Not a foodie

As you can see from my pantry, I am definitely NOT a foodie. My palate is extremely simple, and my taste in food is mainly geared just for survival. I try to incorporate as much fiber and vitamin C into my diet as I can (when it's feasible and cheap to do so), but that's pretty much it. I don't like to cook, but I like to eat out (when it's feasible and cheap to do so). A few years ago, I watched the Food Network a lot. I taped (yes, with a VCR) about a dozen or so episodes, and I'm glad I did, because now I don't have cable (on purpose -- I just surf YouTube or buy DVDs).

The reason why I like to watch Food Network shows is the same reason I like to watch PBS how-to shows: I like to watch people teaching other people how to do stuff. I like to watch the programs for their educational and entertainment value. No, I may never cook an entire Thanksgiving meal from scratch, just as I may never use a router for a woodworking project. I think it's just fun to watch that stuff on TV. (And, frankly, I like the safety of being able to watch something without worrying if it will have a sex scene that I will need to avoid like the plague.)

But the Food Network isn't my obsession. It just reminds me of Somebody I know.

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

I never realized how stressful or competitive being a chef could be until I watched the Food Network. The culinary arts are SERIOUS arts. I bow to the masters, and so does my SpaghettiOs pantry.

And I never realized how succeeding in the food industry and journeying through life are very similar processes.

About a dozen years ago, a few friends and I spontaneously watched Iron Chef on a Saturday night, and we had a great time because it was so entertaining. And I'm glad Iron Chef America was developed as a somewhat toned-down version of the Japanese show. Chopped follows a similar program structure. What basically happens in all three of these shows is that a few chefs race against one another to see who can create the best food in the allotted time. Their food and presentation are evaluated by a panel of rather candid judges. But here's the catch: The chefs have to create meals with only the ingredients provided to them, and they are often thrown some major curveballs. Seriously, how are you supposed to make an edible gourmet meal in 30 minutes using chicken, Brussels sprouts, and cotton candy? I think you have to be a major culinary expert. These competitions are pretty cutthroat. If you make one little mistake, or if you displease one or more of the judges just a tiny bit, you're history. And the whole thing is taped on national TV.

I think these crazy culinary competitions are a lot like life. In this life, you only have an allotted amount of time to make the best out of what you have. Life will throw you some major curveballs: Seriously, how are you supposed to succeed with THAT awful ingredient on your plate? And the whole world is watching you and itching to evaluate how you perform.

The Bible talks about how life is like a race and how we should run it as if there were only one prize to win (1 Corinthians 9:24). It says that we should rip off all the things that weigh us down while we're running so that we can just go for it (Hebrews 12:1).

But life isn't completely like the cooking-competition shows. On these televised events, if you fail, you fail. That's it; you're out. Take the walk of shame as graciously as you can. Then the winner gets all the accolades, the favor, the shot in the arm for his/her restaurant, the possible deal to develop a TV show of his/her own, etc.

These shows are cool, but there's another one that's my favorite.

I've talked a little bit about this on Facebook before, but I think this may be the first time I've blogged about it: Robert Irvine in his show Restaurant: Impossible reminds me a lot of God. And the people he tries to help respond to him in a way that's very similar to the way that people respond to God when He tries to help them.

On Restaurant: Impossible, Chef Robert is an alpha-male, no-nonsense restauranteur whose mission is to give failing restaurants a makeover in two days. With his trademark sledgehammer, he shows his remodeling crew exactly how he wants the made-over restaurant to look. He gets in the faces of the restaurant staff and fixes their problems as best he can.

The failing restaurants usually have very similar things in common. Many of them are run by people who aren't qualified to run/own a restaurant because they don't have previous experience or education in the industry. Many of them have very poor business sense, and they have no idea how to spend or manage their business' money. They don't set or enforce rules for their employees, who do a very poor job of maintaining the restaurant. Then many of the owners don't even show up during business hours, so they can't see the problems for themselves. Many of the bosses treat their staff like family instead of like employees, which often results in the employees doing whatever the heck they want. (Hmm. Does Chef Robert only work with restaurants? I wonder if he would be interested in making over my office...) The restaurant owners don't eat their own food, so they can't tell for themselves how awful it tastes. Their décor is atrocious and usually dusty/dirty, sometimes with sticky floors and/or tables. Then they wonder why people don't want to eat at their restaurant. And they get overly defensive and make all kinds of foolish excuses when they're faced with the truth.

