Open letter to all the ones that got away

Dear Prince Clueless,

About a month and a half ago, I met a lady at my apartment laundromat. She found out I was single, and she asked me if wanted to get married someday. I answered honestly: "I don't know."

So, this is what it's come to. All those years of wanting to meet you, date you, get engaged to you, marry you, have babies with you, and grow old with you have dissolved into a pitiful little "I don't know." This is what's happened after years of me waiting for you to come, looking for you, thinking I had finally found you, and trying to get over you when I finally discovered that you didn't want me the way I wanted you.

This post boiled and churned through my heart all day today, and I wrestled with whether or not I should even write this. Shouldn't we Christians forgive? Yes. Isn't it to one's glory, isn't it a sign of maturity, to overlook an offense? Yes, of course it is. Doesn't God forgive us? If we accept it, yes. But the God who removes our transgressions from us as far as the east is from the west... this same God is the One who also declared pages after pages in the Bible to His people Israel through the prophets: "You hurt Me. We had something good together, and you messed it up. You went after someone else instead of Me. Let Me show you how your actions affected Me, and let Me show you how the consequences of your actions will affect the future."

It is with a similar jilted-lover, botched-romance passion that I compose this.

I believed in you.

I believed that you would actually be a man who would come fully equipped with a backbone, a voice, and a pair. I believed that you would use them to pursue me, communicate your intentions to me, and win my heart in the way that any woman's heart deserves to be won. I believed that you would stand up for me, defend me, and protect my honor. I believed that you would respect me. I believed that you would be a real man.

Instead, you turned out to be a little boy. Little boys still expect their mama to do everything for them. Well, here's a newsflash, buddy: I ain't your mama.

I'm a woman who took a risk and actually allowed her heart to care for you. I'm a woman who repented long ago of controlling every relationship she had. I'm a woman who gave up manipulating the male species into wanting her. I'm a woman who finally began to be a woman.

But apparently, that wasn't good enough for you.

All those times that I tried to sit next to you or just be near you -- that was me expressing interest in you. All those times that I attempted to have a conversation with you and tripped over my words accordingly -- that was me expressing interest IN YOU. All those times that I embarrassed myself just so that I could connect with you -- THAT WAS ME EXPRESSING INTEREST IN YOU! How many times did I have to spell it out?

But I guess I wasn't good enough for you.

Instead of getting to know me and maybe letting yourself develop even a tiny little crush on me, you joined an online dating site. Or you married one of my friends. Or you developed a platonic friendship with me that got so deep that you felt comfortable enough to tell me that you only had your pillow for affection at night. And you ignored me when I told you how I felt about you.

The truth is, I don't talk to men unless I have to (or unless they're already married and I trust that they're going to stay married). I don't usually develop friendships with single men unless I want them to become more than just friendships. Most of the time, I don't let men into my personal space. Because men have hurt me.

But I guess you don't really care about that.

You were too busy talking to me because you were uncomfortable with the silence. You were too busy developing a friendship with me because it was something you wanted, and that was all you wanted it to be. You were too busy side-hugging me to see that I wanted to be close to you.

But even though reaching out to people isn't my style, I reached out to you because I wanted you. I wanted to belong to you someday. I wanted us to be together forever. But you rejected me. Whether it was directly or indirectly, you made it clear that you didn't return the feelings that I had allowed myself to become vulnerable and feel for you.

So, in case I still need to spell things out for you, it's over. That ship has sailed. That window of opportunity has closed. And I want to thank you. (Yes, I get sarcastic when I'm bitter.)

Thank you for the loneliness. Thank you for letting me spend evenings and weekends all by myself. Thank you for allowing me to keep hating Valentine's Day year after year -- each year feeling worse and worse. Yes, I was hoping to spend an entire day shining a spotlight on my singlehood and vomiting my bitterness onto a blog post. This is every woman's dream.

Thank you for not being there for me. Thank you for not defending me when my parents abused me. Thank you for not protecting me when two perverts preyed on me at church. Thank you for not being my boyfriend -- or specifically, thank you for not being my date at awkward social functions like that one wedding where that one guy shook my hand, creepily felt my hand, and asked me how I kept my hand so soft. "Lotion," I replied. Your absence helped to burn that special memory into my skull forever.

Thank you for rejecting me. I love explaining to people how a good-looking, young-looking, intelligent woman like myself has never been married -- how she has remained involuntarily single and could possibly die an old maid. Thank you for deferring my hope indefinitely, to the point where my heart is not only sick -- it's got chronic walking pneumonia. Thank you for never fulfilling my longing -- because who wants to eat from a tree of life?

