When healing hurts

Lately, I've been fascinated with the concept of strength vs. weakness. In my previous post, I talked about being strong during a trial. Today, I'm going to talk more about being weak. Honestly, I'm not really going to talk about the following verse...

"And He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

...because I haven't really gotten the hang of it yet. So, I think I should just let my cat do the "talking." I heard a preacher say once that physical healing shouldn't be compared to emotional healing, but I say those processes can be pretty darn similar.

Reader, beware: I'm about to get kind of personal.

Last weekend, Macho had rather drastic surgery. After several days at the animal hospital and a couple of not-so-successful treatments, it got to the point where he couldn't urinate without a catheter. So, the only option was to surgically remove Macho's penis. "He will pee like a girl," the vet explained. Um, I don't know if your pet has ever had a major part of his or her anatomy removed, but at first I didn't really know whether to laugh or cry. It's a good thing I call my cat Macho, because that might be the only manly thing he has left. Stifled snicker.

But the healing process has been no laughing matter. The surgery was successful in that Macho can urinate on his own now. But since his little opening is larger, and since the urine has a shorter distance to travel, he has had to make some major adjustments.

Shucks -- we all have had to make some adjustments. My apartment has turned into a feline nursing home. Macho has been on two different antibiotics, and he bit me a couple of times while I administered his medicine. (You're welcome, cat.) Today, I followed both my babies around so that I could clean up pee, poop, hairballs, etc. Ever since I brought Macho home a few days ago, he has wet his bed, he has peed on the floor, and he has had to use a special type of litter in the litterbox. Choochie, of course, has had to use the special litter, too, and I'm very proud of her for adjusting (instead of protesting by making a mess on purpose).

A couple of summers ago, Macho had surgery to remove a couple of stones, and I blogged about how he had to make some adjustments to his life with the soft little satellite dish on his head.

However, this time around, the vet felt it necessary to upgrade Macho's post-operation gear to a hard lampshade (aka cone of shame). I recently noticed some abnormal-looking inflammation in his stitched-up area, and I emailed a photo of it to the vet, who said it didn't look infected but that Macho had probably been licking at it. Sure enough, I caught him in the act today, so I tightened up his little lampshade, and I've been keeping a closer eye on him.

Gosh. Even with that drastic of a boundary that was set so that his wound would heal properly, Macho still found a way to mess with his incision. But I do understand his deep desire for normalcy. His little lampshade kind of gets in the way of everything.

 

For example, it makes it impossible for him to crawl under the bed to take his morning naps.

 

Mealtimes have been difficult because his little lampshade won't let his head reach the bottom of his bowl. So, I put a saucer on top of his bowl so that his mouth could reach his food. That solution works well when he actually has an appetite (which shrunk for a little while, probably because of the medicine I've been forcing into his adorable little fanged mouth).

Today, I realized that exactly 15 years ago this week, I was nursing another kitty back to health: Choochie. I've mentioned here before that after she got spayed, she gave herself an infection from scrape-licking her stitched-up area. (I have no idea why her quack-shack discount-surgery clinic didn't give her any kind of protective collar to take home, and I'm kind of frustrated at myself now for being such a naive cat lady back then. But God's mercy and hand definitely kept her alive and helped her heal.)

Macho's instincts are powerful enough to cause him a great deal of harm. Yes, of course he reminds me of myself.

"Thus my heart was grieved, and I was vexed in my mind. I was so foolish and ignorant; I was like a beast before You. Nevertheless I am continually with You; You hold me by my right hand. You will guide me with Your counsel, and afterward receive me to glory." (Psalm 73:21-24)

I've never had anything drastic surgically removed (except wisdom teeth), but I've had all kinds of precious things cut out of my life: dreams, people, dignity, parts of my heart, etc. God has pruned me John-15 style, and He is continuing to do so. He's made all kinds of adjustments in my life to set me up for healing, restoration, and regrowth. It's been awesome, but it's also been gruesome.

