Mother

This post will, in a way, continue with the ideas I explored in yesterday's post. Again, for the sake of flushing some stuff out of my system, I will repackage information that I've probably already written about. Thanks again for reading.

"Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man shows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life." (Galatians 6:7-8)

About 15 years ago, I was at a church-related meeting in somebody's apartment, and a friend approached me and said she had a word for me from God. To her, it was vague: She kept hearing, "you reap what you sow" and "the secret place." To me, later it became clear: God was telling me that I hadn't sown anything into the secret place with Him, so I wasn't going to reap anything. If I remember correctly, I had been reading the Bible and praying like I was supposed to, but that "secret place" with Him -- the hidden, intimate, special place that nobody sees but me and Him -- was one that I hadn't touched for a while. So, God disciplined me. For one week, He was silent. Every time I would try to enter the secret place again by saying something like, "Hi, God, how's it going?" I wouldn't get an answer. Since this was God disciplining me, I didn't feel condemned, ashamed, or hopeless. I knew it wouldn't last long, I knew what I had done wrong (or what I'd failed to do), and I knew how I needed to change. So, after that weeklong silence, I started sowing into the secret place like crazy.

I learned an extremely important lesson that week: You reap what you sow. If you don't sow into a relationship, you won't reap a relationship. Unfortunately, I've had to use this lesson while I've set boundaries with my other friendships or end them altogether. It's been excruciating, but it's been eye-opening to see one of God's laws in motion, and it's also been liberating to choose to let other people reap what they've sown, even if it's nothing.

I hope this doesn't sound completely heartless, but it's sort of like ripping off a hangnail. A hangnail that has been dangling on my finger is a bit painful and annoying. I know I can't keep it there forever. So, if I rip it off, it will probably hurt, it will more than likely bleed, and it might be sore for a day or two. But after the ripped-off place on my finger heals, I won't even remember that the hangnail was there.

"Without wood a fire goes out; without a gossip a quarrel dies down. As charcoal to embers and as wood to fire, so is a quarrelsome person for kindling strife. The words of a gossip are like choice morsels; they go down to the inmost parts." (Proverbs 26:20-22, NIV)

The relationship with your mother, in general, tends to be a bit deeper and closer than the relationship with your father. At least, technically, I think that's how it's supposed to work, especially in theory. The mother is the one who carries you in her womb for 9 months, so that's 9 extra months that she has to get to know you.

I think the mother is the social and educational epicenter of the home. When I was growing up, life would stop anytime mother wasn't around. Whenever she was at work, the house would become almost silent, and as soon as she'd walk in the door again, the house would burst with activity. (And she'd tell us to stay away from her because she was sick of dealing with people all day on her feet. Can't blame her for that.)

The mother is the nurturer. She's the one who takes her little ones under her wing and tenderly shows them the ropes of how to live life. She's the one who cuts their meat, wipes their noses, keeps their little fingers away from door hinges, tells them to wear a coat in the wintertime, and wipes away their sweat in the summertime. Mother is hands-on, in-your-face, at-your-side nonstop parenting. When you're hungry, she's the one who's supposed to feed you.

I think gossiping is one way in which the nurturing aspect of motherhood is perverted. If you have a gossiping mother, instead of feeding you in order to satisfy your legitimate appetites of stomach-hunger, intimate relationship, or learning in general, she feeds you "choice morsels" to satisfy an evil appetite for gossip. Gossip is basically a humongous, whacked-out exaltation of another person's faults. It's an extended, secret criticism of another person's weaknesses. It's a hidden attack on another person for the sake of cutting them down and lifting yourself up. (Hmm. That sounds like exactly what the devil does.) Gossip is addicting, and it's extremely possible to participate in it without even realizing it.

Unfortunately, my ex-mother was a gossip. On Saturday nights, we'd paint our nails together. Instead of her nurturing my dreams or letting me share my deepest, most intimate struggles with her, she and I would talk about other people behind their backs. We would criticize church people, and we would criticize relatives. Then I would get confused later when she'd talk to these people as if she liked them.

My point is, that was how my ex-mother and I bonded: over other people's shortcomings. That isn't a relationship. That's a news report.

A few weeks ago, I enjoyed a huge burrito breakfast before I started my workday. This was a big deal, because I love breakfast burritos, and I don't cook anymore. When I had a mother, she was a very good cook, and breakfast burritos were one of her specialties. Now that I don't have her anymore, I sometimes miss the cooking, but I think that's why God invented Whataburger.

Very recently, I purchased a couple of pairs of slacks that were too long for me, so I took them to the cleaners for some alterations. This was a big deal, because I had never paid money to have clothes altered before. When I had a mother, she was a very good seamstress, and she would always hem my slacks or repair my clothes for me. Now that I don't have her anymore, I'm relieved to discover that I live in very reasonable driving distance to a very reasonably priced dry-cleaning establishment.

So, God takes care of me. I can't exactly drive my Toyota up to heaven and place a breakfast order at His drive-thru, and I can't exactly walk up to heaven and drop off my slacks at His dry-cleaning counter for alterations, but He finds a way to provide me exactly what I need, mother or no mother.

So, after I enjoyed the burritos that my mother didn't cook for me, and after I triumphantly picked up my altered slacks that my mother didn't hem for me, I realized that the lady who I used to call my mother was really just a cook and a seamstress to me. She was a house cleaner and a gossip partner. And that was pretty much it.

Frankly, I think that's a very sad shame. I knew her for 35 years. I think that was plenty of time to get to know me -- the real me -- and intimately sow into a deep relationship. But that didn't happen. I was pushed away. So, I allowed her to reap what she had sown: nothing.

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands; your walls are ever before Me." (God talking in Isaiah 49:15-16, NIV)

Immediately after I broke up with my ex-parents, of course I wrestled with all kinds of emotions. I prayed one of the most random prayers that I've probably ever prayed: "Please don't let me turn into Darth Vader." I mean, all kinds of hell broke loose after Anakin Skywalker left his mama, right? Your relationship with your mother is a powerful thing, even if it's a non-relationship.

Several years ago, at a class at church, we were asked the question, "What did your father used to tell you whenever you'd fall and hurt yourself?" (I think we were expected to answer something like, "Walk it off" or "Put some dirt on it.") And we were asked, "What did your mother used to say whenever you'd get hurt?" (I think we were expected to answer, "Let me kiss it and make it better.") I don't remember this class exercise to be very helpful to me, because I remember thinking something like, "My father used to tell me to cry, and my mother used to tell me to stop crying." So, that part of my life was a tiny bit messed up.

But God is the perfect Parent who is the perfect Father and the perfect Mother simultaneously. I really feel like He's filled in the gaps for me where I've needed them, and He's healed many of my mother/father wounds just by developing a deep relationship with me. And He still is.

For example, while I was growing up, I think I needed to process a lot of things by talking them out. (Really? Tirzah the psychoblogger needing to express herself with words? Who'd a thunk?) Naturally, my ex-mother would have been the best place, the most appropriate relationship, for me to process my life. Unfortunately, her solution to every problem was "Take a nap," and her method of dealing with difficult people was "Just ignore them." But God has been meeting that nurturing relational need for me all along. I don't remember being able to openly talk with my ex-mother about crushes that I had on boys, but I remember being able to talk extremely openly with God about it. I remember during my "quiet time" one day, I was thinking about a boy that I liked extremely much, and God was like, "So, tell Me about him. What do you like about him?" And I lay down on the floor and looked up at the ceiling and gushed out my heart to Him as if I were at a slumber party. The boy never liked me back, but being able to talk about him to Somebody who was interested in hearing what I had to say made me feel loved.