Obviously not you. Otherwise, you would have me now. You would have overcome your fear and pursued me. You would have grown a pair and come after me.

Well, I'm sorry if I'm too good-looking for you. I'm sorry if I seem too young to you. I'm sorry if I'm too smart for you... or if I'm just too good for you, period. I guess it's my fault that I'm 40 and completely, involuntary available. And not to you.

And yet... (I will now switch from sarcasm to sincerity.)

Thank you for the loneliness. Because you never came after me, I've had to deal with this gnawing state that creeps up on me every Friday night, every weekend, every holiday, every time I'm invited to an event and asked if I'll bring a guest with me, or every time the word "family" is mentioned. Because you never showed up, I became a stronger person.

Thank you for not being there for me. Because you never came after me, I had to learn how to live my life by myself. I had to make the best of things. I had to break out of my shell, like a chick who needs to develop her strength unassisted while she's still hatching. I learned how to make boundaries, how to stick to them, and how to not feel guilty because of them. And I learned how to do adult things like buy furniture and pay people to deliver it for me, because I don't have a husband to lean on for that. But I also learned that there's no shame in that. Because you weren't there for me, I became a stronger person.

Thank you for rejecting me. Because you never came after me, I've learned how to talk to God more deeply than I've ever talked to Him before. Yes, I've had to learn how to relate to Him as if He were my Husband... because He is. Because He's the only One I've ever known. When I've felt like I've been cast into the reject pile of humankind, my Father is the One whose embrace I've melted into. He and I have had lots of slumber-party-style conversations about you. Like, lots of chats. Because you allowed me to remain single all these years, I know what it's like to be single at 40. I know what it's like for people at church to have very good intentions but not know exactly what to do with me, because very few people have made it this far and survived. Yes, because you rejected me, I became a stronger person.

Or... (Seriously, when will this dream finally just die once and for all?)

It's possible that what you've just read is all a pile of crap, and that maybe -- just maybe -- you really are going to be a man and come after me. Maybe you've just been waiting for the right time. (Maybe this rant was the kick in the butt that you needed.) If you are, I think there are some things that you should know.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm currently mad at you. Great way to start a relationship. (That last sentence was sarcasm.) But I won't stay mad. The quickest way to my heart is through my stomach... especially if it comes along with some face-to-face quality time. (Five-star restaurant, McDonald's, who cares? Just show up.)

God will always, always, always, always, always be Number One for me. He's my Friend who has always been there for me. I've developed the habit of running things by Him before anyone else, and I don't intend to break that habit. Ever. And He's in charge. Period.

Our bedroom would be a very happy place. That's all I'm gonna say about that.

Since I'm 40, I'm saggy, pudgy, stretch-marky, and joint-achy. Menopause is kind of around the corner, so there's no guarantee that you could still pursue me in time for me to bear any of your children. I'm honestly not sure if I would have enough energy to raise a child, or if I still want children anymore. But maybe we could cross that bridge when we get there. Or maybe we could adopt. Or maybe we could just enjoy a home all to ourselves.

My little mixed-Siamese cat and I are a package deal, no exceptions. If you're allergic to cats, too bad. (She's put up with 16.5 years of me crying over you, so deal with it.)

I'm fiercely loyal, ridiculously obsessive, incredibly artsy-fartsy, and I can be very stubborn. But I would be all yours.

I would support your dreams. I would offer you a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on (if you've already learned how to cry). I would stay with you forever, and I would insist on you doing the same for me, till death do us part.

Here's what I've learned while I've been waiting for you -- while I've pretty much given up waiting for you: I don't really need you. As you can hopefully see, I can survive without you, and I will continue to do so if that's what God wants (or if Prince Clueless never grows up and becomes Prince Charming). But I would want you.

Even though I don't need you, I will want you.

But if you never come after me, I will never believe in you ever again.

And I will still be me. I will still be good enough. I will still be strong.

Love (maybe),

Tirzah

Faithfulness, golf carts, and dead horses

In this very long post, I thought I'd throw in some of the stuff that I've been learning lately into a big wok, stir it up, and create something that hopefully makes sense. Or maybe a casserole dish. Or a soup cauldron. (Warning: I might get so real that I may end up using rated PG-13 language.)

Speaking of soup, during our recent churchwide 21-day fast, I did a soup fast. In other words, I ate only soup (breakfast, lunch, dinner) for 21 days. This was the first time I'd ever done a soup fast. Frankly, it kicked my butt. I suspected that my meals wouldn't be all that filling, but I had no idea how hungry I would get. (Or how into McAlister's Deli I would become.)

