Word

I love fried chicken, which pleases my taste buds, tortures my waistline, and possibly teases my gallbladder. But this week, it seemed peaceable to enjoy some fried chicken from the Kroger deli and graze on it for dinner. Since I live alone, a family-sized portion of fried chicken will usually feed me dinner for several nights out of the week. Since I live with two cats, a family-sized portion of fried chicken has become a source of drama.

In the past, Choochie has stayed away from my fried chicken, but Macho has tried to claim it for himself as a meat-hunting prize. Unfortunately, he has succeeded a couple of times. While I eat on my bachelorette banqueting table, Macho will usually meow, claw at my clothes/arm/leg, perch onto my leg so that his mouth can have better aim at my plate, and/or snuggle on my lap, where he will either wait for crumbs to fall and/or sneak his little mouth near my plate. A couple of times, I became very frustrated because, well, who wants to eat dinner while a wild animal is meowing and clawing at you, and you're yelling NO with a mouth full of fried chicken? So, I would take him to the other room so I could eat my meal somewhat in peace. (In my previous post, I wrote about how he sometimes howls when he feels separated from me.) One time, I made the mistake of utilizing my restroom facilities while leaving my pantry door open ajar. (My pantry is where I keep my trash can.) While I was utilizing the facilities, I heard a loud thud, and, sure enough, Macho had knocked over the trash can and helped himself to my fried chicken bones, etc.

So much heartache over fried chicken! I've repeatedly vowed that I'll never bring fried chicken into my home again... and yet, I still keep bringing it. I believe we have a better handle on the drama now. I've learned to always keep my pantry door closed and to never take my eye off my Macho. This evening, I decided to give him a sample of fried chicken (just a tiny bit of grease on my fingers) before I heated it up in the microwave. The photo I displayed at the beginning of this post is my attempt to capture this heartwarming moment. I haven't quite figured out yet if the look in his eyes is saying, "Why are you trying to take my picture?" or "I want meat, but all I can taste is chicken grease."

All that to say -- Macho and I have known each other for many years, and we've bonded considerably. (It's the same with Choochie and me.) I know he loves me and that his tummy is a bottomless ravenous pit. He knows I love him and that I have plenty of access to magical food that's currently off-limits for him.

"So He humbled you, allowed you to hunger, and fed you with manna which you did not know nor did your fathers know, that He might make you know that man shall not live by bread alone; but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord." (Deuteronomy 8:3)

If you've ever wanted to hear God speak to you, yes, please read the Bible. That's how He speaks. But if you've ever wanted to hear Him speak to you conversationally, you'll learn how to do so really quickly when He's the only One available to talk to. And it might not necessarily be a major ethereal experience like the kind you have at a church retreat. It might be while you're in the trenches. You're crouching in a foxhole, the enemy is firing bullets over your head, and all you have is one grenade left. If you don't follow orders, or if you mishear your General's instructions, you're toast. But in the heat of the battle, you bond with Him.

Or maybe you know that He keeps the fried chicken in His refrigerator, so you follow Him to the refrigerator, even though you know it's a dangerous place for cats, but you meow-beg for some anyway, without any sense of shame whatsoever, because you know how wonderful the fried chicken tastes. When it's time, He lets you sample some. If you try to sneak in some bites without His permission, you could completely forget that you're a cat and He's 10 times bigger than you are, and all hell could break loose.

My point is that sometimes, one of the deepest ways you can bond with the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords is to just charge into battle with Him, walk into a green pasture with Him, enjoy a special moment with Him, or just live life with Him, with all its highs and lows.

Living life by hearing from God and letting God hear from you is, in my opinion, the only way to live. After you taste it once, you'll crave it so badly that you won't want anything else.

Take my job, for example. I know that God spoke to me approximately 10 months ago and told me to find another job. My knowing this has come in handy, especially now that my current job has gotten better. (For now.) It would be very easy to take a step back and logically say, "I should stay here for a few more years, because things aren't really as bad as I thought they were. Maybe I was just overreacting." Nope. I've done that before, let my guard down, and then wham, gotten knocked down again. God has spoken lots of times that I need to find another job, and He's confirmed it zillions of times.