I ain't gonna lie. I'm still bitter in some pretty big areas. Yesterday, I asked God to lance my bitterness like a boil. Later on while my heart was fuming, I was like, "Where the heck are all these thoughts coming from??" And God was like, "Well, you asked Me to lance it, so I lanced it." Oh. That would explain the icky thought-oozing.

One issue that has been in my face lately has been rejection -- like, the deep, intimate kind. For example, today is Valentine's Day. If you've read my blog for the past several years, you know how I feel about shmalentine's day. I think it's the worst holiday ever. Celebrating love? OK, but why only one day a year? If the people in my life don't already show me or tell me that they love me on a consistent basis (e.g., more than once a year), they can take a hike.

Come on. It's a holiday for couples (as if they don't already celebrate each other on their anniversaries). Who's that little cherub symbol with the bow and arrow? Cupid, aka Eros, aka the mythological character from whose name we derive the word "erotic." Shmalentine's fray is for couples. That's why we non-attached single people try to make peace with it and celebrate it as best we can. For me, that means not celebrating it at all. (As you can see from my icky thought-oozing, it's probably better that way.)

I am never going to get married. And I'm OK with that. I've accepted that.

Frankly, I don't want to get married anymore. The only thing I would want a husband for at this point in my life is sex. (And I don't even want that most of the time anymore.) I'm not called to be single. But I've accepted the fact that marriage isn't something God has in store for me anymore, and I'm OK with it.

But it's a recent realization, a recent pruning that's still in the process of healing. Metaphorically speaking, I'm still wearing my cone of shame so that I won't cause myself harm from obsessing over my still-healing wound. Most of the time, the scab is OK, the stitched-up area is clean, and I am at peace.

Then suddenly, something or someone will come along and start picking at my stitched-up area, and the wound will flare up all over again. Maybe someone who barely knows me will try to set me up on a blind date. Or maybe those feelings I still have for a certain guy will bounce around inside me and then fizzle away when Mr. Clueless won't even give me the time of day. Or maybe a national holiday will come along every 14th of February that will make every cashier in America ask you if you have any big plans for Valentine's Day. Yes. I plan on avoiding eye contact with chatty cashiers.

I am OK with my involuntary singlehood. However, I am not OK with being treated like an unused pair of ovaries. I don't think I've ever been OK with that.

I think whenever that gets flung in my face, I'm suddenly back in the fifth grade being humiliated in front of my entire class when a certain boy announced to everybody that he didn't like me the way I liked him. I'm suddenly reading an email from a guy who emotionally used me for 14 years, only for him to admit that he only thought of me as a sister. I'm suddenly dealing with family friends who thought my birth sister was older than me because she was already married. I'm suddenly back at my grandparents' house where my grandfather is having a warm, lengthy conversation with my sister, but he only talks to me for like 30 seconds and asks coldly, "Are you happy?" I'm suddenly at the park when I'm 4 or 5 years old, and my uncle is playing ball with me, and then he throws it to a perfect-stranger child instead, and I retreat to a nearby park bench and sulk because I'm feeling something that I don't know how to verbalize yet.

It's rejection. It's abandonment. It's shame. It's betrayal.

God saw all of it. He's been going to a lot of trouble to fix it. And He and I have been trying to work together to keep my stitched-up area clean.

If my heart/brain goes to a certain place and I start dreaming again about getting married, God is like, "You don't need to go there." If I ask Him if I'm ever going to get married someday, God is like, "Why do you need a husband? You have Me." OK, then. I'm good to go. I just need to wait for the healing process to run its course, because I don't want to mess any of it up.

Sometimes when I'm still enough, I can put together the pieces of what I've heard God say, and they all make sense: He's told me that my independence is His gift to me... He's told me that He wants me to channel my loneliness into songwriting... He's told me that He wants me to be strong...

Which is probably why lately I've just wanted to crawl into a cave, write songs, and dance with gypsies. Hey, an independent woman can do that, right?

