My Messianic story

Once upon a time, a scholar of biblical Hebrew and his wife brought a little girl into the world. The girl grew up learning how to say words like "tree" and "swing" in Hebrew, even though she lived in Texas, her relatives spoke Spanish, and her first real language was English. A few years later, the little girl and her parents welcomed a sister into the world. While the Hebrew scholar continued to teach his little girl Hebrew phrases, he would eventually teach her sister biblical Greek. The family would begin each meal by praying to bless the food in English, Spanish, Hebrew, and Greek.

Unfortunately, the scholar didn't know how to properly show love and affection to people, so he began to treat his little Hebrew-speaking girl like a science experiment. Their relationship became less familial and more academic. The scholar began taking his little girl, when she was about 4 or 5 years old, to visit his Hebrew professor so that he could study her communication and interaction. While the little girl's mother and sister would spend time with other family members, the little girl would play at the university while her father and his professor would try to get her to speak Hebrew and tape-record their conversations. Since these scholars were not the world's greatest teachers, the little girl remained fluent in only English -- while being deprived of learning important social-interaction skills with her family and peers.

As the little girl grew up, she was always surrounded by Hebrew music and literature, even though she could understand only a little bit of it and couldn't read it. The scholar took trips to Israel and would bring back souvenirs such as T-shirts and falafel. He liked to tell the story about how one time the Israelis didn't let him leave the country until he showed them his professor ID. His fluency and pronunciation were that good.

One day, after the little girl had grown up and gone off to college, she met the Ruach HaKodesh (the Holy Spirit), and she made the mistake of telling the scholar and his wife about the gifts that the Ruach had given her. The parents treated the girl as if she had just joined a cult and began to deprogram her. Her relationship with the Ruach was stifled for a time, but He kept wooing her back, and she kept looking for Him... because He made her feel freer than anyone else ever had.

As the years passed, the scholar and his wife grew more and more enamored with the Hebrew language and with the nation of Israel. While the family was planning to gather together one Christmas, the little girl suggested to her family that they play Christmas music together. They agreed.

However, instead of bonding together over music that Christmas, a strange thing happened. The scholar and his wife had taken a trip to Israel earlier that year, and the family seemed very preoccupied with that event. The scholar passed around his camera cards so that the children could download pictures of the trip onto their laptops. Then he presented a slide show of his trip to the family. Then more people arrived to the gathering -- the little girl had never met them before, so they were like strangers to her -- and the scholar presented his slide show all over again... even though one lady seemed more interested in her cell phone than the slide show.

The trip to Israel had completely dominated the Christmas festivities. When the day ended, the family had run out of time, so they did not get a chance to play Christmas music together. As the little girl tried to fall asleep that night -- and as her heart had already begun to feel the effects of the Ruach softening it enough to where it could finally feel some emotions -- she hid her tears from her family.

That Christmas was the last time that she saw her parents.

 

In case you haven't figured it out, the little girl in the story is me. It's a true story. I didn't realize that I had grown up in an emotionally and spiritually abusive home (and there were other types of abuse that would spurt out from time to time) until I was in my mid-30s.

The thing about growing up in an abusive home is that you're constantly in a terrible environment, but you don't know that it's terrible, because it's all you've known. You don't know that it's unhealthy or dysfunctional. As a result, you go through life being attracted to the same type of dysfunction that you grew up with. So, as I grew up, I made friends with abusive people, and I became involved in abusive churches. Some of the unhealthy people that I had befriended were also excessively enamored with Israel, I think to the point of worshiping it.

Meanwhile, I had finally found my church. It's a healthy one that holds monthly services for Messianic believers (Jewish people who believe that Jesus is the Messiah -- just like we Christians do). Interestingly, even though I grew up surrounded by the Hebrew language, I knew very little about Jewish or Israeli culture. A few paragraphs up, I shared a photo of the very first latke that I ever ate (I smeared it with applesauce), which was last month at my church's Hanukkah service.