One of these confirmations was pretty cool. A few months ago, I was driving back home from my cousin's house, but I didn't exit the highway in time. I kept driving, and I saw one of those yellow "FREEWAY ENDS" signs, so I had no choice but to keep driving, and I was OK with having a spontaneous highway adventure late at night, anyway. I drove over a suspension bridge, and I was amazed at its beauty. The bridge led to a part of town that I didn't remember visiting before, but it was brightly lit, snazzy, and inviting. After a block or two, the snazziness quickly wore off, and I noticed that I was in a dark, dangerous-looking, scary part of town. I turned around as quickly as I could and high-tailed it out of that neighborhood. Of course, on the drive back, I got to admire the snazziness all over again. I drove over the suspension bridge again, and I marveled at how beautiful it was. Then, if I remember correctly, God told me, "That's how you're going to exit this job. When you first started, it was beautiful. Then it was dark and scary. Then on your way out, it will be beautiful again." I don't remember His exact words, but that's basically what He said.

That's how I like to live my life -- that's how I've always liked to live my life ever since I was first baptized in the Holy Spirit almost 20 years ago -- just conversing with my Friend who's in charge. Where He leads is where I want to follow. Where He goes is where I want to go. What He's OK with is what I want to be OK with. This morning, I told Him that I don't want to be at a job unless He can be there with me every day. I don't care where I work -- whether I'm flipping burgers or whether I'm giving speeches at the White House -- but if He can't come to work with me every time I clock in, I don't want to be there.

Recently, I've been watching episodes of a show called My Cat from Hell. It's a really cool show, and it's similar to Dog Whisperer, but it's about cats. After watching this cat show, I've caught myself feeling a tiny bit insecure about how I live with my cats. Are they bush dwellers or tree dwellers? Are they really supposed to be tree dwellers, but I don't give them enough vertical space? Do I feed them too often? Do I play with them often enough?

So, of course, I've had to ask them. Yes, of course I talk to them. I'll ask, "Do you feel that your accommodations are satisfactory?" And Choochie will often blink and have this, "Wow, you really need to chill out" look on her face, and Macho will often meow and walk away. (Those are yesses, right?) So, I've come to the conclusion that because they behave (almost) exactly the way I want cats to behave in my home, and because they're comfortable around me, and because they love me and I love them, we're happy together. (How is the weather?)

While the three of us have lived under the same roof for many years, we've bonded quite a bit, especially since the roofs have changed. They have faithfully adapted to every living situation I've had since I've known them. They've lived with me in tiny apartments. They've been escorted from my room to another room so as to limit their interaction with shiny things and indoor dogs. They've endured hours together inside a pet carrier while I moved out of town with them or while I hired movers. Their needs have changed as they've gotten older. I've cleaned up their puke and hairballs. I've introduced them to new litter and new foods. I've prayed for them while they've leaked blood in places where cats aren't supposed to bleed. I've whisked them away to vet offices and plunked down hundreds of dollars for their treatments. I've gotten awakened in the middle of the night because they've wanted to play or snuggle. I've wrestled with fried chicken, I've shared my yogurt, and I've coaxed with psychedelic kitty experience. (Catnip.) We've lived life together, and we've been through a lot together. So, we know each other.

I think that's how it is with me and God, to a degree. I think that's kinda how He wants it to be with all of us.

I know when He speaks to me because He's the One who hangs out with me wherever I am. He's the One who goes wherever I go. I usually know when others are trying to mimic His voice, because He's the One who's shown me what they sound like, and He's helped me kick them out. And I still go through a lot of maintenance in this area; that is, I still constantly seek discernment, and I still often ask for confirmation. I need His voice. His voice is my food. Without it, I'll starve to death.

I need Him.

I need Him!

I NEED HIM!

Heard

Reader, I hope you're not too tired of hearing me rant about my childhood, 'cause I've got more to say.

Macho has separation anxiety that bubbles out of him every once in a while. I spent all day at home today in my small apartment, with both my cats. And yet, this evening after I stepped outside for a few minutes to take out the trash and check the mail, and after I settled back in, Macho forgot where I was. At least, I think that's what happens. He dozes off (as cats tend to do), and when he wakes up, he's alone by himself in the dark, and he howls. Sometimes he even does that when I'm in the same room with him, with the lights on. It's OK, kitty, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.

