonnet and bother his stitches. (The vet tech mentioned the possibility of social grooming.) But she hasn't touched his stitches, at least not while I've seen.

So, I've wondered if maybe Choochie just instinctively knows that Macho has undergone some sort of something that has required a tremendous amount of medical privacy and healing. That is a definite possibility. And I've also wondered if maybe Choochie hasn't interacted much with Macho lately simply because she doesn't like him. That is also a definite possibility.

Don't let Macho's blindingly bright halo deceive you. He is definitely a bully. He's twice Choochie's size, and I've caught him attack-wrestling her many times. But Choochie can hold her own. I've heard her growl and hiss at him. While I was still in bed one morning several years ago, I heard Macho's panicked meow. I groggily sat up and saw Choochie biting his foot. I told Macho something to the effect of, "Sorry, you reap what you sow," and instead of helping him, I went back to bed. This is why I'm a cat person. My animals are sources of constant entertainment.

And they also remind me of myself.

Macho had surgery a week ago, and I've already seen him try to attack-wrestle Choochie again. When I scolded him, of course I heard God speaking to me as well: "Don't attack her; you're still healing!"

"Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord: looking carefully lest anyone fall short of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up cause trouble, and by this many become defiled; lest there be any fornicator or profane person like Esau, who for one morsel of food sold his birthright." (Hebrews 12:14-16)

"Now his older son was in the field. And as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. And he said to him, 'Your brother has come, and because he has received him safe and sound, your father has killed the fatted calf.' But he was angry and would not go in. Therefore his father came out and pleaded with him. So he answered and said to his father, 'Lo, these many years I have been serving you; I never transgressed your commandment at any time; and yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this son of yours came, who has devoured your livelihood with harlots, you killed the fatted calf for him.' And he said to him, 'Son, YOU ARE ALWAYS WITH ME, AND ALL THAT I HAVE IS YOURS. It was right that we should make merry and be glad, for your brother was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.' " (Luke 15:25-32, wild-eyed emphasis mine)

This weekend, my pastor gave a good, thought-provoking sermon at church about the "root of bitterness," and he quoted from Hebrews 12. So, I had some conversations with God where I tried to find out how a root -- or how zillions of roots -- of bitterness has contributed to my emotional pain and emotional flare-ups. He confirmed that He's already been squeezing the root(s) of bitterness out of me and that I need to keep bringing it (them) to Him until it's all squeezed out. He's definitely the most perfect Counselor in the universe, and so far He really hasn't been into easy fixes with me at all. The current sermon series at my church has a nifty-cool logo that has a tree with nifty-cool roots. In my life, however, I imagine the roots of bitterness being a lot like Little Shop of Horrors, with a talking monster plant that has roots that spring up and grab people and that won't be satisfied until there's bloodshed.

But there's hope.

James 1:22-25 says that reading the Bible is like looking in a mirror. You're supposed to see yourself in it, make any adjustments that are necessary, and then proceed with your life accordingly. Ephesians 6:17 says that the Bible is a sword. Hebrews 4:12 says that the Bible is sharper than a two-edged sword. So, when you read it, sometimes it hurts because it slices you open on the inside. I've heard pastors say that the Bible is like a scalpel that heals you.

God has been slicing me open with the Parable of the Prodigal Son from Luke 15. Of course, it's a story that Jesus told in response to the Pharisees who wondered why He associated with sinners. The parable was basically Jesus' way of saying, "Sinners haven't found their way home yet. If your prodigal son finally came to his senses, you would probably run to him and celebrate his homecoming, too."

From what I've heard, this wasn't an original story. Jesus was totally an Artist (and He still is) who modified a popular story of the time for His own use. From what I understand, the way this parable originally went, the prodigal son left home, and then he repented and came back home... but when he returned, the father shamed him by parading him through town as his ungrateful jerk-son. From what I understand, this original version of the parable was not meant to have a happy ending. So, Jesus modified the story to creatively communicate HIS truth and His Father's heart to people in a way that has touched people's lives for centuries. It's truth. It's the word. It's a mirror. It's a two-edged sword. Keith Green wrote an extremely awesome tear-jerker song about the prodigal son in the 70s. Also, the 1973 movie Godspell tells a very funny, memorable version of the prodigal son story.

