Crazy ninja

This is another one of my "processing my life" posts. Hey, I didn't even know that my family was abusive until I was in my mid 30s. So, I've kinda had a lot of baggage to work through.

"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take care of me." (Psalm 27:10)

Earlier today, I heard a neighbor yelling and cussing at her kids outside. I believe she was telling them to watch their mouths. Hmm. I wonder where they get it from. But I hope and pray that those kids won't need as much therapy as I did.

Sometimes when I think about my past, I get hit with a strong sense of "Wow, that was so wrong." Lately as I've been thinking about stuff, I've realized that my birth mother was crazy. Seriously, in a bad way. All my life, I thought my birth father was the basketcase and my birth mother was the cool one. But I think they were both just crazy, especially Mom.

Dad was extremely socially awkward. He essentially grew up without a father, and he was often left to himself. His idea of fun as a kid was memorizing the glossary in the back of his Spanish textbook over the summer. As an adult, even into his senior years, he was incredibly immature. He was always nervous and anxious, he was excessively critical, he had a hair-trigger temper, he would talk badly about well-meaning people as a recreational activity, and once or twice I even saw/heard him yell at retail employees from across the store in Hebrew so that they wouldn't know what he was saying. I think he could function in society only because 1) he was a pastor who everybody looked up to and 2) we all enabled him. And although to my knowledge he has never been diagnosed by a mental health professional, I'm sure he has at least one mental health issue that probably requires medication.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with having some mental health issues (as long as you don't ignore them) or being incredibly quirky and nerdy (OK, so I take after him). But Dad was a Pharisee and a major spiritual abuser. He was very patronizing, he would force his beliefs on you, and His obsessive personality wouldn't rest until you would agree with him. His mouth would speak until it would run out of words, and he cared more about his ideals than he did about actual people.

After I went off to college and God was finally able to get through to me (away from the din of my house), I was baptized in the Holy Spirit and was never the same. My relationship with God grew very dramatically. But going home during holidays and summers was torture. Cessationist Dad would corner me and try to deprogram me as if I had joined a cult. After he would leave the room, he would come back and verbally lay into me again for about 20 minutes. How could I have fought back? I'm not a debater.

In retrospect, even though my father was a monster, my mother -- the cool one -- was much worse... because she was attracted to him and his issues.

She told me that early in their dating relationship, Dad took her through a "Four Spiritual Laws" tract. (OK, if you feel the need to witness to somebody while you're dating them, you don't need to be dating them.) In retrospect, I really don't think she was ever saved.

The way Mom raised me was kind of backwards. Nowadays I see everybody's first-day-of-school photos on Facebook. Some parents even take some time off from work so that they can help their kids transition into the new school year. And that's the way it's supposed to be -- I get it now. Because that's not how it was with me.

I never remember my parents taking pictures of me on the first day of school. I never even remember them walking me to the door or to my classroom. For kindergarten, Mom insisted on keeping me at home. (From what I understand, the law back then didn't coerce parents to send their kids to kindergarten.) Apparently, I missed all kinds of important kindergarten life lessons, because when I got to the first grade, I didn't even know what a "line" was.

You want to hear what I remember about my first day of school -- ever? I didn't know what to do when it was time for lunch, so when all the other kids went through the lunch line, I ended up eating the snack that Mom had packed for me that day instead. (From what I can remember, it was a bologna sandwich and an oatmeal cream pie. That is comfort food for me to this day.) Then when it was time to get in line to go home, I didn't realize that school was dismissing for the day, so I left my book satchel inside my classroom, and then I had to bug somebody to let me back into the classroom so that I could get it. Then I got on the wrong bus, and I had to bug the bus driver to drive me home.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. Way to make sure I got where I needed to be.

Later that year, I came home from school one day, but nobody was home. I was left outside alone with no key and no one to comfort me but my dog, who was on the other side of the fence. After several minutes of that, Mom, sister, and grandpa waltzed into the front yard from a shopping expedition, and Mom cheerfully didn't think my temporary abandonment was a big deal at all.

But my soul thought it was a big deal. God thought it was a big deal, too, because He kept bringing it up years later during Freedom-ministry-type stuff. Come on. You can't treat a first-grader like that.

I wouldn't be surprised if Mom had some sort of Aztec child-sacrifice stuff going on in her family history somewhere... because it manifested itself in various ways, at least with me. For instance, when I got sexually harassed/non-rape-raped/abused/whatever you want to call it at church by two separate men, she did nothing to stop it. (She told me to keep quiet because Dad had a big mouth.) When Dad would spiritually abuse me, she not only did nothing to stop it, but she also supported it and contributed to it. (And she forced me to stop donating my own money to Compassion International.) When I tried to get saved when I was 8 years old and Dad neglected to help me with the salvation prayer, Mom didn't even try to make sure I was saved. (But she and Dad didn't have a problem pressuring me to get baptized a couple of years later.)

Yes, I grew up in an abusive home. There were even a couple of times when each of my parents, on separate occasions, touched me inappropriately -- nothing that would have gotten them arrested, but enough for me to wonder WHAT THE HECK while I was processing through all this crazy stuff years later. Oh, my gosh. I was raised by wolves.

Like Dad, Mom was definitely a Pharisee. She was a compulsive liar and deceiver who only cared about looking good in front of other people. The thing that she would get the most excited about -- the thing that would really get her fired up -- was talking badly about people behind their backs. The only time I would see her praying was during meal times and at church. The only time I would see her reading her Bible was on Saturday nights while she was preparing to teach a Sunday School lesson. Even when she sat with me one time at a college church service, she complained about feeling sick, and I offered to pray for her; she laughed at the idea.

Years later when I was praying for her, God gave me the impression that He didn't even know who she was.

But before that, I learned that one of the desires of her heart was to be a surrogate mother for her grandchildren. When she had a hysterectomy, what bothered her the most wasn't the instant menopause; it was the fact that she would never be able to bear her own grandchildren. Words cannot even do justice to describe how much that grosses me out.

So... in addition to having a soul-squeezing grip on her own children... and marrying an overgrown child... her identity was so wrapped up in being a mother that she even wanted to be the birth mother for her own grandchildren. I'm sorry, but that's crazy. That's just plain sick, in a bad way.