So, the photo you see here is him after he howled in the dark from the other room. I called to him and invited him to join me here in the living room where I have the lights on. He trotted over, meowed "Ma-Maow," and snuggled next to my feet for a moment before perching on top of my couch as you see here. (Yes, he talks to me, and I listen.)

I think that's what a good cat-mama is supposed to do. (At least, I hope that's what a good cat-mama is supposed to do.) She listens, she responds, she comforts, she reassures, and she remains available.

That's what God does, too.

"The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His ears are open to their cry. The face of the Lord is against those who do evil, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth. The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit." (Psalm 34:15-18)

With what I'm about to say, I don't mean any disrespect; I just want to be honest. A huge part of my healing is accepting the fact that I just had bad parents. Why else would God tell me to separate myself from them for the rest of my life here on earth?

I don't remember this, because I was too young: I'm told that when I was a baby, I didn't cry real tears, and it freaked out my then-parents. So, they asked my pediatrician about their little freak-- I mean, about me. They explained to him that they would run to me every time I would cry, but they would never see tears. So, he was like, "You've never let her cry long enough to see her tears. If you let her cry long enough, you'll see tears." So, the next time I cried out to them, they let me cry, they ignored me, and it pained them to do so. But they got to see my tears.

Unfortunately, I think I was told a heck of a lot of lies while I was crying all alone with nobody to heed me. I have already blogged previously about my deep rejection and abandonment issues. I have already blogged previously about my neglect issues. I hear stories about people having issues with not being "seen." I have issues with not being "heard," and I think I understand why.

This might also be one reason why I'm working through my issue of hating prayer. (I hate prayer, but I don't really hate prayer, but I hate it, but I don't really hate it, but I don't like it, but I like it. Have I mentioned lately that I'm in psychotherapy?) If authority figures won't hear you when you cry out to them, why would God hear me when I cry out to Him?

I understand more than ever that God isn't anything like my earthly then-parents. He isn't a whitewashed hypocrite Pharisee who only wants to look good in front of other people. He isn't a power-hungry little wuss who condescends down at His own family for the sake of keeping His ego inflated. He isn't an elitist, guile-saturated snob who allows dirty old men to prey on His own children in a church building. He isn't a spiritual abuser who vomits confusion into spiritually hungry souls who have finally found the only One who can heal them from all of the above.

Nope. God isn't like that at all. But He is eternally serious about restoration and justice.

"Lift up Your feet to the perpetual desolations. The enemy has damaged everything in the sanctuary. Your enemies roar in the midst of Your meeting place; they set up their banners for signs." (Psalm 74:3-4)

My rejection and abandonment issues have affected my relationship with God, too. Recently, I've had to face a major fear of intimacy with God. Admitting that I was petrified of God -- the One who wants to be closer to me than anyone else does -- has been a bit embarrassing. But it makes sense in the context of everything else. If everyone else abandons me as soon as they see who I really am, why wouldn't God?

That was a rhetorical question, of course, that was voicing one of the lies that was floating around inside me. Dang. No wonder it felt easier to simply cloak myself in "religion" and hide behind hymnbooks and Sunday School literature. If I keep "God in a box," I can study Him from afar and remain safe.

Pffffft. I barely understand "safe." God invented "safe."

You won't find any Queen songs in a hymnbook. (Except for "God Save The Queen," but I think national anthems are public domain.) They don't explain in Sunday School literature that God will heal a cat-loving little artsy chick by prompting her to sing Queen songs to Him during her "quiet time."

Yep, that's a good way to get me to cry real tears: Let me sing a Freddie Mercury song to my God who wants to be scarily close to me. You know how He knew that? Intimacy.

Spiritual abuse really is heinously destructive. After God finally pulled me out of an unhealthy environment and transplanted me into a place where I learned about the Holy Spirit and started to enjoy intimacy with my God, and after I started getting fed poisonous lies telling me that what I was experiencing wasn't really God... well, it makes sense that God told me to separate myself from my spiritual abusers for the rest of my life here on earth.