Chef Robert can be very harsh and severe, and he rubs a lot of people the wrong way, but you have to respect the guy for being so passionate, knowledgeable, and results-driven in his job. The episodes usually end with the restaurant staff crying, hugging him, and thanking him.

I love this show. It's the same thing every time, and yet every episode is different because it involves different people in different locations in different situations. After I watch the show, I like to dig around online and see how the restaurants are doing after their big makeovers. Some of them learned from their makeover experience and are succeeding. Others threw out a lot of Chef Robert's suggestions and went back to their old menu items, but their restaurants are still surviving. Many others ended up going out of business anyway shortly after their makeover.

I remember reading at least one article that critiqued Restaurant: Impossible, saying that by the time Chef Robert arrives, many of the restaurants' problems are so far out of hand that going out of business is already inevitable. In two days, his crew accomplishes remodeling work that normally would take months to complete. And then he leaves town.

Chef Robert is definitely an awesome kick in the butt to the restaurant owners on his program. But sometimes after you get a necessary kick in the butt, you need somebody to hold your hand and help you through your mess.

This is one way in which Chef Robert is very different from God.

God is a Consuming Fire, but He's also very gentle. And He's not a consultant. He's in charge. He's a Friend. He's Family. He wants to come alongside you and help you. He wants to stay around before, during, and after the reconstruction period in my life, and then He wants to stick around forever. And I want that, too. He isn't in a hurry to get everything done in two days. He's willing to take however long it takes.

When I eat out, one disappointment that I've encountered recently is that it's hard to find a regular hamburger and fries at a sit-down restaurant. (Unless I've just been looking in all the wrong places.) All the restaurants I've tried nowadays have fancy gourmet burgers. I'm not interested in fancy gourmet stuff. I'm interested in a well-cooked slab of meat between two buns, decorated with lots of crunchy veggies, and maybe a few dabs of ketchup. I've learned that I don't really want a regular hamburger and fries at a sit-down restaurant anymore. I want a drive-thru meal from Whataburger. I am not a foodie. I love chain restaurants. I love fast-food drive-thrus. I love knowing what I'm getting.

One major thing that I appreciate about God is that I never have to wonder what I'm getting with Him. He will never disappoint me. In fact, He's already told all of us who He is; it's just a matter of us believing Him. I don't have to wonder where I stand with Him. He already made a covenant with me: He will never leave me or forsake me, He has already adopted me for life/forever/eternity, He will awesomely kick me in the butt whenever I need it, He will always love me, He will always want me, He will always want to be close to me, and He will always be faithful to me. And He just wants all of me in return. And He's got it.

"The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness; the Lord shakes the Wilderness of Kadesh. The voice of the Lord makes the deer give birth, and strips the forests bare; and in His temple everyone says, 'Glory!' " (Psalm 29:8-9)

Yeah, that's right. When life throws me some major curveballs, He will come alongside me, hold my hand, carry me, let me latch onto Him, and teach me how to maneuver through it. And the equipment He uses is much more powerful than a dinky little sledgehammer.

No chef could ever compete with Him.

His heritage: my heritage

While I was obsessing over how to focus this post, I decided to combine two totally different ideas that really aren't that different. (At least, they aren't after you spend some time obsessing over them.) I was thinking about writing about my new heritage in Christ, which would mean writing a post and titling it "Heritage." But I was also thinking about writing a post about how when stuff bubbles to the surface in my life, God keeps telling me, "I want it." So, I thought it would be cute to combine those two ideas and title the post "I want your heritage," but that would sound really creepy. So, then I thought I could title it "I want His heritage," but the truth is that I already have it... hence the title. Was that TMI? Sorry.

That's kind of the idea.

"I will abide in Your tabernacle forever; I will trust in the shelter of Your wings. Selah. For You, O God, have heard my vows; You have given me the heritage of those who fear Your name." (Psalm 61:4-5)

Today is St. Patrick's Day. I don't know much about this holiday other than you have to wear green or you could get pinched. So, I wore green. While I was out and about today, I noticed that many other people wore green, too. Honestly, there wasn't a big fuss about the holiday at work, so that part wasn't any fun. I don't drink alcohol, so no green beer or wild partying for me. I'm a Baylor graduate, so I have a decent amount of green in my wardrobe already. So, my wearing green today under threat of being pinched (which turned out to be a non-threat, as it does almost every year) turned out to be pretty uneventful. Ah, well. Maybe you have to be a kid to fully enjoy it.

