Farewell to my 30s

Lord willing, I'll celebrate my 40th birthday in a couple of weeks. That's a pretty big birthday. And, well, you know me. It wouldn't be a big deal until I processed through it here on my blog. So, I thought I'd use this space to officially and properly (albeit early) say goodbye to my 30s... and to share some of the big lessons that I learned during this important decade.

1) There's no shame in being yourself. God made you YOU on purpose. It might take you a while to figure out who you are (especially if people have been feeding you lies about who you are for your entire life), and discovering who you are might be a lifelong process. But that's OK. There's nothing wrong with that.

As for me, I am a highly introverted creative person who's more comfortable expressing herself in writing than she is in spoken words. If you have a conversation with me, I might trip over my words, I might stutter a little bit, you might have to wait a little while for me to get the words out, and I might cut through the awkwardness by singing instead. And I'm OK with that.

I think every time I step onto a church worship platform and simply be myself, it scares the crap out of the devil. (And it should -- not just with me, but with all of us when we are just being ourselves.)

2) Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. Life throws so many curveballs at you, it ain't even funny. Life ain't nothin' like what they teach you in school. There ain't no textbook for life... and even in the Bible (the one Book that could ever qualify as being the perfect Textbook), you can't even get through Genesis without reading about how God was thrown all kinds of curveballs after He created creation, and about how He had to adjust multiple times. I'm not saying any of it surprised Him; I'm saying that He just did what He had to do.

And so do we. You just gotta show up and adapt to every situation as best you can. You might freak out at first, but if you hang in there, you can make it if you need to.

Throughout the years, perhaps you've read way more information than you cared to about my life, so I'll spare you the details about my cats' latest health issues and general shenanigans. But I will say that Macho and Choochie are still alive and kicking. It's taken a lot of work and a lot of adjusting, but I don't regret hanging in there. I hope they don't regret it, either.

3) It's important to respect rush hour. If you live in a large metropolitan area, you understand how frustrating it can be to drive anywhere between about 6:30 a.m. and 10 a.m. and then between about 3:30 p.m. and 7 p.m. Of course, that is the time of day when people are going to work and then coming home from work. If you're on a highway, there's a strong chance that you could be delayed or stuck in traffic. Sometimes during the summertime (when there's no school), Fridays/Mondays (when many people work from home), or non-universal holidays (such as Presidents' Day or Veterans Day), you can get a break and some very smooth travel. But most of the time, Monday through Friday, rush hour will come and go as faithfully as the seasons.

After a while, you'll get the hang of it. You'll learn to expect anything, be ready for anything, and respond accordingly to anything. People will cut you off, honk at you for no apparent reason, scare the crap out of you, drive in your blind spot, tailgate you, bully you, or nearly run you off the road. But eventually, you'll stop taking it personally. You'll learn how to make your way through traffic by weaving around the traffic-impeders or letting the speed demons pass you without incident. You'll realize that sometimes it's safer to speed up than to slow down, and vice versa. You'll learn how to adeptly master a road that used to freak you out.

You'll eventually realize that the people who drove like crazy maniacs during rush hour did so because it was the most effective way that they knew how to make it through the madness.

 

Earlier this week on social media, I posted a picture of a funny-looking sign. Here is a somewhat clearer photo of the "No thru trucks" sign. Wait. Or does it say, "No anvils"?

Several months ago when I started a new job (which happens to be located somewhat near my previous job), I started taking a different route to work. At first, I was delighted that the new route (a small state highway, 45 MPH through quiet suburbs) shaved about five minutes off my trip from my previous route (two larger state highways, 65+ MPH through noisier suburbs, near an airport). But in recent months, I've noticed that the shorter drive on the quaint road has gotten longer. Perhaps the area along the small 45 MPH road has grown, or perhaps law enforcement has identified the speed-trap potential in the area. Lately, I've been driving less and sitting at stoplights more. Hence my ability to safely take pictures of funny-looking scenery.

Whatever the reason for the slowdown, I don't think this new set of drivers that I've been sharing the road with actually has any "rush hour" skills to speak of. I have been SO frustrated lately during my commutes to/from work. Oh, my gosh. Green means go, people. If the speed limit is 45, that means you can actually go 45.

Lately, I've really been missing my scarier "rush hour" commutes through the noisier suburbs. I miss getting to make up for lost time by driving at faster speeds. I miss recognizing the traffic-impeders and the speed demons and responding accordingly. I think that frustrated me and stressed me out a lot less. I think my current quaint drive is giving me a crash course in experiencing and controlling road rage.