One thing that my ex-parents did right with me was tell me that I needed to follow Jesus. That is definitely true. That got the ball rolling. That pointed me in the right direction to get reconciled with God. I hope each of my ex-parents has their own relationship with Jesus, too. Very frankly, I'm not sure if my ex-mother is saved, because when I've prayed for her, I've gotten the impression that God doesn't know who she is. If my impression is accurate, I hope she gets wind of it. It would be a catastrophic shame to not see both of my ex-parents again someday in heaven.

God is the ultimate Nurturer. God is the most intimate Friend. God is the God of all comfort. If our mothers fail to protect us, nurture us, comfort us, or bond with us, God can heal that. He can be a Mother to us. He can be a Father to us. He is the best example of how to parent a child. He is the best Source of intimacy, of deep relationship, of sacrificial love. He IS love.

Honestly, I would rather have that than painted nails any day.

Father

This post contains information that I've probably already written about, but I feel the need to repackage it here. Thank you in advance for reading.

"In this manner, therefore, pray: 'Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name.' " (Matthew 6:9)

The fact that God is a Father is probably one of the most healing and the most painful truths simultaneously. Or maybe the pain occurs during the healing process. At any rate, several decades of having God's Father-heart misrepresented to you can certainly take its toll on how you relate to Him.

So, God is my Father, which means that He guides me... you mean, like the earthly father that I used to have? I hope not.

When my earthly ex-father gave me my first driving lesson, he did it at night. His reasoning was, "Well, she's going to be driving at night, anyway." No abandoned parking lots. No pre-training. No pep talks. Just a moment-by-moment leisurely terror drive through the dark streets. My ex-sister told me later that he was exasperated at how I didn't even know how to use the blinkers. That's, uh, because, uh, he didn't tell me how to use them.

When God my Father teaches me how to do something, He might wait till it's dark outside. Trials are dark and scary. But He's patient with me, and He shows me how to use all of the equipment that I have available to me. He makes sure I've got access to the Manual so that I can find what I need. He gives me positive reinforcement, He lets me ask questions without making me feel like an idiot, and He lets me have as much repetition as I need for the truth to sink down into all the layers.

So, God is my Father, which means that He provides for me... you mean, like the earthly father that I used to have? I hope not.

When my earthly ex-father was unemployed, he didn't roll up his sleeves and tell a potential employer, "Hey, I might be overqualified for this job, but I have muscles. Can you please give me some work so that I can provide for my family?" He sat on the couch, watched It's a Wonderful Life in the middle of the summer, and cried because he missed his mother-in-law. And he called a relative and asked them if they could spare some money. I don't think those are scenes that an insecure little girl needs to absorb.

When God my Father provides, He keeps His little girl calm while she's waiting for Him to provide. He creates something out of nothing. He lets His little girl soak up His strength. He reminds her of all the times in the past that He came through for her. He keeps her encouraged, and He reminds her that He can be trusted.

So, God is my Father, which means that He loves me... you mean, like the earthly father that I used to have? I hope not.

When my earthly ex-father would tell me that he loved me, it was usually in Hebrew, and it was usually mumbled, as if he felt obligated to say it but didn't really mean it. When he would show affection, it was extremely awkward and a bit physically painful with very rough hugs and kisses. When he would help me, it was usually because my ex-mother told him to, and sometimes he would unintentionally be extremely unhelpful. One time, I made a special trip to another city to meet them so I could pick up some of my belongings. They were packed inside a U-Haul truck that was supposed to remain loaded during their move. Unfortunately, my belongings were packed deeply inside the truck, and my earthly ex-father was unable to access them. He blamed the people who helped him pack. I basically had made a road trip for nothing. I cannot begin to express how frustrating this was for me.

When God my Father tells me that He loves me, He means it, and He's also The Expert in showing me that He loves me. When He shows affection, it can be dangerous, because He's a consuming fire, so He can't get too close. But He's also the most gentle Person in the universe, so He's also The Expert in showing affection physically without actually burning my skin off. When He helps me, He gives me exactly what I need, exactly when I need it, and He makes a way for me to find it. Or sometimes He simply drops whatever I need right into my lap. He's cool like that. Sometimes when He and I hang out together, He initiates the hangout time, and I can hear an ache in His voice, almost as if He's begging me to hang out with Him. But He's the God of the universe. He doesn't get lonely. He's not desperate for companionship. I don't think He's technically begging, because He's already the richest Being in the universe. Uh... have I mentioned that He's the God of the universe? and that He actually wants to spend time with me? He isn't afraid of expressing His infinitely deep yearning for me, and I'm choking up just thinking about it.

So, God is my Father, which means that He communicates with me... you mean, like the earthly father that I used to have? I hope not.

A couple of years ago, I started to read someone else's blog post that looked interesting. It was about hearing God's voice. The author of the post wrote something like, "If I want to communicate something to my child, I'm not going to write it in German so that they wouldn't understand it! That would be silly!" I immediately thought, "No, that's exactly what my father would do," and I stopped reading the post. It was probably a very good post, and I know it was definitely communicating a very important truth in a fresh way. (I should probably find it again and finish reading it.) It just stung to read it because that is almost exactly how my earthly ex-father would treat me. Growing up with a linguist dad was an overpowering experience that I still can't completely hide from. (People who don't realize that I don't have a relationship with him anymore will still talk to me about him. "Hey, your dad probably speaks that language, right?") I longed to just speak English at my house, because that is my native language. Instead, we had all kinds of miscommunications. I think on at least one occasion, I swept the floor because I thought that was what "aspirar el piso" meant. Sorry, I didn't know he told me to vacuum the floor. That's why I swept.

God my Father doesn't freak out when I can't hear Him or understand Him. I think He knows that His voice sometimes has to go through several filters and soul-layers to reach my spiritual ears. On top of that, He sent me the Holy Spirit to help me understand Him. God makes sure I know what He's saying, and if I miss it, He communicates it a different way. Or He often just waits until I get it.

So, God is my Father, which means that He's in charge... you mean, like the earthly father that I used to have? I hope not.

My earthly ex-father was a micromanager, which might explain why I resent being micromanaged in the workplace. He criticized the way I blinked. He criticized the way my lips don't touch each other when I say words that begin with the letter "M." He criticized the way I would say, "you guys," because people who live in Texas are supposed to say, "y'all." He made fun of me for wearing socks indoors instead of going barefoot. When I would read or draw, he would walk up to me and push my head several extra inches away from my book or sketchbook because I was supposedly hurting my vision. Because he had perfect pitch, he could hear me playing a wrong note on the piano from the other side of the house, and he would sing the right note to me from across the room until I would play the right note.

God my Father is all-knowing, so He already knows the minutia of every last teensy, tiny detail that has ever existed, that still exists, and that will ever exist. He is perfect, but He isn't a perfectionist. He doesn't criticize every fiber of my being or every tiny aspect of my life, because He created all of it. When He shows me something about myself that I need to change, He does it in a way that gives me hope, that makes me feel good, that maintains my dignity as a human being. He's gracious. He doesn't expect me to get every jot or tittle of everything 100% right all the time. He understands that I'm not a flawless machine. I'm a person, so I'm organic. I flow.

