Honey, you never tasted sweeter

About seven months ago, I posted a blog entry called Owie, which Blogger tells me is my most-viewed post so far. I guess people like to read about gory things like ripped-off guitar calluses. Well, reader, if you're one of those callus-photo fans, you're about to get another eyeful. My disclaimer is that this post will most likely be as tangenty as its Owie predecessor, but hopefully it will make sense and all come together in a sweet way.

Recently, some friends reminded me of some advice that I was given years ago: A treatment for allergies is eating local honey. Since the honey is made by local bees with local plants, eating the local honey will get my body used to the local pollen. And it really does work! My allergies bother me much less than they used to. But this natural treatment doesn't work overnight like an allergy pill. This treatment can be unpleasant and quite grueling. What you do with about one tablespoon of local honey is mix it with apple cider vinegar. This bittersweet concoction usually inspires me to sing out loud in falsetto. Wow! But after the allergy season passes, it isn't really necessary to drink the vinegar anymore, and I've enjoyed a little bit of local honey almost every day. It's kept the allergy junk away. Another cool thing about this particular local honey is that it seems to be bottled by a Christian company. They quote this Bible verse on their label:

"How sweet are Your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!" (Psalm 119:103)

I recently checked out the rest of this psalm and found some harder sweet stuff.

"Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I obey Your word. You are good, and what You do is good; teach me Your decrees. Though the arrogant have smeared me with lies, I keep Your precepts with all my heart. Their hearts are callous and unfeeling, but I delight in Your law. It was good for me to be afflicted so that I might learn Your decrees." (Psalm 119:67-71)

The other day while I was sitting in a church service and playing with my guitar calluses, the one on my ring finger (in the photo above, it's the second from the right) mostly peeled off on its own. It was stubborn in coming off, and I ended up ripping off a tiny bit too much. See the little red owie? It's amazing how much a tiny little owie can smart so much that it will distract you from your day-to-day activities. The owie only needed a few days to heal, but while it was doing so...

 

...I had to put a Band-Aid on it so that I could function during my day-to-day activities. The photo above actually has two Band-Aids -- one horizontal and one vertical. Ideally, I should have let the owie heal uncovered, but it was in such a location that uncovered healing wouldn't have been feasible. (All I did was fasten my car seatbelt, and the owie started to bleed. Falsetto!) What I couldn't do normally with two Band-Aids was play my guitar. It was doable, but pressing the bandaged finger on one string to play a chord would muffle one or more nearby strings during the same chord. After a while, I only needed one Band-Aid, and that made guitar-playing more normal-sounding. Band-Aids are nice, but they're so awkward to implement into your life because if you don't keep replacing them with fresh ones, they'll get wet and stinky. Gross.

"But My people would not listen to Me; Israel would not submit to Me. So I gave them over to their stubborn hearts to follow their own devices. If My people would but listen to Me, if Israel would follow My ways, how quickly would I subdue their enemies and turn My hand against their foes! Those who hate the Lord would cringe before Him, and their punishment would last forever. But you would be fed with the finest of wheat; with honey from the rock I would satisfy you." (Psalm 81:11-16)

I'm not a theologian, and I'm not a scientist. But I know what it's like to be in emotional pain, and I know what it's like to be in the middle of a healing process, and I know what it's like to finally obey God and let Him heal some owies, even when it feels like He's ripped off a little too much of a callus, and I know how embarrassing it can be when He gently or violently peels away the old, moist, gross Band-Aids. And I know what His honey tastes like.

There's a story in Judges 14 about Samson's encounter with a lion. Basically, the animal charges him, and God's Spirit gives Samson strength to rip the lion apart with his bare hands. Then afterwards, Samson discovers that some bees made some honey in the lion's carcass.

Speaking of violence, I think honey itself is a very ironic substance. It's made by bees, which are creatures that have been known to painfully sting people. Honey is made when bees regurgitate nectar. So, when I eat honey, I'm basically consuming a product that's been spit up by stinging insects. Ain't honey sweet?