The spirit of Jezebel had such a strong hold on my family -- and God knew it -- that the only way for me to escape it was to leave the family. God knew that that ninja-like spirit had infiltrated my soul, hooked onto it, and had been spewing its death inside me all my life. (And that crap took a very long time to uproot and clean out.) He knew it, and He tried to tell me to leave in my early 20s, but I didn't do it. And I regretted it.

But even after I finally obeyed God in my mid 30s and left the family -- who didn't even acknowledge that there had been any abuse -- some of the people around me supported my decision... but others acted like leaving my family was a bad thing. One friend even suggested that my parents could have helped me through my depression. Um, HELLO! They were kind of a huge reason why I had been depressed in the first place. Seriously -- ME leaving MY family was a bad thing? How would you know? You weren't there. You didn't live through what I went through. You can't just throw a Bible verse in my face about honoring your father and mother. Have you even read the entire Bible?

"As snow in summer and rain in harvest, so honor is not fitting for a fool." (Proverbs 26:1)

"A scoffer seeks wisdom and does not find it, but knowledge is easy to him who understands. Go from the presence of a foolish man, when you do not perceive in him the lips of knowledge." (Proverbs 14:6-7)

"Serpents, brood of vipers! How can you escape the condemnation of hell? Therefore, indeed, I send you prophets, wise men, and scribes: some of them you will kill and crucify, and some of them you will scourge in your synagogues and persecute from city to city..." (Matthew 23:33-34)

See? It says other things, too.

This holiday weekend marks the fifth anniversary of me officially disowning and disinheriting myself from my birth parents. That was the hardest thing I've ever done... and yet it's been one of the most freeing things I've ever done. I definitely couldn't have done it without God's help, and I also don't think He would have entrusted me with so much responsibility in His Kingdom now if I had allowed such bad influences to remain in my life (and possibly influence my current decisions).

As always, my God is in the business of redemption. Perhaps in the way that the devil intended for "crazy" to infiltrate my life and ruin it forever, God has been redeeming my "crazy" and using it for His purposes.

In addition, several people in recent years have called me a "ninja." I kinda show up out of nowhere and either take care of business, punch the devil in the face, or just avoid danger altogether. (Yes, I'm short in stature. Have you ever seen a tall ninja?) In terms of ninja-like reflexes, I hope I've learned from the Best.

"Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and shall call His name Immanuel." (Isaiah 7:14)

"So all those in the synagogue, when they heard these things, were filled with wrath, and rose up and thrust Him out of the city; and they led Him to the brow of the hill on which their city was built, that they might throw Him down over the cliff. Then passing through the midst of them, He went His way." (Luke 4:28-30)

"Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. Therefore be wise as serpents and harmless as doves." (Matthew 10:16)

Jesus is the ultimate Ninja. He skillfully maneuvered through life on earth in a completely sinless fashion that now enables me to live life on earth in the way that His Father intended for me all along. He infiltrated this world as the Savior of all humankind by being born of a virgin. He stealthily slipped through a crowd that once tried to prematurely kill Him. And when He sent out His disciples to preach the gospel, He instructed them to be little ninjas, too.

God still leads me through this life in a ninja-like way. My birth parents didn't have anything to do with me getting saved; God made sure that I got saved all by myself, just me doing business with Him, without any help from them. When I permanently separated myself from my family, I followed God's very specific instructions that involved me not seeing them in person and not having any chance to change my mind. Today, I tithe every time I get paid, and I give whenever God leads me to, and He keeps the Malachi-3 devourer the heck away from me. And I honestly have no idea how I made it to 40 without getting married or pregnant, but here I am -- single and totally independent from man, totally dependent on God.

I think wherever the devil intended for my "crazy" to lead me down a road of death and mental anguish, God has been using my "crazy" for His purposes. I think wherever the devil intended for me to live a life of ninja-like lies and deception, God has been turning those plans against his dark kingdom. (Yes, God has taught me to adapt through all kinds of circumstances. Have you ever tried to hit a moving target?)

I mean, in order to be a pastor, you kind of have to be a crazy ninja.

You have to be a little crazy to want to shepherd and help people who don't respect you. You have to be a little crazy to want to grab a microphone, stand in front of a camera, and lead church music in front of thousands of people. You have to be a little crazy to follow a God who you can't see and just go wherever He goes.

It helps to have ninja-like reflexes to engage in spiritual warfare against principalities and powers whose sole purpose is to steal, kill, and/or destroy you. It helps to have ninja-like reflexes to live a life of holiness in this world that is hell-bent on distracting you and yanking you off your chosen path. It helps to have ninja-like reflexes to dodge terrible advice from well-meaning church people while you're trying to seek and find God for yourself.

And I'm still learning how to do all of that. But it's been five years since the air has been clear enough for me to finally try.

I give up

I also thought of titling this post "Take two" or "Remember me?" and maybe as you read through it you'll understand why. As usual/always, this post will be therapy for me... a way of unraveling stuff from my head and processing it in a tangible form... sort of like journaling... or maybe bleeding in the ER and capturing the Doctor's treatment on a live Facebook video.

When I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time outdoors one summer afternoon but didn't wear any sunblock. Of course, I was extremely badly sunburned that day. The entire nose/sinus area of my face was red and blistered like a watermelon. Somebody at church recommended that I put Crisco on my sunburn, so as to keep my skin moist while it healed. I'm glad I did, because the treatment worked. However, as the sunburn peeled off my face, so did my freckles. Eventually I got freckles again (as you can see in the photo above), and then some, but I'll never forget that really crazy sunburn and healing process.

My suicide attempt from 16 years ago is a similar event (with ebbs and flows of depression that preceded it) that impacted me in a similar way. Because of my actions, some things in my life were stripped away from me forever... and yet I'm glad that God allowed me to get it out of my system so that I could see some things inside me and inside the people around me that I needed to know were there. I'll never forget that experience or the healing process that happened afterwards (or the healing saga that happened anytime this issue would revisit me in the years that would follow).