"They looked to Him and were radiant, and their faces were not ashamed." (Psalm 34:5)

This past weekend, I sang in the choir at my church. I made lots of mistakes. But God my Father didn't yell at me for making them. He didn't patronize or belittle me for being imperfect. He simply enjoyed my company, and I enjoyed His company. I looked right at Him and totally dug His presence. We simply shared our life together while people watched.

God is my Father, which means that He guides me, provides for me, loves me, communicates with me, and is my Lord. (Among other things, of course. I was just trying to stick with the flow of my post.) He and I have a relationship together. I talk to Him. He talks to me. I slip and fall. He picks me up and fixes me. I'm needy. He's the One who meets my needs. I'm clingy. He's really the only One who can satisfy any of my desires anymore. I'm lovesick. He's the One who loved me first and aches to spend time with me. I'm ruined for Him forever. He's the One who wanted it that way from the very beginning.

Last year, a relative who doesn't know me very well lectured me for not talking to my earthly ex-father anymore. The relative told me that I would miss him. Uh, I think the relative was assuming that all fathers have good relationships with their daughters.

Growing up with a Pharisee father was kind of like growing up with an undercover prison warden. (Wait. Something feels wrong. OH, BUT WE LOVE YOU. YOU CAN'T EVER ESCAPE. GET BACK IN YOUR PLACE.) He was harmful to me to the point of blocking me from God altogether. I don't think it's wise to just give band-aid advice to all broken relationships. That won't work for everybody. (Hey, Luke Skywalker, you should talk to your dad. Oh, you mean the ruthless villain who chopped off my arm? Sure, I'll give it a whirl. I MUST TURN YOU OVER TO MY MASTER, THE EMPEROR. HE IS YOUR MASTER NOW. OR IF YOU WILL NOT BE TURNED TO THE DARK SIDE... YOU WILL DIE. IT IS YOUR DESSSSSTINY...)

Maybe I went about writing this post the wrong way, but my intention wasn't to point to every single earthly father and say, "You're parenting the wrong way, because you're not exactly like God the Father." Technically, nobody could possibly ever measure up to God the Father. He will always be The Best. What I'm saying is that when our earthly parents accidentally (or on purpose) hurt us, God can heal us just by being Himself. Because He is the perfect Father. And He's also the perfect example of how to be a father.

Tomorrow, I will try to write another post with another Star Wars reference. Wait... DO. There is no try.

The aftermath

Do you remember me talking about how I bought a new couch last summer? At first, I was relieved and delighted that my cats did not turn it into a scratching post like they have tended to do in the past. Well, let's just say I've had to learn how to be relieved with and delighted by other things. Here is a photo of the most-attacked part of my couch. The good news is, it's just a couch. After I repair it (with my womanly MacGyver-ness), it won't look as bad, and meanwhile, it's still a couch. Even though it's a bit beaten up, it's still serving its purpose, because I'm currently sitting on it (next to a feline potential perpetrator) while I type this.

"I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives His life for the sheep." (John 10:9-11)

"Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you." (James 4:7)

Earlier this year, especially this summer, I endured some ridiculously heinous spiritual warfare. Of course, I didn't write about all of it. Most of the time, I try to share my most intimate struggles, while I'm living through them, with the people who know me the most intimately. Then after I make it through, I like to share with everyone what I learned. There were times this year when I was hit tremendously hard with spiritual warfare that certainly had the potential to send me back to a psychiatric hospital multiple times, if not kill me.

By spiritual warfare, I don't mean, "Aw, shoot, my printer's out of paper, so that means that the devil doesn't want me to finish writing my novel." I mean, "I don't know how to shake these thoughts that keep telling me I'm worthless, unwanted, and pathetic, and they make me want to slice my skin open, and I don't know where these thoughts are coming from, but I don't want them anymore. God, where are You?"

I'm glad He showed me, or I would be a goner for sure. For the sake of comic relief, I'll share with you a conversation that He had with me during one of those times when my brain was boiling with spiritual warfare and I was desperate for Him to speak some hope into my situation. He said, "I'm letting you get a whiff of some pits." Heh, heh, heh. He didn't mean armpits. He meant the "horrible" pits that Psalm 40 talks about. During my brain-boiling spiritual warfare battles earlier this year, God was showing me, "This is what depression smells like (remember that one?), this is what suicide smells like (and remember that one?), this is what a personality disorder smells like, this is what homosexuality smells like, etc." These aren't pits that I fell into and drowned in; these are pits that He let me smell while I stood on the brink of them. I don't exactly know why He did, but I'm glad He did, and I'm especially glad that He didn't allow me to slip into them.

I didn't seek professional help. I wasn't prescribed medication. I didn't stuff anything down inside. I didn't go to the altar at church to ask for prayer every single week. And I DON'T recommend any of this. If you're reading this and you're struggling, please DON'T hesitate to seek help if you need it. (I got professional help, including medication, many years ago, so I understand how necessary it can be. If you need it, please go for it.) This time around, I personally needed to unlace my gloves, brace myself, look the devil in the face, and bare-fistedly punch his lights out myself.

In his attempts to steal me, kill me, and destroy me, an interesting thing happened. He failed. Because Jesus won, and He taught me what me what He learned. Jesus is The Conqueror, so He helps me to be more than a conqueror. He taught me how to resist.

Earlier this year, I noticed that even in the midst of what appears to be hopelessness, life on earth still goes on. I can be assailed with the worst type of stuff you can think of, but as long as there is blood pumping through my veins, air flowing through my lungs, and thoughts waving through my brain, I'm still alive. If I'm attacked with ridiculously heinous thoughts while I'm living my day, but I'm still living my day -- even with mundane things like showering, eating, commuting, attending meetings, doing laundry, feeding the cats, attempting to prevent my couch from getting shredded -- I'm still alive. And I'll still wake up the following morning and live another day, Lord willing. Sure, I probably already knew this to be true, but maybe God, in His mercy, knows that I'm a kinesthetic learner who needed to experience it for herself. All over again.

I think dozens upon dozens upon dozens of times of being attacked have strengthened my spiritual muscles. I don't know if the devil thought of this before he planned all his attacks, but I think his attacks backfired, because God turned them into something good. After months and months of enduring the playground bully, the victim finally learned how to fight back. And the bully can't do anything to stop it. I think I've finally turned into Ralphie from A Christmas Story who lunges at Scut Farkus and beats the crap out him in a passive-aggressive, nosebleeding rage.

I think maybe if I keep banishing evil spirits to hell forever every time I detect them, eventually the devil will stop sending them to me. I'm certainly not saying that I'm immune from spiritual warfare or that it has stopped forever with me. I'm saying that maybe the devil is like, "Aw, bleep. The little psychoblogger finally figured out that Jesus gave her His authority, and she's finally using it against me. I don't have time for this. She isn't worth it, anyway. I'm outta here."

Oh, well. Bye. Less terror, more peaceful quality time for me and my Father.