 

I've fasted for about the past 22.5 years (as God has led me and/or as church people have told me to), but I think this was the first time that I didn't hide all of the non-fasting food in my home... so as to reduce the temptation to break the fast early. (Above, I've shared a photo of my pantry as my fast was winding down.) Which is strange, because I think I've only broken maybe one fast early in my lifetime. So, during this fast, God showed me that He trusts me and that I can be legalistic when I fast.

Dang it. I hate it when my ultra-religious past creeps up on me.

"Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land, and feed on His faithfulness." (Psalm 37:3)

In this particular fast, I didn't really do much of the stuff that you're supposed to do during fasts. My schedule is extra busy, and I'm not really much of a one-hour-prayer-time intercessor, so I didn't spend oodles of hours in prayer. I proofread devotionals for a living, so the last thing I want to do when I get home is read another devotional; so I think I only got to like day 8 or 9 of our 28-day church devotional. I didn't get caught up in any deep visions or get visited by a swarm of angels.

But I did meet with God. And I also noticed that I cried a lot more easily than usual. Was it physical hunger? Was it spiritual hunger? Was it exhaustion? Not sure it really matters, because I feel like I obeyed my God, and He met with me.

He showed me that this particular fast was about faithfulness. It wasn't about me legalistically obsessing over whether or not I should have crackers or bread with my soup. It wasn't about me spending hours in prayer or combing through the devotional or becoming an excessively spiritual woman.

It was about me sticking to a fast for 21 days even though it was kicking my butt. And I'm OK with that.

I felt like I needed to furnish my new place during this fast. So, while I was out and about, getting acquainted with deli menus, I bought an ottoman. I visited a few stores and replaced some of the stuff that I had gotten rid of (like rusted silverware and dishwasher-ruined plastic bowls) when I moved. I bought some new cookware that I got to try out after I broke my fast.

See how practical God is? Since I grew up in an abusive, very codependent home, I'm still learning life skills at age 40. And I'm bonding with my Father in the process.

When I was in my 20s (that time of life when you're supposed to learn how to take care of yourself), I was way too busy being involved with a missions-focused, spiritually abusive church to understand that it's OK to take care of myself. Everything was always so melodramatic. We were taught that everything worldly (even if it was something as simple as watching TV by yourself on the weekends) was wrong. It was drilled into our vulnerable heads that we were supposed to do dangerous things for God all the time; otherwise we would be selfish. (One missionary spoke to us and told us that he wants his headstone to be engraved with the words, "He didn't play it safe.")

Um, OK, that's all nice for you. But what if God designed me to live a different life than what He designed you for?

He's been telling me that I'm a "home base" type of person. I ache to settle in one place, nest there, and just stay there forever. I'm a cat person, for crying out loud. Cats thrive best when you give them one territory to live in long term. I don't even think I've left the Metroplex for like the past 14 months -- not even for a day trip.

I'm happy here. There's nothing wrong with being happy. There's nothing wrong with obeying God when He wants you to "dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness," like it says in Psalm 37:3.

One thing about 2017 that God showed me is that I would be bored this year -- but in a good way. One thing I've learned about faithfulness is that it's boring -- in a good way. Since I grew up in an abusive home, I'm addicted to turmoil (as I learned in my last round of psychotherapy). Chaos used to follow me around like seasonal tree pollen: I knew it was coming, and there wasn't much I could do about it, so I just learned to live with the stupid side effects.

But life doesn't have to be that way. I can stay close to my Father and enjoy life with Him, however He wants me to live it.

"As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people from this time forth and forever." (Psalm 125:2)

I'm a worship leader, so I constantly wrestle with the concept of leading people into God's presence, entering God's presence myself, the ceremonial aspect of it all, the genuineness of it all, whether or not I'm being a fake about it, etc., etc., etc. He's shown me that the reason I wrestle with it is because it involves relationship -- my relationship with Him and other people's relationships with Him. I'll be wrestling with this for the rest of my life, and I think it'll be healthy for me (and for the people I lead).

"Relationship" is complicated, and it's just supposed to be a complicated concept in general. Anytime you deal with people, things are going to be complicated, and that's OK. Otherwise, you'd be dealing with a robot. Who would want to have a relationship with a robot? "Do you love me, MachineMan?" "Yes. I. Do." "Hug me, please!" "That. Is. Not. In. My. Programming. Language." "You suck, you bucket of bolts!!" "Technically. I. Am. Not. A. Bucket. Have. A. Nice. Day."