But this particular holiday is also an Irish-heritage awareness day of sorts. Yes, it's true that a bunch of us with Irish blood come out of the woodwork and suddenly appreciate our Irish heritage. Sorry, but this is the USA. If you have any type of non-Anglo blood flowing through your veins at all, it will totally dominate your heritage awareness. I'm half-Mexican, so my Mexicanness always ends up trumping any other cultural DNA that I have. And if I ever have kids someday, and if their father is, say, a 100% Anglo, non-Hispanic male, our children will more than likely identify their cultural heritage as 1/4-Mexican or 1/4-Hispanic. That's just the way the world works around here, honest.

But an interesting thing happened in my case. I disowned myself from my family, so technically I don't have their heritage anymore. So, instead of changing my name, one thing I did is decide which part of my DNA to emphasize when I identify my cultural heritage.

In my gene pool, I have white-Anglo-Saxon, Irish, and Scotch-Irish from one parent, and I have white-Mexican (which, as I understand it, is a mixture of European and Mexican Indian) from another parent. In addition, there was also some debate over whether or not we had French or Portuguese in our blood, but I think it was ultimately decided that the mystery ethnicity was Spanish. I think there was also some discussion as to whether or not we had some German heritage, but I personally don't buy that theory. Honestly, I think we were too wild to be German. So, the short answer to "What nationality or ethnicity are you?" has always been "half-Mexican" (which would offend my birth mother) or "half-Hispanic" (which would offend a half-Nicaraguan coworker that I used to have).

So, for the sake of re-identifying myself after my family breakup, and for the sake of my sanity, I now call myself Scotch-Irish-Hispanic. To me, that makes the most sense. Yes, my complexion is half-ruddy, half-olive. Yes, I am a laidback fireball. Of course that makes sense.

But that's just my physical heritage. My spiritual heritage is in a completely different realm.

"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation. God sets the solitary in families; He brings out those who are bound into prosperity; but the rebellious dwell in a dry land." (Psalm 68:5-6)

"He only is my rock and my salvation; He is my defense; I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory; the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Trust in Him at all times, you people; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us. Selah." (Psalm 62:6-8)

I sing in the choir at a megachurch. Our church is so big that we usually have about 5 services every weekend, so when our choir sings, we sing live at every service. I don't have family members in the congregation who show up to watch me sing, but since God is my Father, He shows up. He's extremely cool about it, too. He's sort of like a backstage Mom, and He likes to coach me pretty specifically. And He's never mean or overly obsessive. I like that about Him.

For the Christmas services at our church, our choir practiced for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours beforehand to prepare. (I think maybe we had 6 services that weekend?) So, that Saturday before Christmas, it was go-time. I remember getting ready for church (where our choir would sing all that cool stuff that we had practiced), and God suddenly said in a serious tone of voice, "Don't hold anything back. What are you saving it for?" Oh. No problem. I don't hear that serious tone from Him very often, so it caught my attention.

So, after we sang our special music during the first Saturday service, we were told that the worship-set list was too long, so they cut our first song from the remaining Saturday services. Hmm. I was really glad I didn't hold anything back, like God had instructed me beforehand. There was a very tiny bit of frustration in the air, but my shoulder-shrug attitude was, "I already gave Jesus my present, so I'm good." The next day, some adjustments were made to the worship-set list, so we were able to sing our first song after all.

But God my Stage Mom's instructions pretty much set the tone for this season of my life.

I remember showing up for some worship services a short time after that, and around the time that the music would start, God would be like, "You're here to worship Me. Don't hold anything back." No problem, Lord. You got it.

That's how it's been during my private, intimate times with Him, too. One evening, I sat with my guitar and sang my prayers -- sort of like a rock opera -- and after I had done that for a while, I was like, "I think I just vomited my heart out to You." He was like, "I want it." That was so much fun. I want to musically puke my heart out to Him more often.

But this type of thing doesn't just happen when music is involved.

Sometimes I'll be thinking about something, and my thoughts will really get out of hand, and they'll reach a boiling point, and I'll feel shy about talking to God about it, but I'm not totally sure why, because He'll be like, "I want it." I'll talk to Him about stuff that feels nasty and defiling and violent, and I'm kind of embarrassed that that type of thing was floating around in my mind and my heart, but He'll be like, "I want it." I'll begin to talk to Him about something, and then I'll be like, "Eh, I don't know if I should be talking to You about this," and He'll be like, "I want it." I'll squinch my eyes shut and wait for the Consuming Fire to burn me to a crisp, but He'll just come to me like the Safe Friend that He is, and He'll be like, "I want it." So, I give it to Him.