But from what I understand, Jesus -- who is full of grace and truth -- made another change to the original story. He added an important character: the older brother. When I look into the mirror, and when I allow God to slice into me, this is the character in the prodigal son story that I relate to the most. Yes, I can relate to THAT guy. From what I understand, Jesus added this character to His version of the parable to represent the Pharisees who were giving Him a hard time about hanging out with sinners. This was basically Jesus' way of saying, "You really shouldn't pout when I celebrate other people's homecoming, because you can enjoy My love every bit as much as they can."

And I've blogged about this previously. Several years ago, I attended a conference where a speaker said that the older brother in the parable of the prodigal son had an "orphan spirit." I could be totally wrong about this, but I don't think an orphan spirit is a demonic spirit. I think it's more a state of mind. Basically, an orphan spirit is a way of thinking that goes something like, "I can't trust anybody but myself. I don't need anybody. I can do life alone, 'cause I'm a survivor."

You see this type of stuff in movies all the time. Annie is a great example, especially when she walks into Daddy Warbucks' mansion for the first time, and they ask her what she'd like to do first. She looks around for a moment and says, "The windows, then the floors. That way, if I drip--" and she is interrupted when she reaches for a scrub brush. They have to explain to her that she doesn't have to earn her keep while she's in Daddy Warbucks' care.

People who are in families can definitely have orphan spirits. I'm pretty sure they spring up from neglect/rejection/abandonment wounds, or maybe roots of bitterness, or maybe the roots of bitterness just sort of grow around the neglect/rejection/abandonment wounds like Audrey II, who's insisting, "Feed me, Seymour!" I'm not exactly sure how it all works. I just know that it's destructive and excruciatingly painful.

In my case -- not trying to dishonor anyone, just trying to be honest -- my earliest wounds were inflicted by my family. The unfortunate thing about being wounded by your family at an early age, when you're learning the basics of how people are supposed to interact with one another, is that it can ruin how you interact with the rest of humanity. In my case, when I was 3 years old and suddenly a younger sibling was born, I really think my birth parents completely messed up that transition for me. Suddenly, I was no longer the center of attention. I felt rejected -- thrown away, cast aside, replaced by someone younger and cuter than me. This feeling was reinforced constantly, and by other non-parent family members. My birth mother nursed my younger sibling but not me. My birth father would tuck my younger sibling into bed but not me. My grandfather would dote on my younger sibling and younger cousins but not me. I recently inherited a bunch of his old photos, and I noticed that in fact, he had zillions of pictures of me up until I was about 3 years old, and then the number of my photos dwindled.

And this is just one way that I was wounded. And unfortunately, I wasn't the only one in my family who was wounded. But this is my story. This is my life that I get to piece back together.

When I relate to Father God, I usually interact with Him like I'm about 3 years old. When I'm unhappy, I whine, complain, and throw temper tantrums in His presence. I cry, and He gives me ice cream or some other form of comfort. And He gives me lots of tough love, too. (Have I mentioned lately that I've been in a wilderness/wildernesses?) But what usually heals me -- what I crave -- is Him just interacting with me the way a Father is supposed to interact with a child.

My birth father studied me. I felt like he used me like a lab rat. He didn't give me the impression that he cherished me. My birth mother smothered me and sabotaged me. I felt like she didn't think I could do anything for myself. She didn't give me the impression that I would ever amount to anything useful, important, or special. God fills in that aching, throbbing absentee-parent void for me. Since He's God and I'm a human being, I can't always feel His actual shoulder to cry on, but I know that He lets me cry on His shoulder. He listens to my rambling blubbering with a patience, kindness, and gentleness that I won't find anywhere else.

I've been wounded in multiple friendships and in multiple settings as well. Many of these situations reinforced the idea for me that I will always be replaced by someone younger and cuter than me. Perhaps it would be easy to label this idea as a "lie," and perhaps it's totally a lie. And perhaps it's also a complaint that's supposed to drive me to my Father and demand to know what He truly thinks about me. If all the wounds, disappointments, rejections, and discouragements intermingle with one another long enough, they'll create an elaborate system of horror-story roots that can choke the life out of me in a way that may not get fixed instantaneously. But my Father bought me, so I'm His for an eternity. I don't think He minds taking forever to heal me.

The Bible is a sword. Sometimes it's like a scalpel. And I think sometimes it's also like a machete. I think maybe Jesus sometimes dresses up in camo, plunges into the jungle of my soul, and hacks away at all my bitter roots like the Superhero that He is.

In the parable of the prodigal son, the part about the older brother takes up about a third of the entire story. When you read it, you want to throw something at him or maybe strangle him and tell him to stop being such a needy, whiny baby. I know. He's me. I'm like THAT guy. I heard one pastor say that the Father in the story had to stop the prodigal son's fatted-calf party just to appease the older brother. He basically ruined the party. And yet, the Father in the story doesn't treat the party-pooper unkindly at all.