With all due respect to my then-parents, I know how to cry now, with very visible tears, at the drop of a hat, as a result of genuine pain. But, unfortunately, they don't get to see my tears now.

I am not a guinea pig. I am not a linguistic experiment. I am not a science project. I am not an inconvenience. I am not a waste of time. I am not a burden.

I am a person who has every right to live on this planet. I am an artist who feels very deeply and who aches to express very honestly. I am a daughter of the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords -- a daughter who is welcome on her Daddy's lap, in her Daddy's arms, between her Daddy's shoulders. I am a woman who longs to know her God and to be known by Him. I am a cat-mama who knows how to heed her babies' cries.

Seriously, what kind of an ogre allows her young to cry in the dark? How dare you. That isn't "safe." No wonder God whisked me away from you forever. You weren't "safe" for me. You blocked me from the One who invented "safe," from the only One who will always be able to keep me "safe." I mentioned respecting you earlier, but I think my respect for you is gone now.

Can you hear me now?

Prisoner on the thigh

Technically, it's still winter, and it was cold outside this evening, so I wore my blue cap. This particular cap brings back thankful memories because I bought it in the fall of 2000 the same week I attempted suicide and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. In the fall of 2000, long story short, I walked into a grocery store with the intention of buying a toothbrush with my last $2, but I ended up buying this cap instead. (When you're dangerously depressed, your survival skills are really out of whack. At the psych hospital, my teeth were all kinds of unbrushed-nasty, especially after drinking/ejecting activated charcoal.)

Two years ago, I took a picture of myself with my blue cap and posted it on Facebook with a slightly longer version of the story you read above. I was encouraged by the very positive comments I received about my story. People were basically like, "OH, MY GOSH, YOU HAVE A PAST!"

Yep. And I have a present, too.

As Morpheus would say, "This will feel... a little weird." As Neo would say, "Déjà vu."

The title of this blog post may seem... a little weird, but I have two different ideas that I've been processing through lately, and I thought it would be interesting to combine them here. Thank you in advance for reading.

"Then Joseph's master took him and put him into the prison, a place where the king's prisoners were confined. And he was there in the prison. But the Lord was with Joseph and showed him mercy, and He gave him favor in the sight of the keeper of the prison. And the keeper of the prison committed to Joseph's hand all the prisoners who were in the prison; whatever they did there, it was his doing. The keeper of the prison did not look into anything that was under Joseph's authority, because the Lord was with him; and whatever he did, the Lord made it prosper." (Genesis 39:20-23)

In the passage I quoted above, the word "prison" or "prisoner" appears eight times. Wow. I wonder if that's the Holy Spirit's artistic way of communicating, "Prison, prison, everywhere!"

If you've been following my blog, you know that I hate my current job almost as much as I hate the devil. What God has been showing me recently is that while I'm there, He's teaching me about being in a prison. I believe that He's spoken to me many, many, many times that I need to leave my job... and yet I can't, because I have debts to pay off. Proverbs 22:7 explains that my bills keep me chained to my job. I'm like, I gotta go-- AAAGH! I can't go! It's a miserable cycle.

I wonder if Joseph felt the same way in Genesis. I wonder if he was like, I don't belong in here because I didn't commit a crime-- AAAGH! I'm stuck in here! Joseph had a really hard life that seemed to come upon him suddenly and that seemed to last for many years. In the end, his dreams came true, and he lived happily ever after.

But meanwhile, he was stuck in prison. And God gave him favor there. Even while he unjustly remained in a confined space -- unjustly ripped away from his family, unjustly accused of doing something heinous that he didn't do -- he was trusted with some duties inside the prison that trained him for his future. He was destined for awesomeness, but there was Prison, prison everywhere, and not a drop of freedom to drink.

Then in one fell swoop, he was finally released from prison and appointed to a high government position. He went from Prison, prison everywhere to Mercy, mercy everywhere, and not a drop of injustice to drink.