Seriously, though, I want to be strong enough for other people. I want people to lean on me and receive wisdom, dignity, and courage from me -- like the big sister that I am -- without me feeding them the poison of my bitterness. I want people to look at me and think, "If she can make it, I can, too. Whatever helped her through her stuff -- I want that, too."

Well, I hope it's no secret that that "Whatever" is actually a "Whoever." It's God.

 

Today, I gave Macho a heart-to-heart and explained why he's had to wear his little lampshade and why it's important that he doesn't scrape-lick his adorable little stitched-up area. (Yeah, I know he's a cat, and he might not have understood a word I said, but I talked to him, anyway.) I think one nice side effect of the lampshade is that it forces Macho to give me his undivided attention. And it forces him to trust me to take care of the areas that he can't see.

It's the same way with me and my metaphorical lampshade, of course. Lately while I've been working through a deep emotional issue, God has let me just vent a lot of stuff to Him. And He's said, "You're always going to be Mine. That's all you need to know."

Indeed.

Dancing with the fire

Right after I got out of the psych hospital about 15 years ago, I drew a lot for my own therapy. I kept a lot of my drawings (most of which were integrated with a journal that I kept back then), and I still have a couple of them hung on my wall. I'm no Michelangelo, but my therapeutic creations have a lot of sentimental value to me.

The disco theme for a song at my church this past weekend, as well as some stuff that I've been thinking about lately, reminded me of this picture that I drew circa 2001. It's a cartoon of me standing in the middle of a disco-type arena facing an Exodus-type cloud pillar and fire pillars. God is speaking to me in the cloud. I am wearing a purple dress -- the purple symbolizes that I am royalty, and the dress symbolizes that I am a chick. I'm holding my hands behind my back, I'm totally digging God, and I'm completely secure.

Security was a huge deal to me back then -- as it is for everybody, all the time, especially if you're a woman -- but it was an even bigger deal to me then because I was pretty much fighting for my peace every day. Depression was like that for me. Maybe you don't know what it's like to be choked to death by an invisible monster that is stronger than you, that has grabbed hold of you and has refused to let you go, that is always trying to drag you down into a dark pit. That was my life back then. Rather, my life had been stolen from me, and even though I was very weak, I was using every ounce of strength I had to get my life back.

Although I know now that I wasn't recovering from depression in a spiritually healthy environment, one place where I wasn't stifled was my drawings. God let me use them as a vehicle to pour out my heart to Him. He let me get angry there. He let me work things out there. He let me express myself there.

Expression is a pretty important thing, especially if you're in the middle of trying to cure a mental-health crisis that ignited after years of absorbing bad things and stuffing then down inside you.

"Gird Your sword upon Your thigh, O Mighty One, with Your glory and Your majesty. And in Your majesty ride prosperously because of truth, humility, and righteousness; and Your right hand shall teach You awesome things." (Psalm 45:3-4)

"Blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle." (Psalm 144:1)

Last year, I started getting into the Gipsy Kings' music (as I talked about in this post), and I haven't been able to stop. I think I like them now about as much as I like Queen (which is a lot). I'm totally a fan, and I've been gawk-researching their music/lives.

As I mentioned before, the Gipsy Kings didn't give themselves a pretentious-sounding name because they claimed to be the "kings" of their music genre. They didn't even start out to become world-famous musicians. Music is simply in their blood; they are who they are, and they don't apologize for it. They don't need to. And I don't want them to.

From what I understand, the group's families come from a long line of people called Romani who originated in India. They have traditionally been nomadic and -- for reasons which I really don't understand -- highly persecuted. In fact, hundreds of thousands of Romani people were exterminated during the Holocaust. I had no idea.

Today, from what I understand, many Romani people have traded in their nomadic lifestyle for a more settled existence, and a great many of them are musicians. The Gipsy Kings' families are gitanos, or Romani people from Spain.