Speaking of sweetness, I might never seriously consider getting a tattoo, but if I did, that's what it would say. (And it would probably go on my forehead instead of on my arm near my rock-star bracelet.) I'm not sure why, but relatives, friends, and perfect strangers alike can be very quick to call me "sweetie." I've finally started speaking up for myself in recent years and asking people to NOT call me that. I can understand the need for people to give me a nickname because my real name can be difficult to pronounce, but "sweetie" is the one name that I usually don't tolerate. I'm not exactly sure why, but it has bugged me so much that I even composed a newspaper column about my aversion for "sweetie" several years ago, and I wrote it into a song last year, and here I am displaying a photo of a fake tattoo for everybody to read. OK, so maybe there's some sweetness in my personality that God put there. But honey is often the result of a process.

"The voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is majestic. The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars; the Lord breaks in pieces the cedars of Lebanon." (Psalm 29:4-5)

So, this same voice of God that can be so gentle, still, and comforting is also powerful enough to rip apart cedars and, well, my insides. God is so sweet, but He's also the toughest, strongest Person in the universe. In Revelation 5:5, Jesus is called the Lion of the tribe of Judah. Lions roar. Lions are dangerous. Lions are capable of destroying creatures. Yet in Malachi 4:2, Jesus is also the Sun of Righteousness who will arise with healing in His wings. And in Ephesians 3 and Colossians 1, Jesus is also a mystery.

I'll go off on a major tangent now. Last night, I ordered a livers meal at Chicken Express with a side of okra. I ended up getting livers and jalapeño poppers. I'm not sure how the guy behind the counter thought "okra" sounded like "poppers," but I thought I'd go with the flow and try the poppers. Even though half my gene pool is Hispanic, I usually avoid jalapeños because I'm not fond of spicy foods, and jalapeños kinda scare me. I was afraid that my taste buds were going to ignite on fire for the rest of the evening, but to my surprise, the jalapeño poppers weren't that scary, and I actually liked them. I wouldn't want to eat too many of them at a time or eat them very often, but I was pleased at how tough my taste buds were. I've even developed a craving for them in the past 24 hours. Poppers!

When I get in God's presence -- the presence of the Lion who is capable of ripping apart cedar forests with His voice, the Healer who shines the brightest Light in the darkest places of my heart, the Promised One who assures me mysteriously yet absolutely of my eternal standing -- it can be sweet and scary simultaneously. If I'm wounded, He'll want to heal me, and I'll want to let Him, but it might be a messy process. There are lots of things I'd rather do with my time than curl up in a fetal position on my couch and bawl my eyes out while I'm feeling the worst emotional pain I've ever felt in my entire life, but if it means that the God of all comfort will comfort me directly in the process, well, I'm probably gonna develop a craving for this process. Sometimes Band-Aids are necessary if the process is an excruciatingly long one. For example, sometimes I'll need to seek comic relief so that I can keep my brain from melting down after thinking about an issue for hours on end. (Check out Proverbs 17:22. And cats are usually awesome comic relief.) But God has taught me that there usually isn't a shortcut to the unpleasant, grueling healing process.

So, sweetness can spring from brokenness. I wonder if the rock that Psalm 81 talks about -- the Rock where the honey comes from -- is actually Jesus in a way. I wonder if the lion in Judges 14 -- the Lion inside which the honey was made -- is actually symbolic of Jesus in a way.

I heard a pastor say at a church service once that the root of an allergy is having a broken heart. Maybe part of the reason that my allergies don't bother me as much anymore is because Jesus is healing my heart. Or maybe consuming His honey is actually treating my broken heart in a way that it repairs and reconditions my heart to beat the way that He created it to beat -- sweetly and strongly, without any owies.

I wonder if there's such a thing as sweet jalapeños. Poppers!