I think I understand now why the Bible keeps saying to "fear not," "be strong and courageous," and "stand firm." If we resist the enemy, he will flee. We don't have to give in to him. I'm not saying that it's bad to be weak. If you feel weak and you have no idea how to even keep your head up, this is an extremely terrible feeling, but it's going to be OK. Crawl into Jesus' arms, have a good cry, let Him comfort you, and let Him take care of everything, even if it takes months to feel safe again. If you're in the middle of an attack and you don't feel like you can last another day, please hang in there, because you ARE worth it. I certainly don't want to diminish the hell that you're experiencing, and I'm so sorry that you're hurting. I just want to say that there is hope, especially when you can't see, hear, feel, taste, or touch it yet. Please take it from me: It's going to be OK.

And it isn't because of anything I've done. Please pardon my almost-French, but I don't have a chance in hell (literally) of succeeding against the devil without Jesus. If I were to stand up to the devil without Jesus, I would be a goner, no question in my mind. Jesus is my only hope, no doubt in my mind. I belong to the King, period, and He takes care of His own. I'm good to go.

The victory that I enjoy is only because of the victory that Jesus achieved on the cross. He died in my place so that I wouldn't have to inherit the penalty of my own sins. And then He rose from the dead, which means that He conquered death, He conquered sin, He conquered the devil who tried to steal Him, kill Him, and destroy Him. That means Jesus won. That means I more-than won. That means Jesus will teach me how to live the abundant life, because He already lived it perfectly (and He still does). That means the devil lost.

Hang in there. It's going to be OK.

And I'll patch up my couch and enjoy my babies.

The perfect packaging

One interesting thing about Christmas is that it brings back memories of previous Christmases. This is my 37th Christmas, so I guess there are a lot of memories to keep track of. One awkward Christmas memory happened many years ago. I unwrapped a present and exclaimed something to the effect of, "Wow, a Rolodex!" with genuine delight. Then, to my genuine disappointment, I opened the box and saw that it was just a Rolodex box that had NOT a Rolodex inside it. (I don't even remember what the non-Rolodex gift was. Maybe it was a bottle of perfume or a piece of jewelry. Unfortunately, it didn't impress me enough to remember what it was years later.) The person who gave me that gift felt bad later for accidentally disappointing me. ("Awww, she thought she was getting a Rolodex!")

So, the following Christmas, the same person gave me another present which I unwrapped and which -- this time, to my delight -- turned out to be a real Rolodex. Do you remember Rolodexes? They used to come in handy before we started using smartphones and Facebook to keep track of everybody. I still use my Rolodex once in a while. Here it is pictured -- wow, a real, live Rolodex!

"Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He shall give you the desires of your heart." (Psalm 37:4)

"For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable." (Romans 11:29)

"For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them." (Ephesians 2:10)

God is the perfect giver of gifts. He's NOT a cruel gift-giver -- not even accidentally.

When I was in college, I was a lifegroup leader who was required to attend a leaders' meeting every Sunday. During one such meeting, we were required to give testimonies. During one testimony, one of the lifegroup leaders started giving MY testimony. He said that he saw me at one of the cafeterias leading somebody through an evangelism tract. (I believe it was a tract that we would draw while we were speaking, and we called it "The John 3:16 diagram.") While he was wrapping up the testimony, he pointed at me and said, "She's a commando for Jesus!" Everyone applauded. I shook my head and cowered in my seat in a display of false humility. And I think every time that guy saw me at church or on campus after that, he'd say, "It's the commando for Jesus!"

Commando, my foot. Back then, I was a spiritually abusive jerk who would manipulate people into saying salvation prayers. I was worshiping evangelism and using it to ease a religious guilt that had latched onto me and refused to leave. Then I would wonder why the people who would pray the salvation prayers would stop going to lifegroup meetings or church. Hmm, I wonder why. I think I was doing it completely wrong. I wasn't even being myself the right way.

Perhaps what happened was that, metaphorically speaking, God had given me a Rolodex for Christmas. Perhaps, metaphorically speaking, I had opened it and said, "Nah, I don't want a Rolodex. I want a smartphone." Then perhaps, metaphorically speaking, I tossed out the Rolodex, with its beautiful little index cards with the specialty-shaped grooves and tabs, and pretended that my Rolodex box was carrying a smartphone.

Years later, while I was in a worship gathering, God showed me a picture of myself. I was hiding stealthily behind a bush; I think I was disguised with camo, facepaint, and bush-branches; and then I charged out of the bush to attack an enemy. In my picture, I was a commando. And God said, "Don't fight what you're becoming."

Hmm, what do you know? God had designed me to be a commando after all, just not the way I had tried to manipulate it into being. I think He's been extremely graciously helping me find the metaphorical Rolodex that I had thrown away, dust it off, replace some of the damaged cards, and put it back in its original Rolodex box for safe keeping. I think He's been restoring me to become what He had intended me to be all along.

I'm not saying that God doesn't turn evil into good. (Because He does.) I'm not saying that God doesn't tweak things here and there so that our lives will gradually begin to run more efficiently once we begin to live our lives the way He wants us to. (Because He does.) And I'm definitely not saying that I'm not supposed to evangelize. (Because I am; because all of us who know Jesus are equipped to tell other people about Him; because He wants us to.) I'm saying that if God gives me a gift that says "Rolodex" on the box, there will be a real, live Rolodex inside the box. He won't suddenly be all, "Psyche!" and put a Chapstick inside the Rolodex box instead of a Rolodex. (No offense if you like Chapstick, but I prefer Carmex. Using a Rolodex box to wrap a Chapstick wouldn't even be remotely funny to me.) That's a silly example, of course, but my point is that God gifts and wraps and chooses and equips very intentionally, not cruelly.

Sometimes gifts aren't wrapped or officially opened as ceremoniously as they are at Christmas. Sometimes gifts are given spontaneously, or sometimes they've already been used before they were even identified as gifts. That's how I discovered that one of my spiritual gifts is shepherding. I took a spiritual gifts test at a class at church and was truly shocked at the results. After class, I went back to my car and was like, "WHAAAAAT??" And God was like, "You've been a shepherd all your life." And He reminded me of all the times that I would take care of people, point them in certain directions, guide them, and check on them to see how they were doing, etc. Egad! The whole time, I had been using a Rolodex without even knowing I had one!

So, opening the perfectly wrapped present and examining its contents helps life make a little bit more sense. God designed me to be a worship pastor. Sure, I have a very long way to go, and I still have a ton to learn, but knowing that the Rolodex really is a Rolodex is a huge start. It's important for me to know what I have, and it's equally important for me to learn how to use it. Doing all of that is a very awkward process, during which I've been getting pruned, but I'm much happier accepting the Rolodex for what it really is instead of wishing it were a smartphone.

So, as someone who is becoming a worship pastor, that's why I've got some worshipy tools and some pastory tools in my belt. That's why I'm a commando who takes great pleasure in stabbing the enemy in the eye with her praise-weapons and throwing a live grenade at her freaked-out, blinded enemy with her worship-weapons. That's why I'm a shepherd who has sheep-lassoing equipment. (And that's probably why Rolodexes excite me.)

I don't remember this, but I was told that when I was about 3 years old, I led the line into my church for Vacation Bible School. They lined up all of us kids according to age, and since I was the youngest, I was first in line. I marched into the church building, and I didn't realize that people were following me until I looked behind me and saw everybody marching with me. This delighted me very much. I was literally leading people into a place to worship God. I didn't have to manipulate, freak out, or stress out, and yet everything happened the way it was designed to happen, decently and in order. Hmm, I wonder why. I think it's because I was being myself the right way.