I'm very cool with hanging out at these Messianic services now, but I didn't used to be.

I started going to them several years ago and finally got to enjoy some live Messianic praise and worship music (which I had been listening to for several years on CD). But when the Holy Spirit started to dig up some of the issues in my heart and really deal with them, attending these monthly services became very hard for me. I thought about how my birth father had used me to learn Hebrew. I thought about the year when Israel ate Christmas. I thought about some of my friends who talked about how Christians should observe the Jewish feasts, and their lives looked good on the outside; but their home was a violent place, and I was trying to distance myself from them.

After I disowned myself from my family, I knew that God wanted me to attend these monthly Messianic services as a sort of family night with me and Him. But there were nights when I was grieving the fresh loss of my family, and the last thing I wanted to do was listen to somebody speaking Hebrew.

Another strange thing happened. I noticed that I was jealous of Israel. I mean, it was bad enough that my birth father liked a foreign language more than he liked me. But for mission-trip memories to completely take over my favorite holiday was just plain wrong. Maybe I was burned out on Israel, or maybe I just plain hated Israel, but I was in a place where I was really beginning to be gut-level honest with God, so I was really dealing with this.

Finally one night, I remember telling Him, "If Israel is Your friend, then they're my friend, too." That was a turning point.

Now I love attending the Messianic services every month. I love speaking a little bit of Hebrew now and then (especially when I can show off a phrase or two, maniacal laughter). Do you want to watch me go to heaven and come back? Sing to me in Hebrew and in Spanish during the same song, and I'm gone.

Since God cleared out all the jealousy, anger, and residue that the abuse had left behind in my soul regarding Israel, I've begun to see my relationship with Jewish people in a newer, cooler way. Since Jesus is Jewish, and since I'm His bride... when I hang out with Jewish people, it's like I'm hanging out with my in-laws. Because I married into the family. I'm not Jewish; I'm a Gentile. (I eat shrimp and pork like a good little Mexican.) I don't understand every aspect of Jewish culture and traditions, but they fascinate me, because that's the culture of my Jesus. That's His family. And it's my family, too.

I've discovered that many Messianic Jewish believers have left their families in order to follow Jesus. They've given up everything, and He has completely taken them under His wing. I can relate to that. 

Recently, I joined the Messianic worship team at my church, and it's such a cool opportunity to be able to serve my mishpacha this way. The first time I sang on the team was on November 4, 2016, which happened to be the 16-year anniversary of my suicide attempt. (Yes, I still celebrate it like a really morbid holiday... because I'm still here!) From what I understand, 8 is the biblical number for new beginnings. So, 16 is like two 8s... I asked God if that number meant anything, and He said that it was like a one-two punch. My singing on the platform on that double-8 morbid anniversary was like God giving the devil two black eyes. Heh, heh. You go, God.

So, that little girl who was oppressed with Hebrew grew up to become a woman who serves with Hebrew. I didn't do that. Only God can redeem something like that. Baruch hashem Adonai!

Lessons from moo-veeng

So, I moved to a different apartment in a different suburb last month. So far, it's been a very good change for me and Choochie. (At least, she seems to be OK with it now.)

I think I've done way more than my share of moving during the course of my life. My parents weren't in the military; they were just chronically unhappy people who were always threatening to move the family away from certain situations, so I grew up either around boxes or preparing my own boxes. One time, Mom and I pulled an all-nighter cleaning the place that we had moved out of and loading our last-minute stuff into our vehicle. (The guy who had helped us move our heavy stuff cheerfully declared, "Oh, all you have left is just a few odds and ends" and left us.) Another time, we couldn't fit all of our stuff into our vehicles, so my grandfather unpacked a couple of boxes and tied some of their contents down in his car wherever they could fit. The scene looked atrocious, but it worked. (We said that we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies. Heh.)