I still wrestle with how to have a quiet time, and God still keeps my quiet times simple, short, and mellow. One thing He's been impressing on my heart lately is, "Don't rev up the Hummer if you only need a golf cart to get there." Hmm. He's right.

Why should I be all melodramatic about entering His presence if all I have to do is say, "Daddy?" and He answers with, "What do you need?" If my little cat meows (if I'm in a position to respond), I usually drop everything to see what she needs (which is usually some playtime or snuggletime). If I relate to a tiny little 6-pound feline like that, how much more does the Lion of Judah relate to me -- a chick who He went through all the trouble of choosing and adopting? (See Matthew 6:30-ish.)

"And He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.' " (2 Corinthians 12:9a)

Speaking of relationships, another thing that He's impressed on my heart lately is something to the effect of, "If the horse is dead, don't keep beating it; just let it decompose in the field and leave it alone."

I think there are several dead horses in my life that are still in the process of decomposing in my field... so I shouldn't beat those dead horses. (Even though it's hard not to.) Maybe after the painfully long decomposing process, the resulting new soil will let something else grow. Maybe it could help somebody else later.

For example, take my addiction to turmoil. God hasn't been eager to take that away. (Actually, I think He wants me to keep that emotionally volatile side of myself and use it on the demons from time to time.) So, I've had to just learn how to control it. Lately when I start my day, I've prayed, "Help me to not be a bitch today." That is a genuine petition, and I hope everyone around me is glad that God answers prayer.

I used to be a doormat. I used to be a people-pleaser. But in recent years, as I've worked through some stuff, I've become pretty rough around the edges. I'm a survivor; I'm a badass. And I think God likes me like that. If He puts me in charge of a group of people, I'm pretty fierce about protecting them, and any demonic forces that may try to come against them know that I don't have a problem sending their fallen-angel tails to hell.

But that's what God does. Sometimes He removes problems and obstacles, yes. But other times He uses them to shape you into someone useful.

The turmoil-addiction thing is a dead horse that's probably almost done decomposing. But there are other dead horses in my field that are taking forever to go away... and they've been there so long that they're pretty stinky... and I think my nostrils are finally getting used to the stench... because the rotting carcasses might actually stay there forever.

People make a big deal about how holidays can be difficult times for people -- specifically they mean Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I love those holidays; they really aren't hard for me. The holiday that I hate with a fiery-red passion is Valentine's Day. Forget politics, current events, or hot-button issues. If I ever hit the streets to protest something, it will be so that that stupid holiday would be obliterated from the calendar.

Every year, I think I'm going to keep my cool and not let it bother me. And every year, I get angry enough to rip out a person's esophagus from their throat. It's bad enough that I haven't had a date in 22.5 years. You're going to patronize me by mailing me a Valentine's Day card, even though you're related to me? Or by going out of your way to "love" me because I'm single? You've gotta be kidding me. My singleness is a huge source of bitterness for me, and I have to work my butt off just to keep my heart in check. Just don't mention that stupid holiday at all, and I'll be happy.

But let me put on the brakes here on my heart-rant. I've noticed that all those years of heartbreak, pain, and disappointment that I've endured have actually been pretty useful.

For example, in recent months I've been taking singing lessons. These lessons require me to emote -- to put some emotion behind what I'm singing instead of just spouting music like a little robot. Can you guess what type of songs are usually the easiest for me to emote with? Breakup songs.

I knew a guy named Juan for about 14 years. I fell in love with him, for real. But he broke my heart into a zillion pieces. God has healed me from that to a degree; but I still go back to my heart-pieces, like a morbid treasury, and use them. Every time I sing a breakup song, I'm able to draw from that experience. It's pretty cathartic and fun. (And I'm glad it's finally coming in handy.)

But that's life. Juan is never going to want me the way that I wanted him. People are always going to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day. That holiday will always be on the calendar.

My friends are always going to marry guys that I have crushes on and then wave their engagement rings in my face. People are always going to want to talk about my singleness and then offer ridiculous suggestions like 1) try online dating 2) try prayer or 3) be encouraged by the testimony of somebody who didn't get married until really late in life -- their 30s. That's life. It's a dead horse that I shouldn't waste any energy beating, because I have too much life to live. And that's OK.

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, even though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea..." (Psalm 46:1-2)

I used to think God was boring. Then I got to know Him, and I discovered that He's pretty exciting. Then I got to know Him even more, and I discovered that He actually is very boring, but in a good way -- because He doesn't change. He's always there for me, like a mountain that faithfully surrounds me and who's always available to meet with me. He's always there to help me. He's always there. And that makes me happy.

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! 

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.