My battle with suicide and depression impacted almost everything in my life. Because I've gone through that, I communicate with people differently now (e.g., instead of holding stuff in, I'll get it out in the open, if it's appropriate to do so). I've communicated with God differently ever since (e.g., I'll pour out my heart to Him Psalm-62 style, even if I end up cussing Him out). And anytime anyone mentions that they or a loved one are experiencing depression and/or entertaining suicidal thoughts, I'll take it very seriously (people didn't always take me seriously, and look what happened). Not sure if this is a good thing, but because I've experienced so much demonic activity inside my head, I'm kind of comfortable dealing with demons, and I'm working on doing so with Jesus' power instead of my vindictive fleshly energy (I like to bully the pipsqueak little fallen-angel jerks).

"The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped; therefore my heart greatly rejoices, and with my song I will praise Him." (Psalm 28:7)

I mentioned in a previous post that God showed me something important: For me, the year 2016 will be what the year 2000 was supposed to have been. This is a gift. This is Him redeeming my life like nobody's business. This is Him leading me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake, like it says in Psalm 23:3. God cares about me and my life, yes. But He's also been getting me back on track so that whatever He desires for my life can happen. It's for me, but it's for Him, too.

So, here are a few of my life's highlights during those two years (considering that 2016 isn't over yet):

In 2000...

- There was a presidential election. I didn't vote because I was way too wrapped up in myself.

- There were Summer Olympics. I think I only watched a tiny bit one evening while I was at somebody else's house. Because I was heavily involved in a church that basically taught that entertainment was evil.

- I enrolled in a missions training school (through my church) that was designed to be stressful so that we would learn how to manage our busy-ess while in vocational ministry. The stress contributed to driving me to suicide, and I had to drop out. The people who ran the school managed my "restoration" afterwards and treated me like a smothered, irresponsible child. The entire experience was terrible.

- My mentor/discipler/leader/friend moved overseas in 1999, and I had trouble adjusting to the women who took her place. I especially voiced my objection to these replacements in 2000. Years later, I discovered that I had so much trouble due to codependence, and I learned later that I wasn't the only one who had had an unhealthy relationship with the ex-mentor. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one who attempted suicide, either.

- I owned only one feline. Choochie was a kitten. During my suicide attempt, my plan was to overdose while listening to an Elton John tape with Choochie next to me. Unfortunately, my plan backfired because 1) I lived 2) the tape broke 3) Choochie didn't want anything to do with the entire horrible scene.

In 2016...

- There is a presidential election. I voted in March, and I plan to vote again in November.

- There were Summer Olympics. I only watched a tiny bit online, but I caught a few highlights on YouTube and some cool headlines on Facebook. I kicked myself for not having cable or rabbit ears, and I'm plotting to be ready for the 2018 Winter Olympics. #awwyeah

- I signed up to take some voice classes (through my church) that have helped my singing voice tremendously. I have truly dug these classes and hope to continue learning in the years to come. #icanhaztraining

- My pastor/friend moved to Florida, but I don't have any objection whatsoever to the person who's been keeping the ministry going in her place. Fortunately, I don't think there's anything unhealthy in my relationships with either of them. Hmm. I wonder if they're reading this now. #hi

- Now that Macho is gone, I own only one feline. Choochie is a kittenish old lady. Our new routine is for me to brush her fur at night while I play Elton John music on my phone. She really likes our special time together a lot.

I think 2000 was supposed to be a peaceful year for me. It was a busy year of transitions, but I think I was supposed to have found a soft spot in God's secret place and lived my life under the shadow of His wings. Instead, it was a year of turmoil that totally could have been avoided.

2016 is another busy and transitional year for me, and I'm thankful that I've been learning how to live life and manage stress in a healthy, peaceful way. Taking a Sabbath at least once a week also makes a HUGE difference.

But lately I've noticed another very important motif that ran through both 2000 and 2016 for me. I guess you could spiritualize it and call it "surrender." Or maybe you could send it to psychotherapy and call it "acceptance." But I like to call it what my soul silently utters when it happens: "I give up." It's how I learn to live with the things that grieve/frustrate me and would otherwise throw a wrench in the delicate workings of my heart.

So, a friend is always too busy to hang out with me and never makes any effort to spend time with me? I give up. I ain't gonna pursue this person anymore.

So, a person always gets on my nerves, never listens to me, and never matures as a human being? I give up. I can pray for this person, but there isn't anything else I can do to change this person.

So, somebody treats me like a mule, always gives me more and more work to do, and never thanks me for it? I give up. I shouldn't expect a thank you, so I won't be disappointed or angry when I don't get one.

So, a friend refuses to allow our friendship to go any deeper than a surface level, no matter how vulnerable I am with them? I give up. I will keep my pearls to myself, and I shall endeavor to enjoy the pleasant entertainment value that the shallowness can provide.

Those are a few examples, but I think maybe God was trying to teach me how to live my life this way back in 2000... instead of metaphorically saying, "I give up," spitting in His face, and trying to end everything.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: God likes to take manure and turn it into fertilizer.

When I sing in the choir at my church, I take it very seriously. As I mentioned previously, I'm pretty vindictive when I think about demons, and when we do spiritual warfare at church through our music, I'm kind of maniacal. This past weekend, for example, during one song toward the end of our worship set, one thought that kept running through my mind (at the demons, who can't read my thoughts but who I hope can feel the brute-force trauma of my song-words), "Remember me? You tried to take me out. But you failed. Yeah, that's right. You're a loser, and I'm a winner!" #maniacallaughter

Actually, I'm more than a conqueror. But it ain't because of me.

"Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us." (Romans 8:37)

Manure in 2000. Fertilizer in 2016.

More than just a stupid boyfriend

Dear reader, I hope I didn't get you overly excited with the title of this post, because it's not what you think. Honest. But now that I have your attention...

 

Ever since Macho died, I've been grieving off and on, but that's just the nature of losing a loved one. (Even though he was just a cat.) Meanwhile, Choochie and I are moving on. I really don't think she misses him at all. I think she enjoys having the place all to herself, even though she's 16 years old and not as extroverted as she once was. And I hope she's enjoying all the extra attention from me. See? I even made a playlist on my phone just for her. (Even though she's just a cat.)

Macho will not be replaced by another cat. One of the many reasons why is because I want Choochie to know that she's enough for me.

Yes, of course I'm building to something here.