I've probably spent months, if not years, of my life either roaming or preparing to roam. As a result, I've been kind of starving for a place to finally settle down. (God has been telling me that I'm a "home base" person, but maybe that's another blog for another day.) So, since about 10 years ago, after I finally moved out on my own for keeps, I've been pretty stubborn about staying put.

But last year, I really did have to make a move, and I'm glad I did. And I'm even more glad that I listened to God about how to go about it. Here's a list of what I learned in the process.

1) "Gradual grace." In the early part of last year when I decided that I would need to move when my lease was up, God spoke to me very clearly that I needed to take advantage of the time to pack. So, I started packing in April. Oh, my gosh -- I can't even begin to tell you how glad I am that I started so early. I had no idea how much time it would take to pack all of my earthly belongings -- and with all the moving experience I've had in my life, you'd think I would have learned by now!

But God knew.

One phrase He kept speaking to me was "gradual grace." For this particular move, I found out that God gave me grace to get things done gradually. Packing took forever. Cleaning my old apartment took forever. Unpacking my stuff has taken forever. (I'm still not done yet.) But it's been gradual, and it's been OK. I'm not stressed out. Choochie hasn't had to sign up for pet therapy.

I'm glad God talked to me about doing things for this move gradually; otherwise, I would have been very frustrated with every step of this long process. Or if I had waited till the last second to do anything, I probably would have pulled an all-nighter again, would have been utterly exhausted, and would have totally hated my life.

2) Organization is my friend. About 16 years ago, after I got out of the psych hospital and was going through therapy and tried to get my life back together again, I watched a Joyce Meyer TV program. She said, "Our problem is that we need to get organized." I took that to heart, and I almost immediately started filing some stuff away in the room that I'd been renting. My living space started to look a lot better.

I'm not exactly sure what happened between then and now, but the order didn't last very long. Maybe I let chaotic people take over my life and eat up my time, or maybe I got too busy, or maybe I just didn't deal with life very well. Typically as an artist, I don't always embrace order.

But in recent years, I've finally learned to run from chaos as much as I can. I don't want that stuff in my house anymore.

At any rate, I think organized chaos is a beautiful thing. See how I kept my life in order while I was living in a cardboard jungle? I like knowing where everything is. (Or at least having a general idea of where stuff is.) It kind of saves me a headache later.

I think finally learning how to administrate my life is really good preparation for learning how to administrate things in God's house. I like this. I could get used to this.

3) If Scotch tape and bubble gum get the job done, I shouldn't make fun. About a dozen years ago, after working at strange jobs that really didn't utilize my college degree, I invented the phrase "Scotch tape and bubble gum." A couple of the jobs where I worked were basically sweat-shop call centers where the breakrooms were either nonexistent or terrible, or office supplies weren't even provided, and the pay was peanuts. So, I called these places "Scotch tape and bubble gum companies," because it was as if they had held everything together with Scotch tape and bubble gum.

But what if "Scotch tape and bubble gum" is all you need?

 

During my recent move, I realized that I had run out of garment bags. There wasn't time to buy new ones, and I had forgotten to empty out some of the ones that I had while I had transported some of my clothes to my new place ahead of the movers. So I improvised like a good little redneck. I packed my hanging clothes in garbage bags, cutting out holes where it seemed necessary and using Scotch packing tape for the rest. The professional movers didn't make fun of me, and I think MacGyver would have been proud.

4) Macho wouldn't have made it. Whenever I've moved with my cats (for the past 16 years or so), I've tried to psych them up for it. While I've packed my boxes, I've tried to tell them, "We're moving!" but, of course, they speak feline, so I'm not quite sure if they understand English all the time. They've probably been like, "I don't know what this 'moo-veeng' phenomenon is that Mama keeps talking about, but I don't think I like it."

Cats are extremely territorial, so moving is a really big deal for them. I'm not sure Macho would have endured the emotional turmoil of being permanently uprooted from one territory and adjusting to another territory. Not in his fragile state.