I see several things in the parable that jump out at me. First of all, I would imagine that the prodigal son returning home was probably a dramatic, noisy scene. Why didn't it get the older brother's attention right away? I'm also guessing the prodigal son wasn't close to his older brother. Did the prodigal son avoid the older son in the same way that Choochie avoids Macho? Why didn't the Father in the story reunite the brothers before starting the party? The older brother was off dutifully working in the field when he found out about his brother's return, and he didn't hear it from his Dad. He heard it from a servant. How close was the older brother to his Father, anyway? Maybe if he had tried to be closer to his Father instead of being all workaholic in the field, he could have stayed in the loop. Maybe if he had seen his Father's heart break when his prodigal brother dissed the family and left home, he could have comforted his Dad while his prodigal brother was away and rejoiced more wholeheartedly when his prodigal brother returned.

A commentary that I read last night pointed out that the older brother also had access to fatted calves. He could have killed one and partied with it at any time, because, as His Father said, and as I've been endeavoring to drill into my soul, YOU ARE ALWAYS WITH ME, AND ALL THAT I HAVE IS YOURS.

I hate being in an environment where I'm constantly feeling rejected, cast aside, and forgotten (e.g., my birth family, my former workplace, etc.). I think anytime I'm stuck in that type of environment, I usually kick into orphan-survival mode and try to not do anything to upset the balance of whoever's in charge. I think maybe fear takes over. I think my thought process has gone something like this: If I just please whichever authority figure is around, if I give them all the space that they need, they'll want me, they'll eventually promote me, and they'll cherish me and keep me around forever-- AW, BLEEP IT TO HECK! THE PRODIGAL JERK-SON JUST CAME BACK! NOW MY CHANCES OF BEING THE FAVORED ONE ARE TOTALLY GONE! THINGS WILL NEVER, EVER WORK OUT FOR ME NOW!

Hence my past misery. (Or at least part of it during this particular leg of my healing.)

So, it's been a struggle for me to embrace the fact that God's truth YOU ARE ALWAYS WITH ME, AND ALL THAT I HAVE IS YOURS can be enough for me. But He's been extremely patient with me during my healing process. He really is extremely faithful, and He won't abandon me, even though I've given Him PLENTY of reason to do so.

Yesterday while I was emotionally hurting and driving home from the beautiful coin laundromat, I decided to talk to myself the way I sometimes talk to other people in my head when they complain about going through a hard time (i.e., a person who has more than I do, who happens to be going through what I foolishly perceive to be a very minor trial). I decided to comfort myself this way by counting my blessings. The following aren't the exact words I used, but it went something like this:

"Oh, you have a college degree. Wah, wah, wah. Oh, you have two cats who are still alive. Boo-hoo for you. Oh, you have a job interview tomorrow. See this? World's smallest violin!"

So, griping at myself worked a tiny bit, but not really. God responded gently right away: "That doesn't mean that you don't have pain inside you." He knows that I need His nurturing, comforting care. I need a Daddy who lets His little 3-year-old girl have a good, angry cry. Kinda like what the Father in the prodigal son story did with THAT guy:

"Oh, you have a place in My house and a job in My fields. Wah, wah, wah. Oh, you have a younger brother who is still alive. Boo-hoo for you. Oh, YOU ARE ALWAYS WITH ME, AND ALL THAT I HAVE IS YOURS. See this? World's smallest violin! Son, you're not sinless. You've messed up, just like your prodigal brother has. And I celebrate you all the time. You just have a hard time enjoying it because there's a glitch in the way that you give and receive love. But I'm fixing that. I see angry-hot tears flowing down your field-dusty cheeks now. Cry on Daddy's shoulder for a while. Then we have a party to go to. I love you."

The stuff I've dealt with sounds really terrible, but I honestly have felt myself getting gradually better. And I have my Father to thank for that. He knows exactly where I am, He knows exactly what I need, and my life is more important to Him than it is to me.

Speaking of needy creatures, if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to give Macho a quick sponge bath. Yes, I'm THAT crazy cat lady.

Wounded much?