I read an interview online from the lead singer of the Gipsy Kings, and he explained that his family had to move around a lot because they weren't welcome in society. They were denied schooling/education, and they weren't even allowed to fight in the Spanish Civil War (which is why his family emigrated to France for safety).

But one place where they could truly be themselves was within the family -- especially when they would play music together. The men would sing and play guitars while the women would dance, and they would all party pretty much all night long. Their children were treated like royalty because they were the only way that their persecuted clan could keep existing.

When I learned this information about their families, the Gipsy Kings' music gradually started to make so much more sense.

Their first album (1982) is an acoustic recording that is very underproduced and sounds like the engineer just turned a few mics on and told the musicians to do their thing. There is a lot of chitchat between songs. After one of the songs, you hear someone quietly crash the recording session when all the group members greet her one by one: "¡Dora! ¡Elé!" From the way they dote on her several songs later, I'm guessing the recording-crasher is a child who probably starts dancing.

Sometimes I can understand their Spanish. Other times, I can recognize that French is being sung/spoken. Still other times, I can't understand what the heck is being sung/said because it's some sort of language hybrid sung by a bunch of ingenious musicians who probably create new stuff all the time, I'm guessing even in their everyday speech.

These are artists who grew up in a nomadic society that fused languages together. Since they were largely denied formal education, they might not know how to read. I think this explains the interesting spellings on the titles of their songs. Even "Gipsy" is actually technically supposed to be spelled "Gypsy" in English. But so what? They're authentic. They're the real deal.

Since it sounds like they pretty much only had each other while they were growing up, the guys in the group are more than likely extremely close. Since they had to lean on each other to survive, and since they played music together constantly, they can follow one another impeccably. When they make mistakes on their underproduced recordings, you can barely tell because their music is so organic, so tight, and so fluid. It's brilliant. And there's so much of it to listen to.

Frankly, it's intoxicating. I'm not addicted. I can stop anytime I want. Oh, who am I kidding? I am so addicted.

I love these guys' music. They have a crazy way of expressing any kind of emotion -- sadness, happiness, shame -- with a fast-paced dance. They've even tackled the issue of domestic violence in this happy style of music. The English translation of one of their songs is "Dad, Don't Hit Mom," and it even has a key change and I think a prayer in the middle. From what I can understand, it basically goes, "Dad, Dad, don't hit Mom, you're going to kill her, Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey, Father please bless me [rhythmic clapping, guitar flourish, a bunch of gitanos cheering loudly], ¡Olé!" Toe-tapping catharsis.

I love listening to their live recordings. It sounds like they encourage each other while they are playing and improvising. And I think perhaps one welcome side effect of their years of persecution and isolation is a very intense focus on their craft. Vocally and on guitar, they are virtuosos. Honestly, I consider them to be like my musical grandfathers now.

Listening to the Gipsy Kings' folk-flamenco music has introduced me to another traditional genre of flamenco music called the fandango. (Not to be confused with the Portuguese dance. (Or the movie-ticket company.)) The fandango is like the Spanish blues. From what I understand, if you have at least one guitarist and one vocalist, you two can fandango your hearts out until you run out of stuff to vocally vent about. I've seen YouTube videos of gitanos go pretty crazy (in a good way) with fandangos. From what I understand, it's all improvised, and a typical song goes something like, "[guitar flourish intro] You left me, you left me, you left me [guitar flourish], I can't believe you could have been so foolish [guitar flourish], everybody told me you were bad for me [long guitar flourish], and now you're gone [longer guitar flourish], I still can't believe you left me, left me, left me-e-e-e-e [etc.]."

Dang. Can you get how I've really been digging this stuff the past several months? Oh, my gosh. It's like I died and went to flamenco heaven.

Seriously. I want to integrate this stuff into my quiet time: "[guitar intro] Lord, with all due respect [guitar picking], seriously, what the heck [guitar guitar guitar], but I know You know best [guitar guitar], I just don't get how all [guitar] of this crap [guitar] has been flung in my face lately [guitar], lately [guitar], lately, lately, lately, lately-y-y-y-y [spastic guitar finish], ¡Olé! Selah!"