Of course, I had originally intended to bring both of my cats with me during the move. I even bought a second pet carrier so that each of my babies would have their own carrier... without Macho being incontinent all over Choochie. (As a pair, both of my cats had always been small enough to fit inside one large carrier.) But Macho was gone almost five months before the move.

Of course, I would rather have him here with me now, but in a way it's an awesome blessing to only have one cat right now. And the team of movers that I hired may have accidentally freaked him out. (He never really liked human men.) My new apartment is kind of expensive when it comes to pets, and there are so many fancy accessories in here (like glass-covered closet doors and a dry bar) that Macho may have been tempted to play around in and break.

Incidentally, I ended up putting him down at a clinic that's in the same suburb that I ended up moving to. So, he didn't get to live with me here, but he did get to die with me here. It's kind of sentimental and morbid simultaneously.

5) Cats will be cats. Self-explanatory.

6) Location, location, location. My new commute to work (and church, because it's only about a five-minute drive from work) is about 12 minutes -- or about 15 minutes with traffic. In the part of Texas where I live, this is a glorious thing. In the past 10 years or so that I've lived here -- enduring hourlong commutes and soul-crushing traffic -- I feel like I've paid my dues. It's time to give my car a break. All this trouble that I've gone through just for one little move has been totally worth it.

7) If you ask God to take care of every single detail, He will. So many things could have gone wrong (and did), but Choochie and I have come through it unharmed. We're good to go. And that's because God has been taking care of us.

He's a good Daddy. Please don't let anybody convince you otherwise. 

Patchwork quilt

As I mentioned in a previous post, I felt like God told me that 2016 would be like a kaleidoscope for me. In another post, I wrote about how God had shown me that the year 2016 was going to be what the year 2000 was supposed to have been for me. (I turned 40 this year, but in many ways I was reliving age 24 all over again... minus the trip to the psych hospital and minus everything in my life being taken away from me.)

I also felt like He said that my 2016 would be like a patchwork quilt. I've never made a quilt, but from what I understand, doing so is a lot of work. There are individual squares of material that you need to spend time collecting and sewing together. I think many quilts are actually crafted together by groups of people (e.g., quilting bees) rather than just one person. But the end product is a beautiful decoration (especially if you hang it on the wall like a work of art) full of memories and can keep you warm for years to come.

And that's what 2016 was for me. It was little mini-seasons all collected and organized into one sturdy, memorable life-lesson covering that I will be able to refer back to for the rest of my life. I would like to highlight a few of them here.

 

1) My cat got very sick and died. 2016 has been notorious for being the year that many beloved celebrities died. With all due respect, forget them. I lost someone more precious to me that any stupid celebrity. I'm tearing up again just typing this. Macho was a part of me, and I was a part of him -- not in an unhealthy way but in the way that maybe you would feel if your child, your brother, your best friend, and your roommate were rolled up into one person and was suddenly gone.

I think maybe Macho's illness(es) and his death actually take up more than one patch on my quilt, because they affected me pretty much all year long. Here in this post, I've displayed a photo that I took on January 30th. He was in a lot of pain because he was unable to urinate. I snapped the photo with my phone after he had crawled into my lap, and I hope being there comforted him at least a little bit. This was the last picture that I took of him before, um, they surgically removed the part of his body that had enabled him to pee like a boy.

This surgery bought him about six months of life. Living with him was very messy after that, but it was worth every penny.

Even though he's been gone for a long time, my soul is still adjusting to not having him. Sometimes when I leave for work in the mornings, I still find myself praying for my "cats." Sometimes when I'm going about my day, I still think up little songs to sing to Macho, and then I remember that he's gone.

But I still have Choochie. If you think I grieved hard after Macho's death, I think I may grieve even harder when it's time for Choochie to go. (I may even have to take like a week off from work. Gosh.)