But that's just my story. Reader, if you haven't done so already, I highly encourage you to discover how God has designed you to be. I think you'll be pleased with, delighted by, and excited with the results.

Because my God is the perfect giver of gifts. When He gives a gift, even if we don't understand what it is right away, you won't be like, "Um... why are You giving me a Chapstick? If You actually knew me, I think You would have given me Carmex." And He won't be like, "Meh, it's Christmas, so I'm supposed to give you something. Shut up and be thankful." And you won't trudge back to your bedroom, close the door, turn on your boombox, and wonder why He didn't think to give you a gift certificate to the record store so you could stock your tape collection.

Because my God is the perfect giver of gifts. When He gives a gift, even if it's one we know we don't deserve, you'll stare at it for a while before actually unwrapping it, and you'll be like, "Wait... aren't You supposed to hate me? After all those times that I dissed You, You're still being nice to me?" And He'll nod ferociously and be like, "I love you. I forgive you. I want you. Please just open it. I've been waiting all year to see the expression on your face." And after you open it, you gasp, and you can't see it very well because tears are blurring your eyesight, and you feel like a complete dork because you're too stunned to say, "Thank You," but you somehow manage to eventually blubber out, "This... is exactly... what I've always wanted... even though I never really realized it. How... did You know?" And He'll smile and say, "Whose idea do you think you were in the first place?" And you look down at the veins on your wrist and hand, and at the tears that are splashing onto them, and you realize finally that the One who put your very being together knows you better than you will ever know yourself. And you gaze into His kind eyes and marvel at the fact that He isn't yelling at you for not understanding all of this sooner. Because that's just how He rolls.

Because my God is the perfect giver of gifts.

Shoes

This is a picture of me wearing my blue slippers (and jammy bottoms) at the end of a long day. This evening, I was reminded of my high-school geometry teacher. Sometimes she would teach our class while she wore pink slippers, because we were her last class of the day. She would shuffle along the floor and declare in a thick, friendly drawl, "Y'all, I'm tired." And she would croon her rendition of "Strangers in the Night": "They say I'm strange!" I honestly don't remember learning much geometry, but I do remember her pink slippers, her quirky singing, her incessant cheerfulness, her encouraging kindness, her happy-go-lucky disposition, her extremely likeable personality, and the fact her class was so darn pleasant. I even remember her telling us once something to the effect of, "You should learn how to get along with me. What if someday you have a boss that's just like me?"

Unfortunately, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of having a boss just like her. Otherwise, I'd probably beg to work weekends and holidays.

What I do have currently is a very unpleasant employment situation. It didn't start out unpleasant. It started out as my dream job. Then a merger happened, then change happened, then adjustments happened, then layoffs happened, then unfair change happened, then unreasonable adjustments happened, and next thing you know, you're hoping you'll get fired next. That isn't a wise thing to hope for.

Recently while I was driving home and unraveling my brain, I blurted out a revelation: "THAT'S why people hated me when I was a manager!"

I had a supervisory job many years ago that was probably supposed to have been pretty stressful, but I don't really remember being stressed out because I enjoyed it. If I could do it all over again, I'd skip gossiping about and judging the people who were under me. I also probably would have left the job sooner. (I think my boss openly yelling at an IT guy extremely unprofessionally was sufficient foreshadowing for him taking out his frustrations on me later.)

But overall, that job was a wonderful series of learning experiences. I got yelled at. I fired people. I made important decisions. I made friends. I was loved and respected. I was also betrayed. One time, I walked into a chatty, busy breakroom and felt the awkwardness of the silence that suddenly descended at the sight of my presence.

So, with my current job, I've wondered if perhaps I'm reaping now the bad stuff that I sowed then. I've wondered if I'm on the "lest" end of the "Do not judge" verse. Of course, it's possible that I am.

Then I remembered that God isn't mad at me, because His wrath was satisfied with Jesus on the cross. Sometimes stuff just happens. Sometimes God just likes to buff and polish until it shines and He can see His face reflected in it. Sometimes He likes to randomly hang out with me during a trial and say something like, "Hey, how ya doin'? You know, [insert workplace situation here] is a lot like [insert Kingdom situation here]."

"And just as you want men to do to you, you also do to them likewise." (Jesus talking in Luke 6:31)

I'm pretty sure that regardless of everything else, God is definitely tweaking my empathy. I think He's reminding me what it's like to walk in another person's shoes. In my current situation, I'm like, "Oh, THIS is what it feels like to be patronized by a boss!" or "Oh, THIS is why people get mad when they see things in writing that are more sharply worded than what you tried to communicate in person!" or "Oh, THIS is why being assertive and correcting immediately is much better than being passive-aggressive and saving all your rebukes for a meeting!"

I feel that my current work environment has transformed from a friendly, pleasant one to a feudal, elitist one. I'm getting a crash course or maybe a refresher course on submitting to authority, because I'm pretty much at the mercy of my managers' whims. I truly feel like I tiptoe through a minefield every day, and I've learned that I have to be prepared for anything. To my recollection, this is the first job I've ever had where the managers don't roll up their sleeves and pitch in when the workload becomes too heavy for everyone else -- where the managers don't know how to do the jobs of the people under them.

And I completely understand that lots of companies operate this way. I also understand that there are lots of companies that are much, much, much worse than mine. I am also extremely thankful for my paycheck. I am also flabbergasted at how little I'm able to confide in my coworkers, who seem content to plug themselves back into the Matrix and blend in. All those times that God told me to leave make more and more sense every day, as the work environment becomes exponentially more toxic every day.

"He is despised and rejected by men, a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we did not esteem Him. Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed." (Isaiah 53:3-5, talking about Jesus)

Speaking of managers who won't do the jobs of their underlings, Jesus isn't like that at all. He won't set rules that He Himself won't follow. He knows exactly how to do our Kingdom jobs because He did them all Himself (and still does). For example, if He says to forgive, He's not theorizing on a method that's worked elsewhere. He knows firsthand what it's like to be treated excruciatingly unjustly and forgiving, anyway. If He says to love, He's not being a clueless consultant. He knows firsthand what it's like to love somebody who will never, ever love Him back, and He Himself IS love.

Jesus knows exactly what it's like to walk in our shoes, because He was born right here on our turf over 2,000 years ago among us, as one of us. He knows how the soft, slipper shoes feel, and He knows how the mismatched, blistering shoes feel.

And He's already walked before me. All I have to do is follow in His footsteps. And He's walking WITH me, too. Now, THAT'S a committed Manager/Shepherd/Lord/King!

Labor

I write this post this evening with winter-chapped fingertips simply as an online meditation... and because my Facebook friends probably wouldn't appreciate me rambling for 1,500 words on a status update.

"Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor." (Ecclesiastes 4:9)

One year ago while I was lugging my odds-and-ends belongings, minus the movers, into my new apartment, this verse branded a giant invisible "YEP" on my heart. Today while I spent an hour and 45 minutes de-icing my car, this verse screamed at me again.

So, there have been at least two times in my life when I knew for sure that having a man around would have come in very handy. (In addition, of course, to all those womanly times when my ovaries scream at me.) A husband with muscles definitely would have come in handy 1) last year when I moved and 2) today when I scraped Icemageddon off my car.