Jobwise, I definitely see the Prison, prison everywhere. I'm definitely looking forward to being released and/or escaping as soon as possible, because it's not fun, especially when I know God doesn't want me there. He's my Friend. It's gotten to where He almost teases me every morning with, "Have a good day." And I'm like, "...wait. Aren't You coming with me?!" And He's like. "No. Of course I am. No." Or He'll be like, "OK, I'll come with you today. But they don't want Me there." Or He'll be like, "Nope," and then He'll suddenly show up at my desk and hug me, and I'll be like, "YOU'RE HERE!" Sometimes He'll be like, "I changed My mind," and I wonder if maybe He just wanted me to ask Him to join me at my job that day... and yet I know that He lives inside me and will come with me regardless... and yet I know that He isn't there with me anymore because He doesn't want me to be there and/or my employer doesn't want Him to be there. It's truly ridiculous. He isn't ridiculous. The job situation is.

Prison is torture. I wonder how Joseph survived it.

"Now out of His mouth goes a sharp sword, that with it He should strike the nations. And He Himself will rule them with a rod of iron. He Himself treads the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God. And He has on His robe and on His thigh a name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS." (Revelation 19:15-16)

With my job, I'm in a prison, or I guess you could say I'm enslaved in Egypt. However, in other areas of my life, I think I'm in a wilderness. And in still other areas, I believe I'm killing some giants in the promised land. And wow, are there some giants.

This weekend, especially at church, God was speaking to me in a progressive picture. (I believe it was confirmed by somebody at church with one of the verses in Revelation I quoted above.) It was pretty intense. During one Saturday service while I was singing in the choir, I remembered that I was supposed to be interceding for the congregation. When I did, I got a picture of myself hugging God's thigh. I thought that was cool. But it got me very curious. Why was I hugging His thigh? Why wasn't I hugging His neck or His face or snuggling between His shoulders? I'm still looking into this, but from what I understand, in the Bible, a person's thigh symbolizes their strength. In my research, I learned that people used to hide their swords on their thighs. So, I was very intrigued about why God was showing me that I was hugging His thigh this weekend.

This morning, I woke up early and was doing fine until I got hit pretty hard with some emotional pain that was bubbling up from within. So, I spent a good deal of time journaling like my therapist told me to do, and I was crying. I arrived at church this morning still trying to stop crying. (Choir people, I love y'all, and I know you want to support me, but I couldn't talk about this yet because I was still processing it.) Then during the Sunday services while I was singing in the choir, God kept showing me more details about the picture of me hugging His thigh. In one picture, I was crying and leaking my tears onto His thigh. In another picture, I was reminded of a time many years ago when I literally cried into the lap of a mentor chick while I was confessing a "sin." (God was basically saying, "Don't cry in her lap. Cry in Mine.") I was like, "Why am I not snuggling between Your shoulders?" He was like, "You need My thigh."

Then He started showing me images that were more disturbing. He showed me a picture of me lying on His lap while I was face up, but I was wearing a wedding dress that was soaked with my blood, and I looked like I was in a lot of pain. It reminded me of a scene I saw in a horror movie. (In my previous job, I was sometimes assigned to compose closed captions for horror movies. Unless coerced, I try to avoid horror movies like the plague. That was one reason why I was very OK with getting laid off.) So, in this terrible picture, God was like, "You're hemorrhaging." He meant that my soul was hemorrhaging. I was like, "Doesn't that require emergency surgery?" Then I kept seeing a picture of Him sewing up the wound to stop the hemorrhaging, but I was still hurting emotionally. During parts of the day, I had crazy thoughts zip through my mind, and God was like, "You can't control your thoughts when you're hemorrhaging. It affects everything."

Finally, I realized that I couldn't perform surgery on myself. I think I was overanalyzing myself emotionally. (My therapist would be proud...?) So, God showed me that I needed to let Him do the surgery. And I also realized that in the picture He kept showing me, I needed to hug His thigh in order to stop the bleeding, form a clot, and let Him do the surgery and stop the hemorrhaging. So, I took a break from the emotional stuff and tried to relax this afternoon and get my mind off my issues. Then God was showing me a picture of a happy me, no hemorrhaging, hugging His thigh. (I hope my therapist doesn't disapprove of me taking a break from working through my issues so that I could let my brain rest. Meh.)

And I'm fine now. My emotions are calm, and my cat is literally purring between my shoulders while I type this.