I'm at a place right now in my relationship with God where I can communicate more intimately with Him than I think I ever dreamed possible. And He doesn't want this type of relationship with just me. He wants it with everybody, and I'm pretty sure He wants it to go even deeper than this.

My new heritage in Christ is a heritage of honesty unlike any that the world could ever offer. In my new Family -- that is, with God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit -- I have a refuge, a safe place, a shoulder, an ear, a sounding board, the wisest counsel in the universe, the deepest friendship of my life, the most precious relationship that I will ever have or will ever know. With God my Stage Mom, God my Rock-Opera Audience, God my Most Intimate Friend, I can give Him everything inside me (it already belongs to Him, anyway), and He won't condemn me, judge me, criticize me, betray me, or hate me for it.

In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve had the perfect relationship with God. They were naked and unashamed. Then they ruined everything because they listened to a stupid lie from a stupid serpent. Now all of humanity, including myself, has to swim through all that stupid stuff that's floating around in our heritage. Even after we're reconciled to God through Christ, getting back to our original heritage can be a very very very very very difficult journey. It shouldn't be, but that's just the way the fallen world works, honest. And just as many preachers have taught before, after the fall of humankind, God has been on a mission to restore all of us humankind back to the way He intended us to be: enjoying a paradise of intimacy with our Creator.

That is what our heritage was originally supposed to be.

Aye, that trumps any four-leaf clover, lads and lasses.

The atmosphere makes all the difference

In this post, I'm going to do what I usually do: take a couple of mundane things and turn them into analogies that describe my inner healing process. This time, I decided to make my main point the title of this post. I might get a tiny bit personal, too.

Later today, I plan to take Choochie to the vet for her annual shots and checkup. When I called to make the appointment, I was advised to bring in a sample of her poop for the exam. No problem. After we arrive at the vet's office, I plan to hold up Choochie's poop in a couple of Ziploc bags and say something to the effect of, "I collected this last night, and then I stored it in my fridge. There's plenty more where that came from, so please let me know if you need anything else." Sorry, I know that's gross. Just being real with you. So, last night when I dug my pet carrier out of my closet, Choochie was immediately drawn to it. (Macho hid behind my bed.)

If you've known me for a long time, or if you've read my blog for a while, perhaps you're familiar with a story that's reached legendary status in my mind: About 14 years ago, when Choochie got fixed, she had to spend at least a week cooped up in my pet carrier while she healed. Since she had to depend on me for everything during that process, she and I bonded considerably. I particularly remember placing my pet carrier (with her in it) on a table and pulling the table next to my bed at night so that Choochie could sleep next to me, and I remember hearing her purring in the darkness.

Now when I go to bed at night, she still finds me in the darkness and brushes her claw on my lip. I'm honestly not sure what she's after, but I think she wants to just snuggle somewhere near me. I lift up my covers so that she can snuggle with me, but she doesn't really do anything. She just takes a couple of steps inside and then stands there. If I cover her with my covers, she wriggles out of there. Then she repeats the process a couple more times. (While I'm trying to fall asleep.) Why does she do that? Does she just want to sniff me and remind herself of what I smell like? Does she just want to be around me?

Eventually, she usually just steps onto my arm, snuggles onto my shoulder, and purr-perches for a few minutes.

On days that I sleep in, Macho usually does the same thing in the morning, except he sometimes accepts my invitation to snuggle with me under the covers. He's very good at making himself at home and reclining on my arm in GQ-cat fashion with a very deep, rumbling purr.

My cats are very quirky (they're cats), but they're my family. They're welcome to make themselves at home in my life (within reason, hopefully within the proper boundaries, as in definitely NOT inside my kitchen cabinets) however they like. I hope they're familiar enough with me to be as comfortable and feel as safe as they need to be. I hope they like the atmosphere that I set for them here in my home. I hope it's healthy for them.

"Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge, until these calamities have passed by." (Psalm 57:1)

 

Last spring/summer, I first noticed a bird's nest outside my window. It's hard to see it in this photo, so I hope you don't mind me circling it there in red for you. The bird's nest was hard to see in real life, too. But I could see it. I knew exactly where it was, and I kept a close eye on it. It's finally gone now.