I respect rush hour because I've learned that many of the drivers have developed a level of skill that is conducive, ironically, to ensuring their safety and the safety of those around them. (You have to be careful when you're trying to get to where you're going in one piece.)

But I don't have much respect for the wusses who slow down to 35-40 in a 45 MPH zone just because they see a cop. I mean, come on, grandma. I'm seriously considering taking my old route to work again every once in a while just to keep my highway-driving skills sharp. Or maybe just for my sanity.

When I say it's important to respect rush hour, I mean literally and metaphorically.

"...we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope." (Romans 5:3-4)

"And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

When you're trying to maneuver from one place to another in your life -- spiritually, emotionally, mentally, etc. -- it's a lot like rush hour. You're just going along, minding your own business, and then suddenly you get stuck. You're in the middle of a trial, you didn't know it was coming, and now suddenly you have to deal with it. You're getting attacked from every angle, you feel like everything is closing in on you, and you don't feel like you can catch a break. Maybe at some point, you get a breakthrough, and you're able to break free and find some peace again. You're going along at a good pace, and then suddenly you find yourself stuck again.

Or maybe the people around you are dragging you down. You don't know why these people won't use some common sense, or you wish they would just get out of your face, but they're squeezing some stuff out of you, and you don't like it. You might even think you're a jerk for feeling the way that you feel.

But you deal with it as best you can, and you move on with your life. And it makes you a stronger person. Otherwise, you could find yourself in a heap of trouble, and then you're toast.

But if you hang in there, you'll eventually make it through. And while you're hanging in there, you might acquire some skills that you'll need later.

I consider myself to be a strong person now, but I haven't always been. I think God has allowed me to go through some stuff, to process some stuff, and to learn some stuff that has enabled Him to mold me into who I am today. And I think the older I get, the stronger, tougher, more skilled, and more refined I'll hopefully become.

But I haven't always been this way. I wasn't born tough. I used to be a total wuss. But then I think God let me go through some stuff so that I would learn how to fight for my peace, for my sanity, for my existence -- things that could so easily be taken for granted.

I'm not saying I'm not supposed to be soft and sensitive. I'm not saying that God isn't a good Daddy who's strong enough to let me melt into a pile of frightened goo on His bosom while He defends me and protects me. I'm saying I need to be sturdy enough to carry out His will and not be useless on the battlefield. I need to be sturdy, strong, and solid enough for others to lean on me whenever they need to.

I'm saying God has let me fight my way through quite a few rush hours. I don't always get a break from them, but with His help, I have learned how to adeptly master a road that used to freak me out.

4) Sometimes people will fight with you, but there are some battles that you'll need to fight alone. Maybe Jesus experienced this at Gethsemane when He intended to have a few of His closest friends support Him through the roughest emotional struggle of His life. And they let Him down. But He wrestled, anyway. And He emerged triumphantly like the King of Kings that He is.

When I embarked on my 30s, I was excited to do so with a handful of friends. But something happened. I'm not sure what it was, but gradually I either watched friend after friend abandon me, or I felt like some of them were too unhealthy for me, so I was the one who walked away. Now they're mostly all gone.

I still have a small group of new friends who are available to fight some battles with me, but it looks much different than it used to. I feel like I'm fighting alone most of the time. But I wouldn't want to force, manipulate, or guilt-trip anyone into fighting with me, so I work with who/what I have. And there are some battles that I'm needing to fight alone.

I guess it's kind of like watching a baby chick hatch out of her shell. You feel like helping her, because she looks exhausted fighting her way through her little prison. But if you were to help her, you'd actually kill her. It is in her battle for breakthrough that she finds the strength she needs to stay alive and kicking. Baby chick needs to conquer the shell on her own. Then she can kick some barnyard butt.

5) I'm worth fighting for. There are all sorts of things swirling through my head as I write this... so many people in my past who had opportunities to either protect me or pursue me, but they didn't. They failed, and I either got hurt or slipped through their fingers.

I hope I don't mean this arrogantly, but their loss is God's gain. Jesus believed I was worth fighting for. He overcame sin, death, and the grave for me. And now HE has me. They don't.

 

6) "Family" is a group of creatures who belong together. These creatures will keep showing up until they stick to your life forever. Above is a photo of my lap this evening. It's actually a snapshot of what happens nearly every evening: My cats will find me and want to be where I am. They will cherish my presence. They have pretty much the entire apartment to hang out in, but throughout the evening, they choose to stick with me. They insist upon it.