Meet Harvey

I ended up with Harvey at a white elephant gift exchange this past Christmas. If you're not familiar with the procedure of a white elephant, I'll give you the gist of it: A person will unwrap a gift. The next person can either "steal" that gift or unwrap a new gift. This will go on until all gifts are unwrapped. Sometimes you could end up with a really nice gift, and other times you could get stuck with something questionable. Harvey was one of these questionable gifts at first because, well...

...yep, Harvey is actually a wino fish. He was a gag gift, a novelty item. I'm honestly not sure that he was actually designed to be wanted. The person who unwrapped Harvey during the white elephant did not want to keep Harvey, so they tried to persuade each gift-unwrapper to "steal" Harvey from them. During this exchange, I waited for my turn, and while I was waiting, I'm not exactly sure what happened inside me. Maybe I took pity on this novelty wino fish. Maybe I wanted to be a good friend to the person who unwrapped Harvey. Maybe I was suddenly, mysteriously enamored with the idea of adopting an unwanted novelty wino fish. Maybe I just wanted to blog about him. But I "stole" this fish, and I almost immediately named him Harvey and gladly took him in. Harvey was mine.

Of course, my kitties and I are a package deal, so pretty much anything that comes into my home will more than likely be integrated into life with da cats. Here is Harvey serving as a cat-food bowl. (This really was a one-time photo opp. Harvey does not serve food regularly.) For the record, I don't use Harvey to store wine or any alcoholic beverage. One of the ministries that I'm involved in at my church forbids me from drinking alcoholic beverages pretty much altogether (at least in my case). This is more than fine with me because, frankly, I don't like alcoholic beverages. I tried wine many years ago, and I didn't like it. Also frankly, I'm crazy enough without alcohol. Have I told you lately how much I heart my kitties? So, Harvey is a fireplace-mantel decoration.

At first, I thought Harvey would be a cute little story about rejection and adoption and "Aww, God has mercy on us and chooses us at the white elephants where everyone else tries to get rid of us." But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that in a symbolic sort of way, Harvey is ME!

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled." (Matthew 5:6)

"Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and His wonderful deeds for men, for He satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things." (Psalm 107:8-9)

"Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him." (Psalm 34:8)

"They feast on the abundance of Your house; You give them drink from Your river of delights. For with You is the fountain of life; in Your light we see light." (Psalm 36:8-9)

"My soul will be satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise You." (Psalm 63:5)

"One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to seek Him in His temple." (Psalm 27:4)

For the past few years around my birthday, I've blogged about how much I've changed over the years. But this year, I'm pretty much blogging about how I've ALWAYS been a certain way and am discovering it in a new way. God made me, and He continually shows me how He made me, and I'm extremely thankful for that.

Harvey didn't suddenly turn into a novelty wino fish while he was being transported from the factory to the fireplace-mantel decoration store. He was DESIGNED to be a guzzler. He was CREATED to hold a bottle of something. He is DESTINED to snuggle back with a bottle of something for the rest of his novelty-wino-fish life.

I'm the same way. I'm a worshiper. I was DESIGNED to worship God. I was CREATED to drink in God's beauty and deeply absorb anything that He wants to feed me. I am DESTINED to taste and worship God for the rest of my days.

That's been perverted whenever I've worshiped people, myself, things, or anything or anyone else besides God. (Besides the fact that worshiping anything or anyone else besides God is idolatry, sin, a major no-no that hurts me and hurts God.) I need to be extremely careful with what I guzzle, because filling myself up with the wrong stuff could lead to something really bad really quickly. For instance, if I worship people, it could lead to codependence. If I worship how people hurt me, it could lead to bitterness or depression. If I worship myself, it could lead to arrogance or insecurity. If I worship perfection, imperfection, or mistakes, it could lead to condemnation, anxiety, or confusion.