I never saw any birds use it. I did see a robin hanging around my neighborhood for a very short while (I thought I heard squirrel noises, but apparently it was a bird), and then he/she suddenly vanished. Then I noticed this empty, unused nest. I'm assuming it belonged to the robin.

That was a tough little nest. It withstood scorching summer heat, sheets of pouring rain, and even the sleet that we got a week or two ago. I noticed that after we got that ice storm, the nest was tipped over, weighed down with a little pile of sleet inside it. But it was still there.

I guess it finally succumbed to most recent round of harsh winter weather, because now it's finally gone.

Ice and snow are fascinatingly dangerous. (Perhaps I feel this way because I'm a native Texan.) Ice is just slippery and treacherous. Snow especially looks harmless. Children play in it and construct lifesize toys (snowmen) out of it... and then they ball it up in their little hands and make missiles (snowballs) out of it. It's beautiful when it falls to the ground. But when it sticks, I sure hate to drive in it. If all I see is a sea of white... um... where did the lanes in the road go? Where does the road end and the curb begin? What if the vehicle next to me freaks out and skids into me? So much potential for chaos. I only have one car, and I'd like to keep it in one piece, thank you very much.

But ice and snow can only last so long. In order to remain intact, they require that the atmosphere's temperature be set at 32F or below. When it gets above that temperature, it begins to melt, especially if the sun shines directly on it.

But even when the temperature is above freezing, there are still little hidden places where ice and snow can remain intact. I found that out when I was speeding to work on Thursday afternoon, after the snow began to melt in the sun, and I drove across some unmelted ice that was hidden under a bridge on the highway. I wobbled a tiny bit, but I was thankful to drive on through it. After I arrived at work, I had to practically ice-skate out of my car onto a drier part of the parking lot on the way to the building. On the way home, I decided to stop for gas, where the pumps' roof kept chunks and sheets of ice safe and slick right around my car.

Yes, if you keep the temperature above 32F, the ice and snow will eventually melt. If you make the temperature even hotter (say, around 100F), it will melt even faster.

But if you guard ice and snow in an environment where the temperature will never go above 32F, it might never melt.

"If I had cherished sin in my heart, the Lord would not have listened; but God has surely listened and has heard my prayer." (Psalm 66:18-19, NIV)

One time when I heard Mike Bickle teach/preach, he said that a quiet time is "like putting an ice cube in front of a bonfire." In other words, during a "quiet time," when I come into God's presence (because He's a consuming fire), my heart (the ice cube) will melt pretty darn quickly. Interesting observation indeed.

If I am kind, gracious, and loving on a regular basis, sure, I'm walking in the fruits of the Spirit. But I'm also hanging out with Somebody who is kind, gracious, and loving and who is melting my heart with His kindness, grace, and love and who is influencing my thoughts, my actions, my very heartbeat with the kind, gracious, and loving atmosphere that He creates in His presence, just by being Himself. His being Himself is a very powerful catalyst for me being myself -- my true, redeemed self who He intended me to be all along.

I think God being Himself and setting the atmosphere of my life in a way that has been conducive to my healing has made all the difference. If I remain in His atmosphere, I will continue to heal and grow. However, if I turn down the thermostat back to below 32F, the ice and snow that lurks in the dark corners of my life may never really melt.

Lately, my healing process has mainly been focused on my hodgepodge of lust issues. Sometimes I'll catch myself thinking or believing something and going like Whoa! Why the heck is this here? And why is it the default setting of my insides? Have I cherished this to the point of believing that this is OK to keep here inside me?

My previous healing process was mainly focused on my depression/suicide issues. Those are completely gone now. I'm really glad I worked through those (besides the fact that it's nice to be alive, versus being bogged down with crap), and I'm glad that God has helped me recognize how I heal from really deep issues like those. For me, it's a gradual melting away. It's an ongoing hunt for slick, dangerous places where I could still trip and fall. It's a waiting process where I constantly look out the window and examine the atmosphere: Is it spring yet? I hear birds chirping, but is it warm enough for me to not wonder if I'm about to step on a sheet of ice?

Being afraid isn't OK, but being cautious is definitely OK. If God prepares a nest for me to hang out in and build a new life in, I know He's going to be faithful to watch over it and guard it from the elements. But if I insist on keeping the atmosphere's temperature below 32F, I can say bye-bye to my new nest. It isn't really designed to withstand a constant barrage of ice storms.