"Because he has set his love upon Me, therefore I will deliver him; I will set him on high, because he has known My name. He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him, and show him My salvation." (Psalm 91:14-16)

When I was in high school -- beginning a new school my sophomore year, if I remember correctly -- my birth mother instructed me to wear my birth father's class ring and tell people that I had a boyfriend. I didn't have a boyfriend. If people had looked closely at the ring, they would have seen that its owner graduated from high school in the 1960s. The whole thing was a lie. But I obeyed. Because that's what kids are supposed to do: whatever their parents tell them to do.

And my mother was a very honest woman. #sarcasm

And my father was an admirable man who ensured that his family always did what was right. #actuallyhewasawuss

And I wore his ring so that people would believe that I was already taken. #iwasatotalpushover #andineededtherapy

I'm not exactly sure what wearing a lie on my finger was supposed to accomplish. Was I supposed to keep boys away so that I could concentrate on my schoolwork? Were there dozens of boys knocking down our front door to ask for my number? Or did my parents just totally hate every eligible bachelor in the vicinity? Hmm. At any rate, their scheme definitely accomplished something: I never gave them grandchildren. #sothere

To be fair, at the time, we had just moved to a part of Texas that was a relatively short drive away from Mexico and, therefore, very heavily influenced by Mexican culture. If you were a female, there was a strong chance that any mexicano with a shred of machismo could openly flirt with you to a degree that would make you uncomfortable... without warning... on any occasion... ad nauseam. Over time, I began to expect this behavior from the male species, regardless of ethnicity.

To this day, I feel rejected whenever I like a guy and he doesn't pursue me. Because that's what real men are supposed to do: initiate. (But that's a different story for a different day.)

Regarding the fake-boyfriend ring charade -- again, to be fair -- telling somebody, "I have a boyfriend," does carry a lot of weight with it. If a guy finds out that a woman he likes already has a boyfriend, the potential suitor will usually stop pursuing, respect the existing relationship, and move on. (Unless, of course, he's a Hispanic guy who likes to holler at women as if they were dogs.) The fact that you are off the market should automatically create a safe distance between you and unwanted suitors.

Maybe the fake-boyfriend ring charade was my birth mother's sick way of protecting me. Maybe she was just doing what her mother taught her to do. Or maybe she was just teaching me to lie for no particular reason, which I think was kind of like a hobby for her. (Do you really think she stayed home from church on Wednesday nights because she wasn't feeling well? Heh. I guess that has a better ring to it than "I would rather watch TV than play church today.")

I guess I could compare her actions to what Abraham did with Sarah in the Bible ("She's my sister; just kidding, sort of -- she's my wife"), twice. But Abraham tried to cover up his relationship by trying to make it sound less intimate than it really was; my birth mother taught me how to invent a relationship out of thin air.

Perhaps I should thank her for contributing to my fiction-writing career... but truth be told, I really don't think my birth mother was even saved. If she were, I think she would have understood that I didn't need a stupid boyfriend lie. I think she would have understood that God was more than enough for me. He was more than enough protection and identity for me.

And He still is.

"The eyes of all look expectantly to You, and You give them their food in due season. You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing." (Psalm 145:15-16)

I haven't had a date in 22 years (#thanksMom), and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if I were to never have one ever again. I hear women tell awesome stories of how they met their husbands and about how God spoke to them and told them about how they were going to get married, who they were going to marry, etc. Seriously, these are really cool testimonies.

But God doesn't speak to me like that anymore. Nowadays whenever I talk to God about getting married, He's like, "You don't need a husband; you have Me." Lately when I've talked to God about a guy I like, He's spoken to me with a jealous tone in His voice, "What does he have that I don't have?" Skin and other body parts that I probably can't mention in a rated-G blog post... with all due respect, Father. Yes, these are the types of conversations that I usually end up having with God. (Which is probably one reason why I don't pray out loud much in front of other people.)

But God is enough for me. I don't need to worry about protection, because I'm covered by the Almighty King of the Universe -- the same One who blinded people and struck people dead in the Bible. (You really don't want to mess with Him.) I don't need to obsess about identity, because I'm adopted by the greatest Father in the Universe -- the same One who sent His Son to die for me just to make a way for us to know each other. (He really wants me.)

So, I don't need to cover myself with a lie, because I'm already covered by the One who is full of grace and truth. I'm good to go.

But the point of writing this post isn't to whine about not having a boyfriend or a husband. I just wanted to say that God is more than just a stupid boyfriend for me, and He's enough of a Husband for me.

And Choochie is enough of a cat for this crazy old cat lady. #awww

 

In memoriam

OK, so this isn't an obituary per se, but this post is in memory of (and to process the death of) my cat Macho, who was put to sleep last Thursday. He was approximately 16 and a half years old.

This photo was taken more than likely in 2001, before he was officially my cat. In his prime, Macho was a swashbuckling manly cat. He had large forearm muscles and a flabby belly. When he would nap, he would become a humongous mound of orange fur. He was a bully. He was lazy. At one point, a vet put him on a diet so that he would lose weight. I think at his heaviest, he weighed 15 and a half or 16 pounds.

Macho was my dance partner, my music-study buddy, and my spokescat. (When both my cats were hungry, Macho would be the one to meow at me until I would get off my butt and feed them.)

If you've followed my blog for the past year or so, you're probably aware of the ongoing saga of health crises that Macho endured during that time. He would get sick, then he would get better, then worse, then better, then worse, etc. While I was processing everything, I felt like God told me that the way Macho would die was that his body would shut down. I kind of wanted him to die peacefully in his sleep.

This photo was taken 4 months ago. Toward the end, Macho was skin and bones. He had diarrhea (of and on, mostly on) for approximately a year and a half, which I had gotten used to, and which I thought was just a side effect from the food that the vets had prescribed. I had basically become his live-in nurse -- chasing after him to wipe his butt, catching him before he would pee or poop on my floor (but not always succeeding to catch him beforehand), and escorting him to the living room with me so that I could eat breakfast without him staring at the closed bathroom door and meowing nonstop like a senile maniac.