Of course, Harvey's metaphorical existence isn't an exact parallel to mine. I'm not a manufactured, lifeless object that sits around and waits for somebody to use me. I'm a human being (not a "human doing") who's been saved by Jesus, redeemed from the pit, and destined for eternal life with my God. I'm a citizen of heaven, so that's where my home is. I belong in God's throne room. I was designed to enjoy a relationship with God and hang out with Him in His house for the rest of my life, even after I leave this earth. And no, God didn't feel sorry for whoever got stuck with me at some white elephant party 36 years ago. His adopting me isn't an accident. He was very intentional about the way that He made me (see Psalm 139). He wants me, period. And yes, He made and wants you, too, reader.

See? Even a novelty wino fish can be retrained.

Sure, I'll let total strangers observe my humiliation. Why not?

I almost titled this blog post "Diagnostics and maintenance," but I didn't want anyone to think that I was going to write about cars. (Actually, I do have an idea to write about my car, but it might not make it here on my blog for quite a while.) So, I thought I'd continue with my question-mark-in-the-title trend and my really-disgusting-subject-matter trend for now. For this particular gross topic, for your sake and for my dignity's sake, I'm very glad that I don't have photos available for this post. I would like to blog about a story that I've told people in person. I was reminded of this incident today while I was performing routine maintenance on my cats. That is, once a month, I have to ambush -- I mean, uh... subtly approach my cats... and trim their nails, clean their ears, and apply heartworm-prevention medicine on their fur. So, on with my story, and please be forewarned that it's a graphic but hopefully humorous one.

About 10 years ago, I started a new job that was extremely stressful. I developed IBS-like symptoms and needed to call in sick and visit a medical clinic at least once. To add to the scariness, I didn't have health insurance at the time. One of the doctors explained to me that after the health insurance would kick in at my new job, they could "scope" me and investigate my condition further. After a short while, I was promoted to a less stressful position at work, and my symptoms improved. I wasn't sick anymore. I went back to the clinic for follow-up and testing, but later I was informed that a test yielded disturbing results. So, they scheduled me for my "scope" procedure -- a flexible sigmoidoscopy. This is a procedure where they basically stick a camera up your butt so that they can look at your intestines. This is similar to a colonoscopy, but the camera doesn't go up as far, and you're awake during the procedure.

So, after I prepared for the procedure by not eating solid foods for 24 hours, I arrived at the clinic for my flexible sigmoidoscopy, and I was told that they would also perform a procedure on me called a barium enema, whatever that was. So, I changed into a hospital-type gown and went into a room with a male doctor and a male nurse. The cheerful doctor asked me if I would allow some medical students (I think they were both female) to observe the procedure. I consented, and my reasoning was basically Sure, why not? I'm about to be humiliated, anyway.

I was told that the procedure would involve the nurse using a device to mechanically blast air up into my intestines, I think because my empty intestines needed to be blown up so that the scoping camera could take good photographs and that the medical staff could take a good look at exactly what was inside my intestines. I was warned that I would feel pressure and discomfort during the procedure. However, I was not warned that I had just been told a series of major understatements.

So, air-compressor noises were roaring behind me while air was painfully blasted up my butt while medical students were watching the whole thing and taking notes while the doctor made a joke, I guess to try to lighten the mood. I was in a buttload of cramping pain, and I was probably cringing and/or groaning, and the nurse was telling me to hold still or stop squirming or something. I don't remember exactly. I just know that it hurt.

When it was over, I was told that I would have some privacy while I could get dressed and that I might pass some gas. Another major understatement. I had intestines that were full of artificial air, so I artificially farted. A heck of a lot. Imagine the longest fart you've ever farted, multiply that by about 5, and voila, you've got an idea of what my supersonic, non-stinky farts were like.

The doctor gave me a good report: the only thing he detected during the procedure was a condition that I won't repeat on this blog post, but let's just say that some ways to treat this condition are eating a high-fiber diet, taking a fiber supplement, and using Preparation H.