Regardless, I was probably de-icing my vehicle in the most inefficient way possible (a couple of douses of warm water, lots of car-defrosting, and incessant ice-picking). Perhaps I should have asked somebody for help, or maybe I could have paid somebody to do it. But I did the best I could with what I had, and I usually lose track of time when I do that. (Which is probably why my employer isn't happy with me right now, but that's another story.)

And, of course, while I was watching ice slowly, gradually melt and break away before my eyes, I thought about how my heart was/is probably a lot like my iced-over car: packed in cold layers that just need to be chipped off and melted away. But that probably isn't the most accurate metaphor, because God can soften and melt hearts much faster than an hour and 45 minutes.

But I digress. I think maybe one reason God designed us for community isn't just because He Himself enjoys community. (The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit have been quite happy together, How is the weather? for all eternity.) I think maybe one reason God designed us for community is simply because we get more accomplished when we're in community. Living life together can be a very efficient thing. (However, if the people in your community embrace chaos, that's a completely different story.) Either you're making things happen more quickly, or you're recuperating on your couch typing up a blog post with chapped philosophical fingers. It's all good. It's just that the former is more efficient. And I think God knows that. (And I'm pretty sure Ecclesiastes 4 is talking about any type of relationship, not just marriage.)

No, this wasn't a pity party. This was me needing to philosophize before I exploded.

Regarding my non-existent husband with muscles, I think I'm more blunt than I've ever been in this area. The answer to, "So, Tirzah, when are you ever going to get married?" is more than likely, "Whenever Prince Charming gets off his butt and asks me out." And I type that with an affectionate smile. Because I think Prince Charming probably has a very cute butt.

Wait. Did I just type that out loud? Hmm. Maybe the generic Tylenol is kicking in now. I think I may have just typed up this post in a third of the time it took me to de-ice my car. Record!

Extremes

Pretty much everybody in my area enjoyed a nice pre-winter wintry, ice-snowy frozen day today. I enjoyed it exclusively indoors with my indoor cats. My babies aren't allowed outside, so I let each one of them get a whiff of the cold fresh air. Choochie, the sprinter, got a really quick whiff. With Macho, on the other hand, I got crazy-frisky and left the front door open for a long "Hey, you wanna see the weather outside?" moment. He shakily advanced toward the threshold with a suspicious "Are you going to kick me out as punishment for nosing through your kitchen cabinet?" look on his furrily humbled face. Of course I didn't let him actually go outside, and of course I wasn't worried that he would run away, because he's scared to death of the outdoors and has never crossed this threshold.

But I can't believe I actually opened the front door on purpose, on an icy day, with two cats loose indoors. I guess wintry weather just makes people do crazy things. I guess crazy things just happen on the extremes.

"And to the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write, 'These things says the Amen, the Faithful and True Witness, the Beginning of the creation of God: "I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot. I could wish you were cold or hot. So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth." ' " (Jesus talking in Revelation 3:14-16)

I think God thinks extremes are important. In Revelation, Jesus is like, "Are you cold or hot for Me? Choose how you're going to be. Just don't be lukewarm, 'cause that tastes gross. I mean, you don't want Me or the people around you to get food poisoning, do you?" (That was Tirzah's interpretation.)

In terms of following God, on which end of the spectrum are Pharisees? On which extreme are they? I wonder if perhaps outwardly they appear to be on the "on fire for God" end of the spectrum, because they're not on the "I don't believe in God at all" end of the spectrum. But what if they're actually in the "I believe in God, but I don't really like Him; can I stop singing hymns and go home now?" lukewarm middle of the spectrum? At least, when I was a Pharisee, I think that's where I was.

Perhaps the danger of residing in the middle of the spectrum (not being on either extreme) is being too willing and able to slither from one extreme to the other. A middle-resider would probably be like, "I love You" one second and, "I hate You," the next second, kinda like flipping a switch.

Several years ago, I had a job that required me to watch (usually obscure) movies. During one assignment, I watched a really terrible movie about a protagonist who accidentally makes a deal with the devil. The actor who played the devil wasn't revealed as the devil until the end of the movie, of course, but during the movie he seemed like a sleek, polished, good person. During one scene, the protagonist meets quietly with the (unrevealed) devil inside a church sanctuary. While they're having a casual conversation in the pews, the protagonist is cussing like a truck driver. The (unrevealed) devil quietly shushes the protagonist and reminds him that he probably shouldn't cuss inside a church building. When I saw the end of the movie and the devil was revealed, it was like... of course. Even the devil knows how people are supposed to behave inside a church building. He knew all the right things to say and all the wrong things that weren't supposed to have been said.

Perhaps extremes are safe because if you're on fire for God, if you really like Him a lot, He'll know how serious you are about Him, and He'll hold you close and protect you from all kinds of stuff. Or perhaps if you're anti-God, you'll inadvertently paint a "cold" target on your forehead for us "hot" people to see and immediately start praying for you. "Oh, somebody sounds wounded. Father, find 'em, grab 'em, and love on 'em." God is extremely serious, too. If you give Him an inch, He won't take a mile. He'll give you a zillion miles back.

Or perhaps one reason why "lukewarm" can be so dangerous is because fences don't have wide walking surfaces. If you walk a tightrope, perhaps you should check and see how far the drop is.

In my journey, I think God saw my "lukewarm" and, instead of spitting me out, in His mercy and grace, He was like, "Oh, you wanna be hot now? Groovy. Hold on and get ready to feel the burn, baby, burn."

"The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars, yes, the Lord splinters the cedars of Lebanon. He makes them also skip like a calf, Lebanon and Sirion like a young wild ox. The voice of the Lord divides the flames of fire. The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness; the Lord shakes the Wilderness of Kadesh. The voice of the Lord makes the deer give birth, and strips the forests bare; and in His temple everyone says, 'Glory!' " (Psalm 29:5-9)

About three years ago when God and I got extremely serious about my emotional healing, God began to do extremely serious things. For a while, my emotional healing would manifest physically. It was sort of like showing up for a daily doctor's appointment; the appointment itself was very unpleasant, but the Doctor would pat you on the back afterwards, make sure you were OK, give you a lollipop, and send you home.

Usually in the evenings, most often while I was lying in bed and trying to fall asleep, I would get hit with a memory or a picture of some sort, and I would cry out in emotional pain, and then I would literally pant, strain, and convulse in my midsection. It's possible that I was hyperventilating. But regardless of what it was exactly, it was scary, and it would be over after a few minutes, and there would be tears, and there would be laughter, and there would be relief. These episodes would occur pretty much every night. I don't remember exactly how long this ordeal lasted, but perhaps it was several months.

When this first started happening, of course I was concerned. Was it God? Was it demonic? Was it fleshly? So, I asked God once what was happening, and He said, "I'm carving out space in your soul for emotions." And He also pointed out those verses in Psalm 29 that I quoted previously. Yep, it definitely felt like the cedars of Lebanon were splitting wide open.

So, from what I understand, God healed my emotions -- nay, He re-created my emotions -- in a very extreme way. (I don't remember any "Freedom through panting" classes being offered at my church.) Perhaps that was His way of undoing all the years of "What will people think?" or "Only ridiculous crybabies cry in front of other people" or "Don't be a fanatic" or "You're not allowed to express yourself; shut up" mentalities that I had been conditioned with. I think it worked. I used to take hours or days to build up to a good cry. Now just give me a couple of seconds, and the tears will come without me wanting them to.