He had some issues (and I had considered putting him down almost every time he would pee on my bed), but I felt that he still had a lot of life left in him. He would still show up every time I would play my piano keyboard. He would hang out with me when I would practice my really loud, really primal-sounding voice drills. He would try to nudge my laptop out of my lap when I would type out a blog post. He would come find my lap and snuggle with me when I would hang out by myself and watch YouTube videos on my phone.

Last Monday night, I knew something was wrong when he didn't come find my lap. Instead, he ended up peeing in his own bed a couple of times. His hind legs were wet with pee, he was less vocal, and he seemed very uncomfortable.

The next day, I took him to the vet, and he got treated for a urinary tract infection. He weighed in at a mere 4 pounds, 13 ounces. When I brought him home, he had a chest and belly full of hydration fluids; considering the blueness of his cataract-eyes, I felt like my life had become a science-fiction movie (e.g., Dune). Heh.

But by Wednesday night, Macho looked like he was in a lot of pain, especially when he would walk. I noticed that he had been napping under my bed (which he hadn't done in a long time). I tried to groom his fur, but I couldn't seem to get rid of the large amount of dandruff near his hindquarters. For the zillionth time, I thought a vet was finally going to recommend putting him to sleep, so I snuggled with him and cried while I played the Gipsy Kings song "Amigo" on repeat on my phone.

On Thursday morning when I was about to leave to go to work, he was sprawled out weirdly on the floor by the litterbox. I dropped him off at the vet on my way to work. Then I got a call from the vet, who recommended a blood transfusion to treat Macho's anemia. He also said that Macho was deteriorating because he didn't respond well to a vital-signs test. In addition, Macho was treated for a low body temperature. The vet said that he was about to go out of town, so he referred me to an emergency clinic for the blood transfusion. He also showed me an X-ray of Macho's intestines; he explained that it was hard to tell with all the intestine-gas on the X-ray, but there seemed to be a large mass inside Macho that was possibly causing all his symptoms. The vet suggested that the emergency clinic do an ultrasound on Macho to get a better look at the mass (because my vet's ultrasound equipment wouldn't be effective enough for an official cancer diagnosis).

On the drive to the ER, Macho seemed very lifeless. I felt like God spoke to me and told me to let him go.

When I arrived, even though the ER staff knew we were coming, they were pretty defensive. (Kind of like the people at Kwik Kar when I had brought in my old car with 100,000+ miles for transmission service.) They were like, "Why are we supposed to do these treatments on this very old, very sick cat if the treatments might not even work?" The ER vet said that Macho was very dehydrated, and if they were to rehydrate him, his heart murmur could cause him to go into heart failure. She also explained that if Macho's intestinal mass turned out to be cancer, the ER clinic didn't have a specialist, so they would have to refer me to a clinic in a nearby suburb for treatment.

This sealed the deal for me. Since Macho had already been through so much vet-specialist runaround, I didn't want to put him through that again. I asked the vet if it would be inhumane to simply put him down. She said that no, it would be a very humane thing to do. Then the ER staff's tone changed from defensiveness to compassion.

They left me alone in the room with Macho -- whose bedding stank with pee, and who had stopped fighting us while we were handling him -- and I explained to him in my usual matter-of-fact way that the doctor was going to kill him. Then I started talking to him in the same tone of voice that I always use before bedtime: "Are you ready to go to sleep? Let's go to sleep. Let's go to bed." The vet came back into the room and matched my tone of voice while she administered the euthanasia medication. My little deteriorated Macho manly cat was gone. I guess you could say that he died peacefully in his sleep.

I kept his collar, and I showed it to Choochie when I came home without him. I explained to her that he won't be coming back. She's been adjusting to being the only cat in the "house," but I honestly don't think she misses him. (Would you miss someone who was twice your size and who would bully you whenever he felt like it?) She is currently purring and perching on my thigh while I type this.

I decided a long time ago that if Macho were the first to go, Choochie and I would be OK on our own.

"Your righteousness is like the great mountains; Your judgments are a great deep; O Lord, You preserve man and beast." (Psalm 36:6)

Recently, I've been thinking about how God has used Macho's life to teach me about grace. (When I say "grace" in this context, I mean the "unmerited favor" definition of the word.)

Macho wasn't always my cat. I met him when he was a kitten in January 2000. He belonged to a friend of mine who I ended up rooming with. When she moved to Europe as a missionary, she didn't want to pay the extra money to have him shipped to her, so Macho roomed with me and Choochie for several months.

Macho wasn't always nice to Choochie. I caught him trying to mount her (even though they were both fixed, and even though he was technically a guest in our home) I think a few times. I would pick him up and tell him to his face, "I love you as if you were my own cat, but if you hurt her, I will kill you." Eventually he stopped. Heh.

During his latter years, it was challenging for me to control my anger whenever Macho would do dumb things like eat my food without permission, sneak into the bathroom cabinet, poop on my kitchen floor, etc. When I would give him a talking-to, he would meow-talk back at me like a defiant teenager. As a pet owner, I had every right to drive Macho down to a veterinarian and have him put to sleep -- just out of anger, out of spite, out of wanting some peace and quiet in my home.

But I didn't. (That was grace.)

In my current job, I'm an editor. God has shown me that in my job, I'm learning how to serve people. I work behind the scenes to make sure that our clients' messages are communicated with as little distraction as possible. I don't always agree with our clients' messages, but I make sure their voice is communicated anyway. I try to make sure they look and sound as good as possible. (That's grace and good business.) And their messages help people connect with God. That needs to happen as effectively as possible. That's the most important part of my job right there.

In my church choir, I'm a leader. I've seen all kinds of people come and go from our group. I've seen all kinds of things happen behind the scenes. Not to be rude, but just to be honest about how I feel, I've seen all kinds of [bleep]holes be honored in all kinds of ways -- whether I felt they deserved it or not. Regardless of how I felt about them, they were still considered a part of the choir, a part of the family. (That's just grace.) I've learned that if God gave them a gifting, I don't have any business not honoring it. I need to honor who they are and who God created them to be, and I need to trust that they'll let God work on them -- just like God has been working on me. I mean, I've done plenty of stuff that could have gotten me kicked off the worship platform, but they've kept me there. (That's [bleep]ing good grace -- um, I mean, amazing grace.)