Sometimes a chick just needs to express herself. God definitely knows that.

"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you." (Isaiah 43:2)

Last week was totally insane for me. I was hit with challenges and trials from all different directions. When I began my drive to work last Monday morning, God was like, "Let's DO this, child." He and I are on the same team (otherwise I would be toast), and it sounded like He was ready to duke it out with somebody.

The other night when I got home from work, after I had gotten another life-hit, God told me, "Let's kick this trial's [bleep]." I promise you that's what He said, minus my censoring. I know my Father's voice. He's gentle and fierce simultaneously. He comforts me, and He disciplines me. Sometimes He sings to me in falsetto, and sometimes He calls me Chucklehead. (Sorry, only God is allowed to call me Chucklehead.)

The other day when I was reading Psalm 45 for the zillionth time, I couldn't get past verse 4. In His majesty, God rides in truth, HUMILITY, and righteousness. I think people everywhere have a bad idea of what humility really is. Humility isn't humiliation. I heard a pastor say a long time ago that humility is being focused on Jesus; the pastor was right.

Humility is staying focused on your relationship with God and being honest with yourself. When Jesus was on this earth and He told people that He is the Light of the World, He wasn't being arrogant. He was never arrogant. He was being humble. He was being honest. He was just telling people who He is.

I think Psalm 45:4 says that there is an element of God's majesty that He won't ever be able to separate from His humility. When He's riding forth in majesty, Psalm 45:4 says He's doing so prosperously. It says that He's doing it BECAUSE OF truth, humility, and righteousness. Psalm 45:4 doesn't say that God helplessly shrugs His shoulders and says, "Oh, woe is Me, and woe is you because all you can do now is trust in Me. I'm such a wussy little God. Cough, cough."

Nope. Psalm 45:3 says He girds His sword with glory and majesty. Psalm 45:4 says He rides prosperously. And Psalm 45:5 says His arrows are sharp in His enemies' hearts. When my God says He's going to kick my trial's [bleep], that means He's going to kick its [bleep]. I know my Father.

And Psalm 144:1 says that He trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle. Let's DO this, Father.

So, here's where all the crazy ideas in this post come together. In the Bible (and in everyday speech), a trial or hardship is sometimes referred to as a "fire." Recently while I've experienced my own "fires," and while I've been listening to a lot of Gipsy Kings music (which is quite fiery metaphorically), I've pictured myself dancing with fire. Not in a recreational or pagan sense. More like in a triumphant sense. Please indulge me while I bully my tormentor.

[crazy flamenco guitar] "Aw, hello there, little flamey. You like my dance moves? You don't like my dance moves? Why not? Aw, little flamey-wamey doesn't like Tirzah's hands clasped around your neck? Hmm. That's funny. I thought since you tried to choke the life out of me, you wouldn't have a problem with me choking the life out of you. [guitar guitar guitar] Eh, what's that? You have no idea how my hands aren't burning to a crisp? Ay, pobre fuego-fueguito. Come on, now, poor little flamey. There's no way I can spend all this time with you and your kind and NOT know how to handle you. [guitar guitar guitar guitar guitar] Eh, what's that? You suddenly have a problem dancing with me? I'm wearing you out? I'm wearing you down? I'm too strong for you? Well, that's not my fault. See, I learned all my chokehold moves from my hip-dislocater Dance Partner. You know. He's the Consuming Fire. Oh, you don't know? Well, you're about to find out exactly who He is! [spastic guitar finish] ¡Olé! Selah!" [flamey-wamey chokes, sputters, and fizzles out]

Last month, a visiting pastor at my church said that 2016 would be a year to "thrive." I think that can totally be done while you're dancing in the fire, while your Father is keeping the flames from burning you, while you're focusing on your relationship with Him, while you're being honest with Him and with yourself, and while He and you are kicking a trial's [bleep].