I liked seeing pictures (I guess theologians would call these "visions") of me hugging God's thigh. I like the idea of drawing my strength from Him. I want to depend on Him for strength. I can't kill giants all by myself.

Maybe Joseph realized this, too, while he was stuck in prison. I mean, when you're suddenly thrown into a pit and sold into slavery by your own family, serving a bunch of foreigners, one of whom makes a pass at you and then accuses you of rape after you rightfully turn her down, and then are thrown into a prison and virtually forgotten, wouldn't you need Somebody strong to lean on? Wouldn't you need Somebody explaining to you what's happening before and after they warn, "This will feel... a little weird"? Wouldn't you need Somebody with a sturdy, dependable lap to surrender your weakness into? Wouldn't you need a place to rest, a place to hug, a place to wait for deliverance?

I know I did. I know I do. I know I will.

As a side note, I respect my therapist, and I appreciate the professional help I'm getting during this season of my life. But my therapist definitely doesn't have all the answers. In fact, she's been confirming lots of stuff that God had spoken to me previously. God was my only Therapist last year. He knows me better than anyone else is ever going to know me, so He knows exactly how to treat me with 100% pinpoint accuracy, beyond anything I could ever detect with my five senses. He was, is, and will always be The Perfect Counselor.

So, I want to hug God's thigh for the rest of my life. And I want to hug His neck. And I want to hug His face. And I want to hug His arm. And I want to hug His waist. And I want to hug His nose. And I want to hug His ear. And I want to hug anything else that He will let me hug. I need Him.

"I whisk you away"

I think one awesome thing I inherited from my ex-mother is a playful creativity while communicating with our little ones. For example, when I was growing up, if any child had his or her two front teeth missing, my ex-mother would call the tooth-gap a "garage door." If I had a hole in my sock, my ex-mother would call the hole an "air conditioner."

I think I've been communicating with my little ones, aka my cats, in similar ways. (Cats really can be trained, or at least conditioned, honest.) If I want them to leave a room, instead of telling them to shoo, I'll ask, "Would you mind exiting the room, please?" Then Macho will usually meow, make a 180, and strut out of the room. I often have to reinforce my request/command with a few other utterances of "exit, exit" and/or nudge them out of the room gently with my foot. If I'm about to do something that will disrupt their world, e.g., brush past them or sit down next to them or gently scoot them out of the way, I'll say, "Excuse me." That worked earlier this evening right before I opened my wet umbrella so that I could allow it to dry. "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me" warned them of an event (the umbrella suddenly opening) that has scared them in the past. So, that's how we roll here in Tirzah's home.

In a previous post, I wrote about how I need to feed Choochie some special food for her thyroid issues. And I need to keep Macho away from Choochie's food, so I have to feed them in separate rooms now. What works well for most meals is if I give Macho his food in my room first. While I'm feeding Macho, Choochie will show up and usually try to eat from his bowl. Then I'll pick her up, I'll tell her, "I whisk you away," and I'll transport her to the bathroom in my arm(s) so that I can feed her there. I tried to capture this heartwarming routine with a photo of her in my arm, but, uh... I think maybe I accidentally spooked her with my camera, her nail got stuck in my clothes, and then she tumbled awkwardly to the floor, and after I scooped her up again, she escaped onto my shoulder. That's why I posted a photo of her on my shoulder. She's a cat.

I'm a shepherd. It's what I do.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters." (Psalm 23:1-2)

One of my cats' vets has been practicing veterinary medicine for several decades, so he's very familiar with every procedure he performs on them and recommends for them. Here's how he describes their dental cleaning procedure, for which my cats are put under general anesthesia: "It will be like a religious experience." He means that I'll drop them off at the vet hospital for several hours, and when I pick them up and bring them home again, they'll be really out of it, and it'll be a while before the drugs wear off and they're back to normal.

