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.