I think thriving can also happen while you're curled up in a fetal position and crying your eyes out into your Daddy's bosom while He's holding you and comforting you.

Because as long as you haven't broken the life-essential connection with your Father, you've won.

Although technically, we're more than conquerors in Jesus because He won first. He treats us like royalty because in Him, we are. We can definitely be secure in that. ¡Olé! Selah!

Why I...

Why I Left

"You made a mistake," she accused.

Like a dormant volcano, the irritation in my voice erupted, and for a moment I reverted back to the scared little girl who was backed into a corner like a dog. "I'm not your employee anymore," I barked over the phone. My heart pounded loudly in my ears as I explained why I had closed my retirement account.

"We are required by law to make a deposit into your account, and since you closed the account, now you'll have to pay a penalty," she insisted.

The words danced carelessly through the air like dead leaves caught up in a whirlwind as we argued. At the end of the conversation, I agreed to fix her problem by opening a new account.

I hung up the phone, did some research online, and discovered that she was right. But when I left her company months ago, she hadn't explained the law to me. She had clarified very little at our parting.

But now here she was, suddenly in my face again, throwing accusations at me and rubbing my nose in my mess, and now I was going to have to take responsibility for her irresponsibility. All over again, her incompetence was my inconvenience. All over again, she was controlling my money. All over again, she was neglecting to take care of me the way any decent employer should take care of an employee who works her tail off. Just like old times.

And then I remembered: That was why I left.

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Why I Am Keeping my Distance

"That's his problem," she accused over the phone. "What does his family think of him talking about them like that during a sermon?"

As if we had suddenly encountered a stalled car in the middle of a street, our phone conversation quickly veered in an awkward direction. Was this really happening? Was a trusted relative actually criticizing my pastor to me directly? "I'm sorry you feel that way," I said, hoping my words would serve as an effective band-aid.

But the bleeding continued. "I'm looking at it from the perspective of a pastor's daughter. He can use other illustrations in his sermons."

Oh, she was a pastor's daughter. And what was I? Chopped liver?

But she was one of the nicer relatives. Even though the insults were being hurled at my pastor's preaching style -- just like the Pharisees probably did while Jesus was simply conducting His Father's business during His earthly ministry -- I couldn't just insult her back. So, I just listened, and I bore it.

Fortunately, she is aware of the fact that my pastor preaches different sermon series on TV all the time, and maybe she'll actually like a series that airs in the future. Perhaps she's looking forward to my pastor not being vulnerable about his testimony at all. (Heh. Sorry, but that'll never happen. One of the reasons why I stick around his church is because he constantly creates an environment where people can safely be human.)

So, I took several giant paces away from her in my heart.

On a different occasion, another relative explained to me about a friend of his: "He doesn't like hymns because he didn't grow up in church."

"I grew up in church, and I hate hymns," I said plainly.

The relative explained how contemporary worship artists update hymns to make them "more palatable" and how he doesn't like it. He prefers the traditional music. (Good for him. But it's also good for me to know that if I ever decide to write a song by updating a hymn myself, he probably won't support me.)

Suddenly, his wife leaned over to me and asked me if I would be interested in double-dating with them. Since I didn't give her the name of anyone that I am really interested in, she offered to set me up on a blind date. I left their house as quickly and as politely as I could.

That night, I cried on my pillow.

So, I'm hoping I'll never have to set foot in their house ever again.

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Why I Walked Away Forever

"Honor thy father and thy mother," the email message repeatedly commanded.

I had just corresponded with my birth parents and explained why I had permanently disowned myself from the family. Confused and heartbroken, my birth father was stunned as to why I left.

I had explained plainly, as gently as I could, that I left because they were abusive, and also because God told me to leave.

Suddenly his confusion and heartache hardened into patronizing accusation. I was told that anytime I hear a message, I need to make sure it doesn't go against Scripture. There was no acknowledgement of abuse. But he did offer one last eruption of scriptural and spiritual abuse for the road.