I've had quite a few "religious" experiences like these myself, minus the dental procedures and minus the drugs, of course. I know what they feel like. I know what it's like to go off to a retreat, or maybe a mission trip, or maybe a church camp, or maybe a church conference, or maybe an extended special event. The atmosphere there is 100% different than what you're used to in your everyday life. You encounter God in a very powerful, intense, sweet, heavenly, life-changing way. You suddenly realize that your beliefs and/or behaviors and/or attitudes need to be different, so you change them during your retreat/trip/camp/conference/event. God's presence is so strong that you don't want to do anything to spoil it or scare it away. Then when you leave your retreat/trip/camp/conference/event, you're afraid of doing or thinking anything that will snap you out of your buzz. You convince yourself that if you don't sneeze too hard or breathe too loud or sin too badly, you can stay in your buzz forever. Then when life resumes as usual and kills your buzz, you kick yourself for being so fleshly or unbelieving or just a spiritual slob.

Of course, when I say "you," I mean "me."

During one of these conferences, I heard a pastor explain something that has helped me tremendously. He actually was one of the people who established that particular conference, and he explained that they set them up to where you can go away for a while and get pumped with lots of vision, but life isn't meant to be one long neverending conference. After you get pumped up with vision, you have plenty to think about and process while you're living your everyday life.

I'm glad he said that, because I think he's right.

Of course, I'm pretty sure there are exceptions to this. For example, in Luke 2, Simeon and Anna were constantly hanging out in the temple; Simeon was waiting for the Messiah, and Anna was fasting and praying. From what I understand, people from other denominations still separate themselves from the world completely in order to seek God and enjoy His presence in a sort of monk-like way.

But I'm learning more than ever that I don't have to officially become a monk or a nun to enjoy God's presence in powerful, intense, sweet, heavenly, life-changing ways. I don't have to whisk myself away to a retreat/trip/camp/conference/event to encounter God in an almost buzz-like way.

God can whisk me away anytime He wants, even in the midst of my everyday life.

                                                                                                                                                        

Yes, I whisk Choochie away every time I feed her her "special medicine food," unless she already happens to be in the bathroom waiting for me there. But she only enjoys her "special medicine food" with me several times a day. Her experience is temporary. When it's over, I open the bathroom door and resume life as usual in Tirzah's home. (Macho's usually happy to see us again, too.)

Choochie is my baby. My whisking her away to feed her is only one special time that we spend together. She's also welcome to join me while I eat breakfast, while I type up blog posts, while I watch YouTube videos, while I play my guitar, while I read my Bible (known to my cats as "The Word," or sometimes "Aaah! Don't eat the bookmark for The Word!"), while I sleep at night, while/if I nap during the day, while I prepare my lunches, while I load/unload my dishwasher, while I watch my DVDs, while I dance around my apartment and listen to music, etc. (The dancing especially is more enjoyable with a cat in my arms.)

Yes, of course I have boundaries (which have kind of a touch-and-go reinforcement with cats), but my cats are my babies. I want to be close to them, I want them to be around me, I want them to enjoy life in my home, and I want them to feel welcome with me, with whichever parts of my life that are boundary-permissible.

Of course, God can be the same way. Yes, participating in retreats/trips/camps/conferences/events are definitely excellent ways to enjoy God's presence. But He can meet with me in my living room, too. He can meet with me in my kitchen, too. He can meet with me in my bathroom, too. He can meet with me in my car, too. He can meet with me at my desk at work, too. He can meet with me while I'm reading my Bible, crying at my keyboard, interceding for somebody, driving on the highway, staring at my sink, folding my laundry, watching my television, or pretty much anytime or anywhere I'll let Him. I don't have to hold on too tightly to the buzz that I get when He whisks me away to retreats/trips/camps/conferences/events. I can hug His face and kiss His cheek anytime I want.

I like that about Him.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's almost time for me to whisk Choochie away again. Then maybe I'll try to coax her into enjoying some "psychedelic kitty experience." (That's Tirzah-house lingo for "catnip.")

Normal

This post is rated R for really gross bathroom stories.

This is a picture of a fairly typical scene in my living room: two cats almost literally in my face, all up in my business, extremely comfortable with me and around me, highly involved in almost every aspect of my life. When I play my guitar, Macho (the one on the left) leaves the room, and Choochie (the one on the right) stays. When I play my keyboard, Macho jumps on top of the couch nearby to listen to me. When I eat breakfast, Choochie perches next to my cereal bowl and purrs.

This life is normal for me, but I completely understand that it isn't normal for everybody, and it isn't even normal for all cat owners. But this is my normal. This is adjustable normal.