They belong with me because they're mine, and I'm theirs.

Of course, it's the same way with me and God.

7) God truly will never, ever, ever leave me or forsake me. It says this in Hebrews 13:5, but He has proven this to me by simply showing up, 24/7, 365. I've given Him plenty of reasons to disown me. By mere human logic, He probably should have given up on me a long time ago.

But He didn't, and He won't, because I don't want Him to. He's committed to our relationship in a way that no one else could ever be committed. He thought me up, He made me, He bought me, He lives inside me, He surrounds me. He wants me. He yearns for me. He waits for me.

And He wants me to pursue Him, too. He rewards me when I do so.

Even though He is the most complex Person in the entire universe -- because He designed it and looks after it -- He keeps my life simple.

He is. I am. We are.

And I like Him. And He likes me.

OK, I think I'm good to go. Onward to my 40s! 

Sheep and landmarks

Disclaimer: As I've said before, I'm not a theologian or an ordained minister. I just use my blog to process some stuff that I've gone through in my past or that I'm going through now. I'm not proposing that everyone start doing things my way. I'm just talking about myself and the things I learn as I live my life. And you are welcome to read about it. Thank you kindly in advance for doing so.

"Do not remove the ancient landmark which your fathers have set." (Proverbs 22:28)

Five years ago when I took a spiritual gifts test, I was shocked to discover that I am gifted in shepherding, but when God started talking to me about it, it made sense. (My entire life started to make more sense.) Since then, I've noticed that shepherding affects nearly everything I do. For example, the disclaimer at the beginning of this post is basically me saying, "Hey, reader-sheep, if you don't like what you're reading, don't send me hate mail; instead, focus your attention on the fact that blogging is cheaper than therapy." At my day job, I'm an editor, and God has told me that I'm a word shepherd; at work, my red pen basically says, "Hey, sentence-sheep, you have a misspelled word over here," or "HEY! COMMA-SPLICE WOLF! Get out of my sentence-pasture!!"

I know. I'm obsessed.

I'm sure you've heard the saying that herding cats is impossible. Well... I had a conversation about this with a coworker at a previous job, and I explained that I (literally) herd my cats by feeding them; if I want them to be enclosed in a certain room, I'll feed them there inside that room and then close the door. But my coworker was like, "That isn't herding; that's attracting them to what they desire."

Um, what do you think shepherding is? You just lead the sheep to a place where they need to be. That's all there is to it. Leave the shepherding to us shepherds. We know how it's done. When you spend all your life in a lonely field looking after sheep who may or may not appreciate you, your mind begins to adapt with all sorts of problem-solving skills, and you get pretty darn creative.

Speaking of herding cats, earlier this week, during an almost sleepless night, I basically told God I was done with this whole Macho-peeing-on-my-bed thing. So, I started doing a couple of things differently. Firstly, instead of keeping my cats inside my bedroom at night with me, I've left my door open and let them sleep wherever they want inside my apartment. (Hopefully at this point, they're conditioned to stay away from my kitchen sink and cabinets.) I've also decided to not enclose them in my bedroom anymore when I leave for work. (They seem very happy with these changes.)

 

Secondly, I decided to protect my bed with wee-wee pads when I'm not sleeping in it. So, I bought a big package of puppy-training pads that are supposed to attract dogs to pee on them. I think they have the opposite effect on cats, because my babies haven't really shown any interest in the wee-wee pads so far.

 

After I placed a few of the pads in strategic places on my bed, I noticed only one little accident on my bed a couple of inches away from a pad, so I decided to just cover my bed with pads. So far, so good! The pads have remained completely dry, my floor has remained dry, no one has seemed to protest my methods by squatting in any unauthorized locations, and the litterbox has been buzzing with much activity. Mission accomplished thus far!

If you read my previous post, perhaps you have an idea of how frustrating and heartbreaking it has been for me -- for all three of us who live here inside my apartment -- to adjust while Macho has been relearning how to pee. God has had to hold my hand through this and help me to have some grace and wisdom in how to handle everything. Because this isn't anything they teach you at PetSmart when you adopt a kitten and bring him home.

Actually, a lot of the things that people told me about how to take care of cats have been wrong -- at least for my particular cats. For example, 1) I was told that cats like pressure, so when you pet them, you should pet them hard. This doesn't work with Choochie, who is tiny, delicate, and meows in pain/frustration if you pet her too hard. 2) Everyone says to discipline a kitten by squirting water on her whenever she is naughty. Again, this doesn't work with Choochie, who loves water, so much so that she gave herself an infection in her ear one time from drinking out of the faucet too much. 3) People will tell you to drug a cat with prescription medication or Benadryl before you take them on a roadtrip with you. Heh. Good luck trying to force any kind of tablet into Macho's mouth. Ever since he refused Benadryl once, I decided that both my babies will just have to deal with any kind of roadtrips medicine-free.