Many years ago, my little cat Choochie (pictured here) got fixed at a discount vet clinic that sent me home with a ton of aftercare instructions but very little equipment to work with. I was told to keep her inside her carrier for a few days, to keep her away from other animals for about a week, and to not allow her to jump on any furniture. I tried to follow these instructions as closely as I could, but she ended up grooming her stitched-up area and giving herself an infection. The vet clinic advised me to put some band-aids on her stitched-up area so as to protect it from her fur-brushing tongue... but, of course, band-aids don't stick very well to furry areas. Eventually, they ended up removing the stitches from Choochie altogether, and we had no choice but to quickly resume life as usual.

But during that brief period while she had her stitches, when she was confined to her carrier (I think I would only let her out to eat, drink water, and use the litterbox), I felt that we bonded during her healing process. At the time, I had a large table beside my bed, so I would put the carrier on top of the table at night and pull it close to my bed so that Choochie and I could sleep near each other. I could hear her purring in the dark. Perhaps you've read about this before on my blog, because I really did learn a lot about how God feels about me during that entire ordeal.

Well, now it's Macho's turn to undergo healing after surgery. The supreme-quality-care animal hospital where I take my cats now sent me home with a few aftercare instructions and a ton of equipment to work with, as you can see. No band-aids necessary. Just a flexible cone-of-shame device that acts very much like a macho-man bonnet. Aww. Doesn't he look like a manly little satellite dish? You can probably guess how crazy my imagination has become lately. Beep, beep. I'm picking up a Purina signal over here. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Macho's adorable little blue bonnet works very well to prevent him from disturbing his stitched-up area. But it definitely requires a great deal of adjustment. As you can see, the bonnet affects certain activities such as sleeping...

eating...

basking...

trying to be close to Mama...

and participating in general shenanigans. Um, yeah. I didn't know he would be physically capable of doing things like jumping on my coffee table and helping himself to my dinner -- not even 4 days after his surgery. Dang, it's as if the bonnet has magical powers!

And yet, it's the bonnet that restricts his life and frustrates him.

It was slightly heartbreaking to watch him scrape the bonnet along the walls and doors after I first brought him home from the animal hospital. He has cataracts, so I think maybe he relies on his whiskers to feel his way around. And when he instinctively tries to groom himself with his fur-brushing tongue, he can only go as far as his tail and hind feet.

Since my apartment has basically become a senior-cat nursing home, I've tried to gently keep Macho clean with a washcloth (as the vet tech suggested). He hasn't seemed to mind me washing his shaven areas. And he seems to have gotten used to me cleaning off his bonnet from time to time. (If that thing dips into the litterbox right after it's been dipped into the water bowl... Um, yeah. Couch-cleaning time.) Yes, Macho has become accustomed to Mama cleaning his bonnet. And the bonnet has even made it easier for me to administer his required oral medications. Score!

So, Macho and I have been healing-bonding in a similar way that Choochie and I bonded. Yes, of course this entire ordeal reminds me of my emotional healing. Why do you ask?

"The wicked watches the righteous, and seeks to slay him. The Lord will not leave him in his hand, nor condemn him when he is judged. Wait on the Lord, and keep His way, and He shall exalt you to inherit the land; when the wicked are cut off, you shall see it... Mark the blameless man, and observe the upright; for the future of that man is peace." (Psalm 37:32-34, 37)

Choochie's and Macho's healing processes are quite different, probably because they required different kinds of surgeries, and probably because they were provided with different kinds of treatments. Choochie had her entire reproductive system removed for about $30 and an over-the-counter suggestion for band-aids. Macho had a couple of bladder stones removed for about $2400 and a superhero bonnet. Both cats needed my help tremendously during their healing. And yes, they both happened to have their respective surgeries while I was unemployed. (I'm really glad God likes to give a chick more than one chance to learn a particular lesson.)

I recently started to read a book that talked about how God can heal us after we've been wounded. However, I felt that the style of this particular book was simplistic and insensitive, so I chose to not finish reading it after all. But it got me to thinking about how restricting a wound can be while it's healing.

While Macho is wearing his superhero bonnet, he can't take care of himself like he's used to doing. He has to depend on me to clean up after him. (That is, if I don't want little surprise messes all over my home.) He doesn't seem to be in any pain (especially after I drug him up), and I don't detect any signs of infection, but he isn't operating at 100% right now. I've been very surprised to see him climbing all over furniture, even when I'm not looking (unless an earthquake just happened to hit my kitchen, with its epicenter located on top of my refrigerator). But I've seen a cautious hesitation while he's jumped up and down certain places. I'm sure he can feel that something is missing, and I'm sure he's wondering why he isn't allowed to take care of it himself. Well, he simply just needs to wait a couple of weeks for the vet to remove his stitches, and probably his superhero bonnet, and I think life will return to semi-normal after that.