I thought that I could go home right after this procedure, but I was reminded that I needed to drive to a nearby hospital for my next procedure: a barium enema. I was warned that this procedure would be somewhat similar to the last procedure. Instead of using an air compressor and a camera, the barium enema would fill my empty intestines with a substance that would allow my intestines to glow in the dark, so to speak, while medical staff would take X-rays. This procedure was uncomfortable, but it wasn't as humorous of a circus as the flexible sigmoidoscopy, and nobody was in the room with me while it was happening. It was a little bit scary lying there alone on the examination table while I was vulnerable and had a radioactive substance pumped into my butt while a machine took pictures of my posing-for-the-camera intestines, and I was being observed by people that I couldn't see. I actually ended up writing part of a worship song while I was lying there. The first lines went, "You will never leave me / Never forsake me."

Before I finally got to go home, the nurse warned me that since I had just been pumped with stuff, I would have white poop. I was like, Whatever. I didn't really believe her, until I got home and... OH, MY GOSH, IT'S WHITE!

I don't remember hearing back from the barium-enema doctor, so I think that means that my test results were normal. Ever since that day, I've tried to include more fiber in my diet. And I'm glad that I had those tests, because not knowing what's wrong is perhaps more scary than finding out the truth.

"You are my hiding place; You will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance. Selah I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you. Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not come to you." (Psalm 32:7-9)

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." (Proverbs 13:12)

When I say things like "God, I want to be free, and I don't care what it looks like" or "Lord, please do whatever You want with me" or "This really hurts; please heal my wound" or "I don't want crap; I want You," He takes me up on it. I don't think He usually uses anesthesia. He pretty much just tells me that He's about to slice me open and perform a spiritual/emotional procedure, and He goes for it. If I kick and scream, He reminds me that I need to hold still and stop squirming. He's serious about operating on my heart. He's serious about restoring my soul. He's serious about my emotional healing and well-being. He doesn't want my heart to be sick, and I don't want it to be sick, either. I want Him to keep digging deep inside me and removing anything that isn't supposed to be there, including any infections or scar tissue or parasites that may have been leftover from past procedures that were ended prematurely or from procedures that He wasn't performing or from whatever out-of-whack thing that has been lurking inside me and just needs to be removed. If my symptoms improve, I want Him to keep operating and preventing any kind of disease.

So, while I was performing maintenance today on my cats, I was reminded of a blog post that I wrote awhile back. If my cats don't let me trim their nails on a regular basis, their claws could grow dangerously long and scratch me or curve around and fuse onto their paws. If my cats don't let me clean their ears on a regular basis, their ears could become so dirty that an infection could develop. If my cats don't let me give them their heartworm-prevention medicine on a regular basis, they could become very sick. These are all procedures that my cats often resist, sometimes ferociously. It's something that needs to be done, and it would be over a lot faster if they would just cooperate and let me be their catmama. After years of performing this maintenance (with lots of trial, error, and getting a talking-to from a vet), I've developed a technique that seems to work (at least for now). I'll wait until it's their morning snacktime, during a weekend when I've got plenty of time, and they're ready to launch into their scheduled napping slumber, and their bellies are almost empty, and I'll begin the maintenance routine. They'll offer little resistance because they're sleepy and hungry, and since they depend on me to feed them, they're pretty much at my mercy. I'll usually affirm them during the procedures, too: "Good boy. You're my girl. I love you. You're my kitty."

I'm pretty sure it's the same way with me and God. "Are you ready?" "Sure, I-- AAAGH! THIS HURTS!" "It's OK. Almost done. Hold still." "Oy vey!" The God of all comfort knows what He's doing. I need to just let Him do it. And I don't think He'll leave me alone in a strange room during a procedure that He's conducting and then neglect to contact me afterwards. He's a good Daddymama who counsels me and helps me through the whole thing. And that's no major understatement.