God is the most amazing Father in the universe. I know it isn't really fair to compare Him to my earthly ex-parents, but the atmosphere He sets for me is so much better than the one they set for me. For instance...

When I'm getting over allergies or a cold, and I'm still coughing...

Them: Why are you coughing? / [turns up the volume on the TV so that he can hear the newscast]

God: I don't mind hearing you cough. That means you're still alive.

When I'm minding my own business...

Them: Why don't your eyelids close all the way when you blink? / You're making me look bad.

God: Chip off the old Block.

When I do something wrong...

Them: ¡Fea! [that's Spanish for Ugly!]

God: [smiling] It's OK. I've got you.

See what I mean? Whose atmosphere would you rather exist in? Whose atmosphere would inspire you to be your best in? Whose atmosphere would give you hope?

This past New Year's Eve, I sat in my church's parking lot and waited for the service to start. As usual, I was being extremely introspective. I thought about previous New Year's Eves. I thought about my loneliness, and I realized that it wasn't choking me that evening. I thought about my past depression, and I realized that I didn't have it anymore. I thought about the year to come, and eventually God showed me that it was like a blank canvas. That feeling that I had felt foreign to me... but in a good way. If I remember my words correctly, I told God, "For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have hope."

Heck yes. Bring it on.

I wonder if sometimes, God does something like this: He walks right up to the devil, holds up my soul-poop in a couple of Ziploc bags, and says, "See what I just collected out of her? You can keep squeezing all the crap you want out of her, but I'm just going to keep making something beautiful out of it. There's plenty more where this came from, so be My guest." And maybe He'll add, in a deep, rumbling growl, "You know she hates your guts, don't you? And you know that I'm just going to have My revenge on you later, don't you?"

Yeah, I'm pretty sure he knows.

And even though my Father is a Consuming Fire, I want to feel comfortable enough with Him to walk right up to Him and snuggle with Him. I want to hug Him. I don't care if my arms burn off in the process. And I don't care if I die trying.

Oh, fffff... amily

If I typed the title of this post correctly, you read it as if you were about to pronounce a cuss word... but you ended up saying a safe word instead. Rather, you ended it with a word that's supposed to be safe ("family"). Reader, I hope I didn't disrespect you or offend you too badly; I was mainly just going for punk-blogger shock value. [Insert really loud electric guitar here.] If you've followed my blog for a while, perhaps you understand that as God has been emotionally healing me, I've realized how deeply I've had issues with the concept of "family" and that God has been healing those issues with Himself.

I've heard a couple of preachers mention that God basically created and redeemed humankind because He wanted a family. And those preachers are right. Why else would God let us call Him "Father," especially after He adopts us as children?

"The Lord builds up Jerusalem; He gathers together the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:2-3)

The word "family" is supposed to bring very safe images to mind, and it's probably supposed to even bless you with very warm fuzzies. As I learned in school, the family unit is one of the most basic social foundations of society. When you're born, you're supposed to learn how to interact with the rest of the world by interacting with your family first.

Which is one reason why being born into a dysfunctional family is a problem. I didn't see the problems in my immediate family until after I went off to college and noticed how my classmates interacted with their families. In hindsight, I realize that going back home during summers and holidays was such a heavy thing because I would be away from my friends and my favorite activities and also because I would be flying back into an abusive environment. As I told a counselor a couple of years after I graduated from college, I felt trapped.

So, let's examine the concept of "family" that I had before I disowned myself. Here's what my immediate family looked like:

My father was an intellectual snob who completely lacked common sense and depended on his wife for everything. An emotional basketcase, he was quite effeminate, and he insisted on constantly being the center of attention. He would cry at the drop of a hat. He was hypercritical and overtly manipulative. If you asked him a question, and he thought the answer was supposed to be common knowledge, his eyes would widen and he would tell you the answer in an extremely condescending tone of voice that communicated, "I can't believe you're that big of an idiot" without actually saying so. However, his vast array of talents always kept him on a pedestal, so he sailed through life being accepted in various circles. An egomaniac, he would often turn a conversation with you into a monologue about himself. His lectures would last around 30 or 45 minutes at a time, and after he would leave the room, if he would remember to tell you something else, he would come back to where you were and give you an addendum to his monologue that would probably suck another 20 minutes or so out of you. An extremely narrow-minded Pharisee, he would spiritually abuse me this way after I got baptized in the Holy Spirit.