And that's just a taste of how God feels about us. Jesus didn't kick Judas Iscariot out of His twelve-disciples group, even though Judas stole money from Him and later betrayed Him to the authorities for some money. I mean, God didn't kick me out of His family when I attempted suicide nearly 16 years ago or when I cussed Him out (at least, I think I cussed Him out; that time of my life was kind of an angry blur) while I was working through some serious emotional healing about 4 or 5 years ago.

I adopted Macho into my family. (Or maybe you could say that he adopted me.) Although he gave me plenty of reason to, I didn't kick him out of my home, out of my family, out of my life. I gladly let him stick around (with plenty of discipline, etc.), and I wish that he could have stuck around even longer. I prayed for a very long time that Macho would live to be at least 30 years old, but I'm confident that he died in the manner that was best for him (and me). When God comforted me shortly after Macho's death, He showed me that he passed away at the exact time that was best.

For the first couple of days after Macho's death, I could still hear him (in my mind) meowing at me in my apartment, and I was still waiting for him to trot around the corner and demand my attention. Oh, don't worry, little Macho -- you still have my attention.

Even though I had many months to mentally prepare for Macho's death, I still miss him. I miss my lap-cat. I miss singing to him, loving on him, and taking care of him. But I have to admit -- after his death, it has been very nice to not be woken up at 3:30 every morning just to feed him. It has been very nice to not suddenly feel moisture on the bottom of my sock and realize that I've just stepped on yet another carpet-puddle of pee. It has been very nice to be able to feed Choochie in the bedroom instead of the bathroom (due to separate diets, which I had to strictly monitor). Choochie and I have been enjoying peace and quiet in our home. But I still miss Macho, and I'm probably going to grieve the loss of my cat for a lot longer than I thought I would.

I miss my fluffy, humongous, little meowing buddy, but I am so thankful for the years that I had with him.

De-matting

Sometimes when your pet goes through changes, you learn to accept them without thinking that perhaps you need to make some changes yourself. I mean, my cats are family. We live with one another, so we get used to one another and don't always question things that should be questioned.

When Macho came home from the vet after his surgery earlier this year, he had limited grooming abilities (because of his cone of shame), so I would clean little places in his fur that he couldn't clean for himself (like in his neck around his cone, sort of like ring around the collar).

Months later, after the cone came off and he had significantly healed, I finally noticed that he had developed little mats in his fur. Apparently, he had almost stopped grooming himself altogether (except in the places where he instinctively cleans after he uses the litterbox). I didn't realize right away that I have to groom him now.

 

So, I bought a comb/brush designed for shorthaired cats, and I gently yet firmly went to work. I ended up removing several months' worth of mats. He looks so much better now.

I'm not exactly sure why Macho stopped grooming himself as much as he used to, but maybe it's because he's getting older and skinnier. One reason why I became a cat lady in the first place was because shorthaired cats are self-cleaning and self-grooming, so I'm not used to having to do this type of maintenance for him. But I've added it to our home routine, and I'll do my best to keep him de-matted from now on. (And I think he likes the extra attention.)

Spiritually speaking, I think God has to keep me de-matted as well.

"When you have crossed the Jordan into the land of Canaan, then you shall drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you, destroy all their engraved stones, destroy all their molded images, and demolish all their high places; you shall dispossess the inhabitants of the land and dwell in it, for I have given you the land to possess." (Numbers 33:51b-53)

"But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were thrown into the sea." (Mark 9:42)

Preachers talk all the time about how just like the Israelites had a Promised Land (Canaan) waiting for them, we Christians also have a (metaphorical) promised land to go to. All the Israelites had to do was get rid of the people (and the giants) who lived in the Promised Land and claim the territory that was rightfully theirs. Likewise, all we Christians have to do is get rid of the demons (and the iniquities) that have followed us around all our lives and claim the lives that God wants us to live.

Some preachers go into specific details about which of the iniquities (such as pride, lust, etc.) are symbolized by certain Promised-Land inhabitants (such as Jebusites, Perizzites, etc.) in the Bible. I'm not sure if I agree with such specific iniquity/people identification, but I certainly believe that certain iniquities, sins, tendencies, issues, etc., will follow you around wherever you go -- unless you get rid of them once and for all, or at least submit them to God and have Him take care of them for you. (I've noticed that sometimes I'll think He's gotten rid of something, only for that something to show up again years later, and He'll take care of it at a different level, or perhaps more thoroughly the second time around.)

For example, I feel like in some ways, I'm in my own promised land(s). In other words, I feel like I've finally found my life's calling and am beginning to walk in it. And I know for sure that one of my "giants" is neglect. If I turn to somebody for assistance, and if I feel neglected or ignored, I will have to battle through some significant emotional turmoil. I'll probably have to work through some bitterness, I'll have to go through a forgiveness process, and I'll more than likely do either a lot of crying on God's shoulder or a lot of cussing in private. In other words, if you want to make me stumble, don't put a gun to my head and force me to watch porn all day. Just make me feel neglected or ignored. Then you'll have to answer to my Father while all hell breaks loose inside my head and He helps me pick up the pieces.

So, it's important for me to stay vigilant and make sure my giants aren't about to kick the crap out of me -- again. It's important for me to stay on top of them until all of them are driven out of my promised land.

Speaking of making people stumble, one of my recent web-browsing/research obsessions has been the mass-suicide that happened in Jonestown, Guyana, in 1978. More than 900 people literally "drank the Kool-Aid," a poisonous concoction that killed almost every member of a communist/religious cult. (The people who escaped this tragedy explained that it wasn't really a mass-suicide; it was a massacre.) This was a truly terrible thing that happened, and it wasn't the result of something that happened overnight. This was the result of decades of a sick man named Jim Jones winning the trust of his followers, controlling his followers, imprisoning his followers. He physically, sexually, psychologically, and spiritually abused his people who worshiped him and believed he was God. When they would try to leave his commune/church, he would guilt-trip them into staying, or he would punish them, or the cult members would report one another. It escalated when a Congressman investigated the cult and got killed in the process.

When you watch the interviews of the people who survived, you can see the grief in their faces, and you can sense the hopelessness in their souls. Now that their heaven-on-earth has been destroyed, now that their family has been murdered, now that their community is dead, and now that their God is dethroned, where can they go? What can they believe in?