So, wee-wee pads designed to attract puppies actually repel cats. Who'd a thunk?

Not everything works for everybody. And God knows that.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." (Psalm 23:1)

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will guide you with My eye." (Psalm 32:9)

Earlier today, I was thinking about a memory from about 9 1/2 years ago, when I moved into the metropolitan area. Dad, Mom, and my cousin were helping me move into an apartment. I have an old desk, and I packed its contents simply by taping a bag over the top of each drawer. (I saw Mom pack some dressers that way years ago, so I had packed my drawer contents that way ever since. It was easy and convenient because it saved so much work.)

But Dad had this quirk of demonstrating gravity to everyone outside my immediate family. (I have no idea why. Welcome to my life.) So, while my cousin was there with us, Dad did his gravity-demonstration thing. He grabbed one of my desk drawers and said something like, "See what happens? There's this thing called gravity..." What was supposed to happen was, Dad would turn over my drawer, nothing would fall out of it because its contents were packed securely, and voila, my cousin was supposed to ooh and ahh over Dad's supreme knowledge of science. Instead, alas, Dad turned over my drawer, all of its contents spilled out because I guess my packing technique royally failed me, one of my glass picture frames broke, and Dad said, "Whoops."

I ended up replacing the frame, but Dad didn't show any kind of remorse over breaking my property, and I don't remember him offering to fix it or make it right. (The next time I moved, I emptied out all my drawers, packed the contents into boxes, and hired professional movers.)

Today while I was thinking about that memory, God basically told me, "You were raised by an overgrown child, and I had to remove you from there and re-raise you Myself."

I'm God's sheep. He's my Shepherd. Throughout the ages, since the beginning of time, there has only ever been one ME. While God has been taking care of me, I guess He could have taken advice from people about the proper way of taking care of a Tirzah. But maybe I'm not like all the other Tirzahs. Maybe I'm ME. And maybe I need some very specific TLC that only God knows about.

Psalm 23 says He herds me to the places where I need to be, and Psalm 32 says He instructs me in the way that I should go.

 

I've recently decided to start a new tradition: Every Saturday afternoon, I will enjoy a vanilla milkshake. (Last week, it was Braum's; this week, it was Whataburger.) Why? Is it because I need the extra calories? Is it because I'm five years old?

Recently, I've been fighting some depression that pops up during the weekends when I'm lonely. It's OK; I know how to kick depression's butt. God has taught me all about how to do that during the past decade and a half. And during this particular leg of my journey, it seems wise to set up a new landmark -- a new tradition.

Traditions are bad if you worship them, and they're especially bad if you depend on them to get you to heaven someday. If you're an artsy-fartsy chick like me, it's fashionable and cool to blow traditions to smithereens, because they go against everything that your artsy-fartsyness stands for.

But through the years, I've learned that traditions aren't all bad. They help you keep your sanity (especially when your artsy-fartsyness makes you crazy like a senile cat who thinks it's OK to pee on his owner's bed). They give you something to look forward to. It's nice to know that you're going to get some kind of celebration every year on your birthday. It's nice to know that little kids are going to dress up in silly costumes and ask you for some candy every 31st of October. It's nice to know that somebody is going to have a huge turkey dinner with your name on it every Thanksgiving. It's nice to know that somebody is going to give you some kind of present every Christmas. It's nice to know that people in your area are going to count down to the very last second of the year every 31st of December.

Traditions are all over the Bible. For example, there are all sorts of Jewish holidays that I barely know anything about, but that I would like to learn more about and maybe even observe myself.

But for now, my new tradition is a vanilla milkshake every Saturday afternoon. It will give me something to look forward to. (And I like vanilla milkshakes.) God is a good Daddy. I'm sure He'll give me plenty of conversation while I slowly chug down a dessert drink every weekend.

Because that's what good fathers do. Good fathers spend time with their children. They enjoy their children. They defend their children. They don't destroy their children's lives bit by bit, inch by inch, year by year, just to make themselves look good.

As the closing song from the old TV show Square Pegs asserts, "One size does not fit all." What might work for somebody else might not work for me. So, I think I'll just leave the shepherding of Tirzah to the ultimate Shepherd. He knows how it's done.