I don't think me crying was really all God was interested in, though. One time, I asked Him, "Is it fair to say that I'm ultra-sensitive?" He replied, "No, you're excruciatingly sensitive, and you're learning how to control it." Oy vey.

So, that's part of my journey of God rewiring me internally to "hot." Crazy things happen on the extremes. Instead of simply doing what I'm told or believing what I'm told to believe or stuffing away the things I want to do, I'm grabbing what's mine and running with it. I have ideas of my own, I want to believe whatever God wants me to believe, and I pursue my dreams. And it's interesting to see the results. I think I repel people who don't like my ideas, I accidentally offend people who can't persuade me to agree with them, and I walk away from people who mock my attempts at achieving awesome things.

It's painful, but after a while, I've gotten used to it. I guess that's one side effect of being on the "hot" extreme: I don't care how bad it hurts or how roughly I get shredded internally. (Well, I care, 'cause pain stinks, but please hear what I'm saying.) I want to keep pursuing God. I want Him. He's my Friend who wanted me first. He's promised to stick with me, so I want to stick with Him, too. So, it doesn't matter if I get hit in the face with an Arctic blast or if I slip so hard on the icy conditions that I forget who I am for a moment or two. I'm hot, and I feel the burn, baby, burn.

Jesus went to the farthest extreme that any other human being has ever gone through, or will ever go through, but He did it so I wouldn't have to. He became sin for me so that I wouldn't have to live in it. He endured His Father's turning His back on Him so that I wouldn't have to know my Father's rejection. He took all the ridicule, all the abuse, and all the unjust treatment from the people who crucified Him so that I wouldn't have to suffer a punishment that I had earned. He didn't deserve any of that. He gave it willingly because He wanted to, and because He wanted me.

And He still does. After all I did to Him, He still wants me? That is very extreme. And I want Him, too, extremely.

Boundaries

A previous supervisor accused me of not thinking before I write. So, I would like to go on record as having thought, at least to a degree, before I wrote this particular post.

This post will be a tiny bit different than what I normally do. Reader, if you'd be so kind as to indulge me, I need to just type this up to unravel it out of my head. I'm hurting, and it seems that I need to type it out to flush it out of my system. Hopefully my putting this in cyberspace will help somebody else, but if not, thank you anyway for reading. Because I'm worth helping myself, right? So, this particular post will probably be a messy heap of meditative philosophical whining. Of course you are welcome to skip this post if you'd rather not read it. But I thought ahead enough to take a picture of my cats. See?

I am not a teacher or a minister, and I definitely don't have all the answers. But I would like to talk a little bit about the concept of boundaries for the sake of any readers who have never heard of this concept before. (It blesses me when people explain concepts to me instead of assuming that I already know about them.) Cloud & Townsend explain the concept of boundaries pretty well in their books, so they would be the experts to consult. My quirky right-brained definition of a boundary is a limit that shouldn't be crossed. A fence is an example of a boundary. If I put a fence around my property, and you cross it, you'll be trespassing. Only I can authorize you to cross the boundary into my property. At least, that's how I see it. And I definitely don't see it perfectly.

Cats are extremely difficult to set boundaries with because they're so stubborn and insistent, but at least once you get the hang of their ways, they can be so much easier to deal with than human beings. At least I can tell where one cat ends and the other begins. See Macho in the foreground and Choochie in the background?

Sometimes when I tell my cats "no," they obey and respect my boundary, and other times they ignore me and proceed with the boundary violation. When that happens, I have to shoo them away from my kitchen counter or hunt them down inside a cabinet or chase after them in the living room or something like that. But they're cats. They can't be mad at me, because I'm the keeper of the Purina. They're stuck with me for life.

People are so much more complicated. I know, because I am a person. When you draw a boundary with a cat, they won't accuse you of being an incompetent slob or a bad friend. They'll just gripe momentarily and move on with life. Next thing you know, they'll be perching on your thigh and purring and watching you type up a blog post.

But when you draw a boundary with a person, you'll see right away what's in their hearts. Either they'll describe your boundary as chicken [bleep], or they'll apologize for being a jerk. Either they'll wag their head at you and say that it's your loss, or they'll take the boundary like a man and remain diplomatically silent. Either they'll lecture you for not accepting them, or they'll wish you well and tell you that they're praying for you. Or something in between. I've responded in all sorts of ways that I'm not proud of when people have drawn boundaries with me. That "Unfriend" button on Facebook can send a pretty loud message.

I've said this before, but I'll say again that pruning hurts. I'm not sure if real vines bleed when you hack away at them, but this crazy-cat-lady branch grafted into the Vine can bleed quite profusely.

Speaking of the Vine, Jesus understands exactly what it's like to be reviled. He understands how important it is to forgive and extend grace, because He is full of grace and truth, and He is love. I think forgiveness, grace, truth, mercy, and love probably pump through His beautiful veins like liquid gold. They shine from His face and warm everything around Him. They shoot out of His mouth on His sword and slice through the accuser's stenchy halitosis.

And I'm weirdly thankful for getting verbally puked on after setting some boundaries, because the puke confirms my decisions for me. Hmm. So, that person's little remarks here and there really were bad, and maybe I was either too naive or giving too much of the benefit of the doubt to notice.

So, I'm not crazy. My previous supervisor is not allowed inside my head, so there's no way this person could ever know whether or not I think before writing. I think that's a common-sense boundary. Saying that my writing sucks is one thing. Saying that I don't think is crossing the line.

Honesty is a trait that I've grown to value in people. Even people who are way too outspoken have my respect because they at least speak the truth, and/or are honest about how they feel. They're usually very good at setting boundaries, too, because they're not afraid of identifying where one thing ends and another begins.

If you deal with me, you'll get the honest truth, unless I just don't want to tell you how I feel. So, thank you for asking me why I was sulking around the office, thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell you what I thought about you, sorry I made you cry, and sorry you felt like you had to ask me to do dishonest things while I worked for you. Sorry if wearing my heart on the end of my nose makes you uncomfortable. I'm glad I don't work for you anymore, and I'm glad I don't have to cover for you all the time.

I'm going to stick with the people who aren't afraid of "wounding" me faithfully, instead of "kissing" me deceitfully, like it talks about in Proverbs. I get to choose who I get to be friends with. I think that should be an unspoken common-sense boundary. I'm glad that Jesus is the Friend who sticks closer than a brother, like it talks about in Proverbs, and I'm glad I can be as honest with Him as I want. I'm glad He encourages it. And I'm glad He wants my boundaries to fall in pleasant places, like it talks about in Psalm 16.

If you'll excuse me, I'm exhausted and will now retire for the evening and hopefully fall asleep in the arms of my Father without soaking my face into my pillow. But if I need to, I'm glad He doesn't mind collecting my tears in His bottle, like it talks about in Psalm 56.

I still don't understand how one minute, everything's wonderful, and the next minute, it's like somebody flips a switch and I'm a reject. Hmm. Jesus can help me figure this out. He understands this completely.