It's a question that's important to answer for yourself. When someone else spoon-feeds you their own answers and tells you what to believe, that's a red flag.

Researching this 1978 tragedy has reminded me a lot of how I grew up. No, my family wasn't a cult, but it was run very similarly to one. The people in charge were abusive sickos. They oppressed the little people around them, and if you had a head on your shoulders and the guts to speak up and say, "What you're doing is wrong," you'd get openly punished. If you tried to leave, you'd be either guilt-tripped or forced into staying. And you'd be forced to believe the nonsensical doctrines that they'd force down your throat. The longer you stayed, the worse it would get.

God knew this. He knew I needed to leave my family, and He tried to warn me in 1998. I didn't obey His warning, and I stayed. It got worse. I pulled through it with God's help, but He warned me again in 2011. This time, I listened, wrestled with the reality of what needed to happen, and I finally left. I got better. (I shudder to think how much worse it would have gotten if I had never left.)

I can barely begin to tell you how much better my life is without my ex-family, the brood of vipers, the abusers, the sickos who would have done goodness-knows-what to me in the long run. It's nice to be able to make my own decisions. It's awesome to not be in the prison of a Jezebel spirit (a very controlling spirit, like the kind that was strong enough to freak out Elijah when he hid in the wilderness in the Bible). It's exhilarating to not be suffocated by fear.

Sure, I still have plenty of issues to work through (as the Israelites did after they were freed from bondage in Egypt and spent some time wandering around in the wilderness), but God has been helping me through it. And I've gotten to know Him as my Family during the process.

"For it is not an enemy who reproaches me; then I could bear it. Nor is it one who hates me who has exalted himself against me; then I could hide from him. But it was you, a man my equal, my companion and my acquaintance. We took sweet counsel together, and walked to the house of God in the throng." (Psalm 55:12-14)

Recently, an ex-relative called me and left me a voicemail. They explained that they know how I feel and that I should contact my ex-mother who now has dementia before she forgets who I am.

Let's examine all the crap in the previous paragraph, shall we?

- Someone whom I have avoided on purpose for the past 5 years violated my boundary in the middle of a workday... because they think I'm unemployed? because they think I'm still in the family, and that I'll drop everything to wait on them hand and foot? because they don't respect me as a human being?

- This person doesn't "know" how I "feel." This is the same person who denied any abuse when I left the family and who told me that I was abusing myself. They don't know what my life is like. They don't know what it's like to rip yourself away forever from people who were precious to you. They don't know what it's like to consider the cost of building a tower (like it says to do in Luke 14:28-29) and STILL find the tower to be way more expensive than you thought it would be. If this person "knew" how I "felt," they would respect the fact that I don't want anything to do with them anymore.

- I'm sorry to hear that my ex-mother has dementia, but I wouldn't be sorry if she were to forget who I am. Not to be insensitive, but her forgetting about me would make me happy. I've mentioned this before on my blog, but my grandfather had dementia temporarily. I liked him better that way because he was suddenly interested in getting to know me (because he didn't know me), he forgot that he treated my other family members better than he had treated me, and he was a lot nicer. In the case of my ex-mother -- again, not to be insensitive -- I think perhaps her dementia might be a simple case of reaping what she has sown. All those lies that she invented over the years, all that deception that she wove, all that manipulation that she practiced, all those sicko thoughts that she entertained -- I'm sorry to say this, but I think maybe she had it coming to her. May her golden years be more peaceful than her early years.

 

Meanwhile, I recently discovered that my cat Choochie has also gone through some physical changes. Her bloodwork earlier this year indicated that her adorable little thyroid is back to normal, so she has gained some weight. Her stocky little self has also been shedding a lot of fur. I don't know if maybe neglecting to groom oneself is just an elderly cat thing, but I've had to start grooming Choochie on a regular basis, too. I've found fewer mats in her fur than I found on Macho's fur, but I did find enough of Choochie's fur to construct a brand-new kitten. Heh.

Years ago, God taught me that the way to get free and stay free from depression was to pour out my heart to Him (like it says to do in Psalm 62:8). Pour the bad stuff out of my heart; let Him pour good stuff into my heart.

Patsy Clairmont talks/writes about how important it is to stay current with your emotions. She says that emotions are like rubber bands. If you let a bunch of them get tangled up over time, you will end up with a mess that is hard to untangle. But if you stay current with them and keep untangling them one at a time -- if you keep examining each one of your emotions as soon as you can tell that it's there -- you won't end up with a mess.

I want my Father to keep combing out my mats, metaphorically speaking. I want Him to help me keep my heart, my soul, my life clean. That's not to say that I'll never stumble ever again, and that's certainly not to say that He'll punish me if I do. I grew up in an abusive family, and I didn't know it was abusive until I was in my 30s. Things that I believed were OK for most of my life... well, it turns out that they weren't OK at all. I've gone through some major internal rewiring.

My spiritual and emotional health is extremely important to me, because I want to stay sane, and because I don't want any of my iniquity-crap to follow me into my promised land. The last thing I would want to do is hurt somebody because of my issues. I want to be more like Jesus, I want to learn from my Father, and I want the Holy Spirit to cover the process, every step of the way.

A different side of God

Lately I've tried to get creative when it comes to relaxing. Here's a photo of Macho snuggling with me on a couch cushion on my lap. I'll write more about that later, but for now I just wanted to post a photo that would be decent enough to show up on people's Facebook newsfeeds. (Because I have another photo on this post that's pretty gross.)

"Then one of the seraphim flew to me, having in his hand a live coal which he had taken with the tongs from the altar. And he touched my mouth with it, and said: 'Behold, this has touched your lips; your iniquity is taken away, and your sin is purged.' Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying: 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?' Then I said, 'Here am I! Send me.' " (Isaiah 6:6-8)

I love how lately God has been eroding away some really strange paradigms that I've developed during my walk with Him. I'm not saying that He was teaching me some weird stuff to begin with -- I'm saying that we Christians can just have some really strange ideas. I think often we can take one or two really cool nuggets in the Bible out of context and then run with them, and we may never dig deeply enough to see the complete picture of what's going on. We may only see one or two sides of God and His character... and then crazy stuff happens to us in life, and we don't know what to do with it.