My mother was a social snob who was more than likely gifted in hospitality but did not like people at all. An emotional macho stoic, she didn't display emotions at all unless they were laughter or anger. I think I only saw her cry about 3 or 4 times until I was about 35 years old. She was hypercritical, even though she wouldn't always vocalize her criticisms to a person's face, and she was subtly controlling. She would always talk badly about people behind their backs but smile and be very nice to them to their face. We would bond on Saturday nights by doing our nails and gossiping about other people, especially church people. Most of the time, she insisted on doing all the housework herself, so most of my memories of her are when she was doing the dishes, cooking, or doing laundry. And then she would complain about being overworked. She would constantly have a TV on in the background, and she became more familiar with the lives of TV anchors and actors than she was of my life; she understood the plots of made-for-TV movies more than she understood the happenings of my life. An extremely narrow-minded Pharisee who I honestly don't think is saved, she totally backed up my father's spiritual abuse of me. When I told her about borderline sexual abuse that was happening to me at church, she didn't do anything to stop it.

My sister was a hyper-psycho nutjob who once chased me around the house with a plastic bat. Another time, she found where I had hid my amateur graphic-novelesque drawings, and she laughed at them. She would make fun of everything. An interesting combination of both my father and my mother, she was the favored one. A loud screamer, she always demanded to be the center of attention. She eventually ended up spiritually abusing me, too. As someone who really likes animals, I shudder to think about the state of her current pets. She and her husband used to throw their dogs at each other to provoke them to fight each other, and they thought these violent canine scenes were funny. When she was younger, she used to put her pet parakeet's head inside her mouth, and then when the screaming bird would defend itself by biting her, she would punish it by hitting its head. I think she's currently on medication.

And I, of course, was the little bleephole who was sometimes the academic golden girl, sometimes the invalid, sometimes the little turd who would only pretend to be sick so that she wouldn't have to go to school, sometimes the disturbed child who would pick the wires out of her braces or pour hydrogen peroxide on her perfectly normal fingers, usually petrified with fear, usually looking for some sort of escape. Perhaps you've read about my suicide attempt and/or my addictive personality.

Wait. Maybe I'm addicted to blogging now. Oy vey! Heh. Nah, I just thought it was time for some comic relief.

So, after I finally listened to God and let Him pluck me out of my family, He started to do some major rewiring with my concept of family. Safe images? Warm fuzzies? Nope. More like fodder for therapy. Unabashed retching.

Now I'll veer off the subject for a bit. I haven't had a date in almost 21 years, but I once came very close to a guy actually returning my feelings for him. I met a guy at a church Sunday School class about 7 years ago. He was a cute guy who mostly kept to himself, but he let me have a little bit of conversation with him. One time after class was over, an older lady came over to us while we were talking and glared at me. I found out later that she was his mother. I learned that he would come to the Sunday School class but wouldn't really stick around for the worship service (red flag #1). I think he would usually drop off his mom's car and leave.

One Sunday when our teachers had the entire class at their house for lunch, the guy stuck around, and I noticed that I was very attracted to him. So, I got very excited when he walked over to me after one of his smoke breaks (red flag #2), gave me his phone number (red flag #3), and asked me to call him (red flag #4). I ended up giving him my phone number, too, along with my email address and an explanation that I don't like to talk on the phone.

So, I eventually called him (good grief, Tirzah, don't do that; you're a woman who is worth being pursued!). I was still crushing on him pretty hard until he told me some stuff about himself. He had been involved in the occult, and the lifestyle still had a rather strong hold on him. He was sort of indecisive about whether or not he should go back to the occult or pursue Christianity.

So, I counseled him as best I could (sorry, but that's red flag #5; a guy needs male counselors). He and I had a very interesting conversation about relating to God. He was like, "I don't spend very much time thinking about God; I need to think about Him more; I need to focus on Him more." I was like, "I can relate to that." I tried to explain to him that that was a very religious way of thinking. (I'll talk more about that later.) His grand conclusion to his religion dilemma was, "I just need to get slain in the Spirit."

So, about an hour later, at the end of our conversation, I definitely didn't like him anymore. By the time he got up the nerve to say, "You're witty and interesting, and I find you attractive," I simply said, "Thank you." (That was my way of rejecting him as politely as I could.) He was like, "I get to talk to somebody like you about every 5 years."

I never talked to him again. I think I saw him dodging the worship services to drop off his mom's car at church a couple of times, and that was it. So, I almost got involved with an otherwise nice guy who may or may not have still been involved in the occult. Glad I dodged that bullet!