Treasure

Today, I was asked why I don't move closer to my workplace. (Last year when I moved, I moved farther from my workplace, not closer to it.) The diplomatic answer I gave was based on what I shared in my previous post: I enjoy relaxing during my long commute. I want to leave work at work. The non-diplomatic answer I didn't give, which of course has more details, is why the [bleep] would I want to live closer to a job I've grown to hate, which has an almost incessant threat of layoff looming in my cubicle, just to save a few teensy minutes of traffic time? (Also, the rent is cheaper out here, but shh, don't tell anybody.) So, during my ride home this evening, I passed a random fireworks display... on December 3rd... in a parking lot along the highway. Who the heck does that? (Of course I could easily find out by Googling, but I'd like to marvel at the mystery for now.) That is why I live out here. I belong out here with other random people.

I've invested a lot of time in this area for church activities. (Work is a 45-minute drive, but church is a 6-minute drive.) I have sentimental feelings for this area. I feel safe in this area. I like this area. This area feels like home to me. That is why I want to live here.

"Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6:19-21)

From what I understand, these Bible verses (which are sandwiched, in context, between verses that talk about fasting and verses that talk about money) are talking about storing invisible treasure. From what I've been taught and understand, one way of storing treasure in heaven is by praying. When I leave this earth, I'm not going to be able to take anything with me. What I'll have waiting for me in heaven -- which is my eternal home -- is what I've stored up, what my Jesus has prepared for me, any type of reward that He has for me, any kind of cool new job He has for me to do, etc. I also like what my pastor says: You can tell where your heart is by looking at your checkbook. If my heart is at church, I'll probably give plenty of money to it. If my heart is with my cats, I'll probably be plunking down plenty of bucks at the vet's office. If my heart is extra caffeinated, I'll probably be chugging down plenty of Starbucks. I'm sure you get the picture. The point is that wherever we invest our money, our time, our energy, etc., is where our hearts will be.

Speaking of pictures, at the beginning of this post I shared a photo of my cat playing with her semi-new toy. Through the years, I've learned that I can spend as much money on my cats as I want, but they won't really care about the costliness or the fanciness of their toys. So, it's probably wisest to refrain from buying expensive toys for them, because they'll play with pretty much anything. In the photo, Choochie is playing with a woman's hairband that I snipped to transform it into an elastic string-thingy. (I bought about 6 of those at Target for a few bucks. I figure they're several months' worth of random feline fun.)

Honestly, I think what my cats treasure more than some chewed-up, soggy toys is my presence. They've known me for years. They know they can count on me to love them. At breakfast, Choochie jumps on my banqueting table and purrs while I eat. When the weather is very cold, Macho finds my lap and curls up in it. Sometimes after I return home from an extended absence, Choochie will find my thigh, sit on it, stare at me, and purr. On weekday mornings if I don't leave home, Macho will forsake his morning nap and snuggle next to me instead.

Yes, it's a little bit silly of me to use my cats as examples, but my point is that we've bonded. Our treasure is our relationship.

Perhaps I'm just getting older, or perhaps I'm discovering something that I should have known all along, or perhaps I'm reinforcing something that I've always known, or perhaps it's all this fire that I've come through... but I've noticed that I value relationship more than almost anything else. (If your home catches on fire while you're in it, you're going to grab your most valuable, most necessary possessions -- or, at least, what you can grab in a split second -- before you evacuate.) My relationship with God is definitely the relationship that I value the most. I'm toast without Him, for real. (Relationship is what will motivate me to do pretty much anything, but shh, don't tell anybody.)

At a previous job, about a decade ago, a manager from another department asked me to write up a procedure for his job. He was reluctant to get it done, because he didn't think it was necessary to write out how to do something that he had done hundreds of times. But since he heard I was a writer, he asked me to do it for him. Perhaps I had a blank look on my face while he was speaking with me, because he seemed like he was scrambling to get me excited. Then I think I asked him if I would get paid overtime for helping him out. I think he said yes, and he added, "Money! That's what motivates people."

Actually, any blank look that I had on my face may have been starvation, because back then I was so broke that I was living on tuna and popcorn, but that's another story. Overtime would have been an extremely welcome addition to my bank account. But I think he was on to something.

Yes, money is definitely important. I drag my [bleep] to work every morning because I need money to pay my bills, etc. But it grieves me that people think money is what makes the world go 'round.

"And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men..." (Colossians 3:23)

You know it's time to look for a new job when... you enjoy living far, far away from your current one.

You know it's time to look for a new job when... your coworkers ask you, "What do you think about [insert minor detail here that doesn't need to be debated]?" and you think to yourself, "I don't [bleep]ing care, I don't [bleep]ing care, I don't [bleep]ing care," but you say out loud, "I'll be happy to do whatever you decide."

You know it's time to look for a new job when... you discover that your heart isn't in your current one anymore.

Sure, money motivates people. But if given the choice, I would rather have a smaller paycheck, less stress, and more happiness than a huge paycheck, killer stress, and several episodes of almost-trips back to the psych hospital. Please stop treating me like a money-making machine. I am a person who has ideas, feelings, and emotions. Keep your money. I want relationship.

It saddens and frustrates me to think of how Christmas can become just another pile of unwanted expensive gifts buried underneath piles of fancy wrapping paper. OK, so you spent hours shopping for presents that took seconds to unwrap, that will take months to pay off, and that attracted very little of my interest. Thank you for the thought and the effort. But would it have killed you to have spent more time just getting to know me instead? Just sit across a table from me, eyeball to eyeball, and have a deep conversation with me. That will be a more enjoyable Christmas than you could ever imagine.

What's going to matter more in the end: the stuff you bought for me or the relationship that you invested in me?

I'm heart-squirting now, but can you tell where my treasure is?

Another pastor at my church compares worship leaders to restaurant waiters. "Good morning. Today, I'll be serving you and your King a brilliantly prepared meal of praise and worship. I'll leave you two alone now, but please holler if you need anything." I like that analogy. But I personally like to think of us worship leaders more like Throne Room tour guides. "And over here, ladies and gentlemen, we have the sea of glass. I would direct your attention to the four living creatures, but I imagine that your attention is already directed toward them. And, of course, we have The Throne, where God is seated. Uh, if you'll excuse me, I need to run to my Daddy's lap for a moment, cry between His shoulders, and shower His face with kisses. Be right back. Or please follow me if you want. Just make yourselves at home. Actually, please move in and make this your permanent home, if you haven't already."

My point is that our society seems to value money-treasures more highly than relationship-treasures, especially during Christmastime. I think whichever treasure you value more is where you'll park your heart.

But I think Somebody is truly the Expert at balancing both types of treasures perfectly.

The most precious, expensive Treasure ever known to humankind was born in a stable more than 2,000 years ago. My Daddy gave His only begotten Son to me... so that I could become His child... and Jesus was born here on earth as a Man with whom I can have the most important relationship of my life... forever. He and I have been bonding here on earth, and we'll get to hang out together in heaven for an eternity, too. Yes, of course I want to live in heaven because I don't want to live in hell. But the more I get to know Jesus, the more I want to live in heaven, because He lives there. I've invested my heart into Him. I belong with Him. I want Him. My home is wherever He is.

So, whether I spend Christmas in a house full of dozens of relatives, and I get a nice haul of hundreds of dollars' worth of gift-wrapped presents... or whether I spend Christmas in an apartment with my two cats snuggling for warmth, eating pizza and root beer, watching a Lord of the Rings movie marathon, and having a deep conversation with my Savior, I want to celebrate His birthday. I want to celebrate His existence. I want to celebrate Him. I want my investment, my treasure, my heart to be with Him.