God also told me that there will be no reconciliation.

Years later, I was sitting in church during one of my vulnerable pastor's sermons. He was passionately talking about how there are three baptisms: salvation, water baptism, and baptism in the Holy Spirit. He explained that many churches unfortunately only teach about the first two baptisms. People are either scared of the very idea of the third baptism or they simply haven't heard about it yet.

I know firsthand about the controversy that the third baptism causes in the body of Christ. When I was first baptized in the Holy Spirit, my life was never the same afterwards. After I received a prayer language, I made the mistake of telling my birth parents about it. They spiritually abused me quite fiercely, even getting me to profess that the baptism of the Holy Spirit occurs at salvation (which it doesn't). They forced me to read a book. They forced me to listen to a lengthy sermon series on audiotape. They did all they could do to deprogram me.

Sometime after that, God began to show me that I would need to leave my family. They were coming between Him and me. In essence, I would eventually need to choose between my family and God.

So, I finally chose God.

During my vulnerable pastor's recent sermon about the three baptisms, when I saw him get "worked up" about the ridiculous controversy that the third baptism causes in the body of Christ, I recognized the frustration in his voice.

Because I had felt it, too, many years ago.

Because the Holy Spirit is God. To claim to serve and worship God, but to block a spiritually starved young woman from fully experiencing Him (the only One who could ever heal her from all the years of control, shame, neglect, and abuse)... well, I think Jesus would say it would be better for that person if they were to have a millstone tied around their neck right before they are thrown into the sea.

I will more than likely never see those people again.

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Why I Will Stay with Him Forever

He doesn't insist that I drag myself out of bed and open my Bible before I talk to Him in the mornings. He lets me talk to Him groggily, waiting for the snooze button to run its course, even while my cat is meowing at me or stepping on me to convince me to get up and serve breakfast.

He is patient with me, and when I am ready to read in His Word, He quietly waits for me to process what He is really saying. He listens to me. He encourages me.

Sometimes He shows up suddenly in my day and gently asks me what I'm thinking. The tone in His voice is one of an Intimate Friend, or perhaps a Passionate Lover, or maybe an Eager Father who wants to build a relationship with His child... even though He already knows her thoughts long before she ever thinks about thinking about them.

When I am sad, He comforts me. When I am lonely, He spends time with me. When I am angry, He helps me calm down. When I need a swift kick in the tail, He is happy to oblige. When I feel like I am falling apart, He infuses me with strength and then He runs into battle with me. When I have already fallen apart, He lets the tears flow while He holds me and gently puts me back together.

We talk about everything, and we talk about nothing. We are buddies. We are confidantes.

Our relationship is an uneven one, and it always will be, because He is God to whom no one can compare, and I am Tirzah who will always be helplessly dependent upon her Creator.

He never, ever accuses me. I never, ever feel trapped into a corner with Him. I never, ever feel unsafe with Him. I never, ever feel misunderstood by Him. I never, ever feel abused by Him. He never, ever makes me feel treated like an object.

Because He knows that I am His child. He created me in His image. He has my best interests at heart, and His way is always best.

He loves me. He wants me. He cherishes me.

He is set on permanently destroying any force that comes against me.

He takes care of me. He guides me. He knows that I need Him, and He can't bear to be away from me, so He makes Himself available to me constantly.

In the past, I kept my distance from Him in one way or another. I ran away from Him. I embraced the poisons that swirled around like decaying gases in my mind... the poisons that led me away from Him and threatened to trap me and annihilate me. And they almost won.

But God broke through all of that and grafted me permanently into His family. All Three of Them -- Father, Son, Holy Spirit -- all One of Him -- the Lion adopted me as if I were an abandoned little kitten, and He nursed me back to health.

I can't leave His house. I've become attached to Him. This is my home. I belong here with Him. He's stuck with me forever.

And that's the way He wanted it in the first place.