Take the famous "Here I am; send me!" passage from Isaiah 6. Aww. Warm fuzzies and a rush to the altar at a missions conference, right?

Well, I recently reread the rest of the chapter, and I was shocked at the change in tone.

"And He said, 'Go, and tell this people: 'Keep on hearing, but do not understand; keep on seeing, but do not perceive.' Make the heart of this people dull, and their ears heavy... " (Isaiah 6:9-10a)

Um, what? All this time, was God really saying, "Whom shall I send... to deliver My sarcastic message to a stubborn people who I'm really ticked off at right now"? Hmm. Well, as I'm slowly chewing my way through Isaiah, I am seeing how it seems to balance out God's healing/mercy/grace with His judgment/discipline/correction.

Lately, I've found myself mindlessly scrolling Facebook to pass the time (when I'm lonely or bored); and there's nothing wrong with that per se, but it's kind of like shopping for groceries at a candy store. "Hey, um, where is your produce section? All I see are jellybeans and Jolly Ranchers. So, um, do you sell milk or bread? I see plenty of chocolate, but there's nothing I can really sink my teeth into for breakfast, lunch, or dinner." In my opinion, if you want to really grow in your Christian walk, social media might not be the best place for that. Most of Christian social media is a vast sea of platitudes.

I don't think there's any real substitute for 1) digging into the Word for yourself, 2) hanging around other Christians who are trying to figure out how to live life in the same way you are, accidentally offending them, and working through it, and 3) hanging out with God and letting Him show you sides of Himself that you never really dreamed existed.

Check out another traditionally warm-and-fuzzy verse from Isaiah:

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

I'm not sure where this mentality comes from, but we tend to have this idea that when God the Potter forms and molds you on His wheel, He spins you around and squishes you into shape for a little while, and then voila, He's done.

Have you ever seen a potter work? The work of creating a vessel doesn't usually end at the wheel. From what I understand about pottery, after you take the beautifully formed piece of clay off the wheel, the clay needs to dry. The new design needs to be baked into the clay. And then sometimes the potter decides to paint the new vessel a beautiful color.

What if you change your mind about a certain vessel? You'd have to break it and start over with a brand-new lump of clay.

But that's pretty much where I am in certain parts of my life -- God has shown me that I've been formed on the potter's wheel, but the design needs to bake in. It needs some time to set. So, I'm waiting.

Some interesting things can happen during the painfully long waiting process.

Regarding that photo I shared at the beginning of this post -- the one of my cat snuggling close to me -- the reason I've been making myself more comfortable at home is because my wrists started hurting some time ago. They're better now, but it was scary for a while. I don't think the pain is really work-related, because it usually comes if I overdo it with manual labor at home (e.g., laundry). The first time I felt it was when I moved into my apartment a few years ago. Then I started watching a lot of YouTube videos on my smartphone a few months ago, and I guess I'm still green about using that thing; the way I was gripping my phone was hurting me, but I discovered that if I rest my phone on my suede cushions, I won't have to use my wrists at all.

But I haven't been able to play my guitar lately. I don't know if it's arthritis or tendonitis or old age or what, but lately every time I've tried to play a bar chord, it hurts my wrist. A lot.

So, I spent some time wrestling with this. The platitude brand of Christianity that you'll find on Facebook will tell you that you can fix it, voila, with some prayer. Yes, of course I pray. Why wouldn't I pray?

Well, you know me. I wouldn't have been satisfied with fixing this with a prayer request. I'm called to be a worship pastor someday. What good is a worship pastor who doesn't know how to play a musical instrument? So, I tearfully snuggled up on my Daddy's lap and tried to see what I needed to do.

"You can play anything," He replied.

I remembered my years of piano training. I remembered the 4-string tenor guitar (no bar chords required) that I have stored away in my closet. I remembered that lots of worship pastors just sing without playing an instrument. And I realized that there are zillions of instruments that exist on this earth. If I were to sprint onto the worship platform and lead a worship set with a tissue paper and comb, if God comes and hangs out with His people for a little while, it would be mission accomplished.

I'm going to be OK.

And maybe I'll wait a little while longer before I try to play any more bar chords during my "quiet time."

 

OK, here's the gross photo. Earlier this year, after Macho came home from his surgical procedure at the vet, I noticed that he had developed some huge, disgusting scabs on his belly. I showed this mystery rash to the vet, and he prescribed some anti-fungal and anti-infection stuff for it, but I couldn't get a real diagnosis for it. The vet even suspected an autoimmune condition. But then Macho's scabs started coming off, and the rash stopped spreading. (Which means that it was probably a temporary infection. I honestly think it might have been stress-related.) This is a picture of a scab that recently came off by itself... after it had been stuck to his belly for several months.

Macho has one giant scab left. (Don't worry; I won't show you THAT photo.) It has fur growing through it and everything. But I'm not going to force it off because I don't want to hurt him. The scab will come off when it's ready to come off... even if I have to wait several more months for that to happen. (Merry Christmas to me?)

So, the God who adopted me, takes care of me, and has a relationship with me that's deeper than any other relationship I'll ever have -- not the Facebook-platitude God -- doesn't have a problem waiting for my heart to heal.

Very recently, He dug down deeply and unearthed some wounds that I didn't know I had. He directed my attention to some feelings that I had had for a guy a very long time ago -- a guy that I had already gotten over. But He found some pain that I hadn't grieved over yet. I thought I was done grieving over that jerk, but I guess I wasn't after all. It bothered me that one guy could have such an ongoing effect on my emotional health.

But God knew it, and He took care of it.

I don't know why He waited so long to fix it, and I don't even know why He allowed the wounds to stay buried so deeply for so long, but He knows what He's doing.

I don't think He's a God who stays in some neat little box where we can study Him and figure Him all out like some lab specimen. He's a real, living Being who has feelings, nuances, and infinite layers upon layers of awesomeness that are waiting to be discovered. Sometimes you gotta crawl up on your Daddy's lap, cry into it for a while, and find out what He's like for yourself. He may show you a different side of Himself that you didn't know was there.