2) Choochie found a new voice. Macho was my spokescat, so after he left us, my home became a much quieter place. Choochie had to make all kinds of adjustments: She got to eat in a different room, I had to start social-grooming her, and nobody was around to meow for her anymore.

Now she has an adorable little trill-meow. It's kind of a girly flirtatious meow that she whips out when she wants to snuggle with me. Of course she has me wrapped around her little paw-finger.

So, now that she has me all to herself, she's insisted on sleeping on my pillow every night. Our new routine is that she will crawl halfway inside the covers and perch her hind feet on my bicep while she snuggles next to me. That is how we sleep now. And we both lived happily ever after.

3) I moved to a new apartment. This took up multiple patches on my quilt, if not determined the entire color scheme of the quilt. (I'm planning to write more about this.) I'm still surrounded by some boxes as I type this, but so far this has been a very good change for me and Choochie.

4) I'm leading in two different places at church now. After God had told me that 2016 was going to be like 2000, and after the worship department at my church announced that we choir people could evaluate/audition for other worship teams at my church, I had a hunch that I would get chosen. (In 2000, I was on a worship team, in addition to being a small-group leader.)

It's a tremendous honor to be on the worship platform at all -- whether it's in the choir or someplace else. I don't deserve to be there. But maybe that's why I'm there: God can rub in the enemy's face his failure to destroy my life. Maybe God's like, "Yep, she's like a cockroach. She doesn't die easily." Heh.

Wait. Since I'm a leader and people pay attention to what I say and do, maybe I should behave on my blog. Um... I am so blessed. That's what I'm supposed to say, right? Heh.

5) The emotional turmoil swirled around in my insides. I've learned that rejection is like my kryptonite. Anytime I feel rejected, overlooked, ignored, or overtly not-chosen, it kind of turns me into an emotional 9-year-old and ruins my day. I'm still working on that (because it's not supposed to ruin my day).

In 2000, leading up to my suicide attempt, I truly had a living hell inside my head. It was a series of bad choices, a couple of years of fighting depression, a lifetime-lie that Christians weren't supposed to feel that way, and a raging anger toward God... I think all of that was stuffed deeply inside me, and it fed the demons. But what I didn't know was that I could pour out my heart -- and all of the anger and the junk inside it -- to God and that doing so would create a safe place for me. (See Psalm 62:8.)

In 2016, God basically told me that anytime I emotionally work my way through a ruined day, it insults Him anytime I don't talk to Him about it. When He told me that, it wasn't like in a condemning or shaming way; it was sort of as if I had accidentally insulted a spouse or a deep friend who actually wants to be there for me. I'm sorry, Lord. I don't want to insult You. If You want my crap, You got it. Seriously.

That's how I finally learned to be un-depressed in the first place all those years ago: Pour out my heart to God, receive His love, rinse and repeat.

"For the scepter of wickedness shall not rest on the land allotted to the righteous, lest the righteous reach out their hands to iniquity." (Psalm 125:3)

I remember back in 2000 when I was struggling with depression, God put this Bible verse on my heart. In 2016, He showed me that the scepter in this verse (at least for me) isn't like a cute little king's scepter; it's more like a walking stick. It works sort of like a shepherd's crook. In other words (at least for me), a scepter of wickedness in my promised land would sort of be like this huge crook of iniquity saying, "I know you want to follow God and His ways, but you're doomed to follow me and my ways instead. Drown yourself in your own filth yet again, because you can't help it."

Nope. God doesn't want that. And neither do I. Any iniquity, any propensity toward sin in my life -- whether it's depression, lust, religion, dishonesty, pride, etc. -- isn't welcome in my territory. Any trespassers will be taken captive, prosecuted, and condemned to death. Heh.

And I won't be able to do that alone. If I don't let God help me, I'm toast. I know that.

So, I think I touched on the major highlights of my 2016. I've felt like God has said that my 2017 will be a year of rest. After all I've been through, I sure am looking forward to getting some rest!