I wonder what my invisible superhero bonnet looks like while I've been emotionally healing. I can definitely feel internal emotional flare-ups from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I've accidentally popped a stitch, but my Doctor is never far away, and He doesn't seem worried at all. This morning, He and I had a conversation that basically went like this:

ME: Why am I so [bleep]ing sensitive?

GOD: Why do you [bleep]ing think?

I've thought about how He created me in His image, and I've thought about how sometimes He allows me to experience the same type of pain that He experiences. He's reminded me that He's allowing me to know Him in the fellowship of His sufferings. I've thought about how the psalmists in the Bible seemed to write a song pretty much anytime anyone offended them, and they included the offender in the song credits (take Psalm 54 for example). There are certain times when God has reminded me that I can't be an effective songwriter if I can't experience emotions.

And there are other times when an answer doesn't come that easily. This morning, I saw a "picture" of myself with a ton of unplugged wires that had hot electricity surging through them. (I think in this "picture," the wires represented my emotions.) God let me "plug" one of the wires in, but before He did, I asked Him, "You did this, didn't You?" He truly didn't seem worried at all. He delights in me, even when I'm emotionally distressed. Zephaniah 3:17 says that God sings over me.

And I think perhaps I experience a taste of this every time I look at Macho and feel like singing "Easter Parade" over him. Heh, heh, heh. So adorable!

Sometimes different medical professionals prescribe different treatments for different reasons. Sometimes different medical procedures are more costly than others. Sometimes different medical treatments require more time or more dedication than others. I think emotional healing can be the same way.

One thing I know for sure (besides the truth that God is definitely my Healer) is that not allowing me to "work" can make me feel un-human.

During my extremely intense emotional healing process 14 years ago, the people at my church made me unplug from everything I was involved in. In addition to me adjusting to life after a suicide attempt, I also had to adjust to a new social group, a new housing situation, and a new job. It's as if I made one little mistake, and suddenly nobody trusted me. It was humiliating at times. For example, that one meeting when one of the church leaders said, "You haven't found a new job yet; this is starting to get frustrating" is a fairly terrible memory.

Now that I've been undergoing another round of emotional healing, the people at my current church keep giving me additional responsibilities, in healthy doses. I get to spend lots of time healing. But I also get to serve where I'm planted. It's as if nothing I confess will scare these people away. (Which is fine with me, because they're keepers.) They trust me to be myself and use my giftings. It's freeing. I feel like a human being. I feel like I'm actually trusted to discover and walk out my life's purpose. This is wonderful.

Seriously, I really think I was robbed all those years ago.

But perhaps while I was confined to my invisible carrier, God positioned me closer to Himself, even in the dark. I hope it delighted Him to hear me purring in the dark.

Just-add-water instant emotional healing formulas don't work for everybody. If they work for you, that is awesome. Please go for it. But sometimes people like me need lots and lots and lots of time to heal.

I got my wisdom teeth pulled last year (as you may have read about), and my gum-holes are still healing. New jawbone is still forming. And I'm OK with that. There were no complications from that surgical procedure, there have been no infections, and there has been no nerve damage. I definitely have God to thank for that.

He takes impeccably good care of me, regardless of whether it's physical healing, emotional healing, spiritual healing, mental healing -- you name it, He'll take care of it. But with me, He seems to keep highlighting the word "wait."

In Psalm 27 -- the "The Lord is my light and my salvation, so come on, enemy, give me your best shot" psalm -- verse 14 uses the word "wait" twice in the same verse. I'm not 100% sure why, but waiting seems to be extremely important to God. Patience (the art of waiting) is a fruit of the Spirit. Perhaps He knows that very interesting things can happen while a person waits. You can definitely see what is inside a person's heart when they have to wait on you. Anytime people tell me to hurry up, for no particular reason, it honestly doesn't make me want to be close to them. But maybe that's just my quirkiness.

I hope God cleans out whatever He needs to clean out of me while I'm waiting on Him, for Him, and with Him. I want whatever needs to be healed inside me to be thoroughly healed well. I don't want anything to do with band-aids anymore. They don't stick. And I definitely don't want to give myself any more infections. I would like for God to take His time and do whatever He needs to do while my invisible superhero bonnet is blocking my vision. I can't see anything back there, but God can see it all, and I want to trust Him to do whatever He needs to do.

Beep, beep. I'm picking up a Purina signal over here. Beep, beep, beep, beep.