Now I'll veer back onto the subject.

For the past 2 years, I've done laundry at what I've referred to as my beautiful coin laundromat (especially in this post). It's not a place for germophobes, but it gets me out of my apartment once a week, it keeps dryer lint out of my kitchen, and it keeps me on my toes. I've learned a LOT at my beautiful coin laundromat. More than anything, I've discovered that visiting the laundromat is a family event. So, I've gotten to observe a LOT of families interact with one another. It ain't always pretty.

I'm not a trained professional, but sometimes at the beautiful coin laundromat, I see what I interpret as evidence of abuse. One time, a man was verbally blasting a woman (I'm assuming they were husband and wife?) and insulting her and making her feel inferior. She was defending herself, but the conversation ended with her crying. Sometimes other people will just talk to their children too harshly. Other times, they will ignore the posted signs (the ones that say, "Please do not let your children play in the laundry baskets") and let their kids play in the laundry baskets (which is one of the reasons why I don't put my clean laundry in the baskets). One time, I saw a lady cheerfully ignoring her child who was crying very loudly about something. Another time, I saw a man sit his little children on a folding table and yell at them to tell them to look straight ahead. They did. They looked scared. He wasn't gentle with them. If he treats them that way in public, I shudder to think how he treats them in private. Of course, these are all just my biased observations.

And sometimes, I just hear arguing and bickering. If it were me, I would find it awkward to air out my family's metaphorical dirty laundry in a literal laundromat, but whatevs.

Most of the time, I just notice people minding their own business in sharing the tasks of loading and folding their laundry within their families. Wow. Having the ability to do laundry before you hit puberty? What's that like? This concept fascinates me.

And one time, I observed an otherwise scary-looking, large, tattooed man giving his family a group hug in front of the dryers. I don't know if maybe he had been away for a while, or if perhaps someone in his family was about to go off on vacation or something like that, but there were definitely warm fuzzies. I don't think anyone was crying but me, but it was still a tender moment.

At the beautiful coin laundromat, I get to see a snapshot of family interaction in everyday life.

So, regarding my religiously aware occult-hopping friend, I understood what he was talking about when he said he had trouble thinking about God all the time. Yes, the Bible says to meditate on whatever is true, holy, pure, right, etc (Philippians 4). And it says to meditate on God's word day and night (Psalm 1). But I think demanding that your mind think about God nonstop is putting a very unrealistic expectation on yourself. It's basically inventing another religious rule in classic Pharisee-like fashion. I mean, if you were to make something like "Thou shalt never stop thinking about God" the 28th chapter of Leviticus or the 11th commandment, then anytime you'd think about something besides God, you'd be sinning, right? At least, that's my opinion.

At my workplace, there's this ridiculously unpredictable combination of soul-crushing micromanagement and head-scratching delegation. God has shown me that the only place where there will be a perfect balance of micromanagement and delegation is with Him. Yes, sometimes God gives extremely specific instructions and watches you complete a task. And yes, other times God assigns a task to you and trusts you to complete it.

I think it would be very awkward if all the kids at the beautiful coin laundromat were constantly preoccupied with thinking about their parents. Oh, I love my dad, I love my mom, I love my dad, I love my mom... Hey, son, why are you pouring Tide all over the floor? Oh, sorry, I was too busy trying to think about you. Hey, son, I'm flattered, but I gave you a brain for a reason. Pay attention. We can do something fun later, but for now it's time to work.

A weird idol that you burn incense to and check out into a trance with? Nope, that's not God. And that's not a family.

An abusive bully who hunts you down and demands to know why you didn't meet his unreasonable standards of perfection that he didn't bother to tell you about beforehand, and that he doesn't intend to meet himself? Nope, that's not God. And that's not a healthy family.

A safe place to run to and enjoy when things are rough, when things are fine, or when things are confusing? a place where you can always be yourself and not be judged for it? Yep, that's God. And that's a healthy family.

An accepting Being who works with you and helps you achieve certain tasks that need to be achieved? Somebody who is always available to answer your questions and guide you anyplace that you need to go? Yep, that's God. And that's definitely a healthy family.

A Friend who hangs out with you on the way back from the beautiful coin laundromat, and when you're listening to Billy Joel in your car, you get a picture of Him dancing the running man, and it makes you smile? Yes, of course that's God. Believe it or not, He's definitely my Family.

Oy vey! He always knows when it's time for some comic relief.