Years ago, humorist Patsy Clairmont wrote a book called Normal Is Just A Setting On Your Dryer. It's a great book. I highly recommend it. It's very funny throughout, with extended anecdotes, but it also has some very serious truths in it. One of her biggest points in the book is that staying current with your emotions is extremely important.

The title of Clairmont's book became almost a household catchphrase in Christian circles. Her ideas were what I basically described above: What's normal for one person isn't necessarily normal for another person, and the concept of "normal" is an overrated, unrealistic goal to shoot for, anyway. This is what I also referred to above as adjustable normal.

I completely stopped cooking for myself about 15 months ago. I eat out, I takeout, I drive-thru, I eat cereal, I eat PB&J, I toast bagels (and sometimes sandwiches), and I warm up TV dinners, soups, etc., in the microwave. Technically, this isn't cooking. This is warming up. But this is my normal. This is adjustable normal. This is what has consistently been working for me for the past 15 months. If you cook for yourself and/or your family from scratch, your adjustable normal is completely different from my adjustable normal.

But I don't completely agree with Patsy Clairmont on the overratedness of "normal" anymore. I believe now that some things are supposed to be normal all the time. Some things are supposed to be normal normal.

I've heard and read that the average human being poops at least once every other day. However, that isn't my normal. I try to eat a relatively high amount of fiber, so I poop twice per day. That is my adjustable normal.

So, when my toilet stopped working properly this past Friday night, that was very bad news. When I would flush, water would come up, but it wouldn't go down... until about 45 minutes later. I tried unclogging it multiple times, but it still wouldn't work. Unfortunately, maintenance at my apartment complex likes to move slower than molasses running uphill, so I knew they probably wouldn't get to my maintenance request for a few days. (And toilet water wasn't overflowing, so it technically wasn't a maintenance emergency.)

So, I had to get creative. Technically, my toilet was OK for peeing, but there was no way in heck I was going to poop in there if the toilet wasn't going to flush down its contents, not if maintenance wasn't going to fix my Friday problem until Tuesday. So, I decided to make special trips to Target and Walgreens during the weekend just to poop. (Yes, I bought stuff there, too. You're welcome, retail chains.) Yes, I totally could have called a friend, but honestly I would have felt embarrassed and extremely awkward. ("Hey, honey, Tirzah wants to come over so she can poop. Is that OK?") And God and I are totally on this "doing things as a family together" kick lately, just Him and me. So, we took at least one family field trip to Target. It was adventurous indeed, and I'm glad it happened during a weekend.

But even the adventure was an extremely inconvenient weekend setup. Being able to pee and/or poop anytime you need to isn't supposed to be an adjustable normal. That's supposed to be normal normal. It affected EVERYTHING about my weekend. I decided to scale back the fiber, water, and caffeine that I usually ingest. Every meal decision, every time I got thirsty, every time I would get in my car and drive somewhere -- all of that would affect whether or not I would need to have a working toilet available to me. Last night and this morning, I had a headache from lack of coffee and water. (After I visited the McDonald's drive-thru and got my Sausage McMuffin With Egg, along with some McCafé, I was good to go.)

This morning, I called the office of my apartment complex and followed up on my maintenance request. When I returned home this evening and discovered that they did indeed fix my toilet, I uttered a thoroughly sincere "Glory, hallelujah." I gave you some TMI details of my weekend, but there are other details in this story that I really don't want to share. Glory, hallelujah indeed!

So, in my bathroom, life is back to normal normal, as it should be. And the rest of my life's adjustable normal routines can proceed as planned.

Honestly, I did not plan to share this past weekend's bathroom adventures with the entire world, but I did so just to prove my point, which I will repeat: Some things are supposed to be normal normal.

"For He will deliver the needy when he cries, the poor also, and him who has no helper. He will spare the poor and needy, and will save the souls of the needy. He will redeem their life from oppression and violence; and precious shall be their blood in His sight." (Psalm 72:12-14)

I don't wish to get into any arguments here on this online setting. I wish to communicate my beliefs. I wish to tell my life story. I wish to gush about how much I love God my Family, the One who hangs out with me and who does crazy things with me like accompany me on special pooping field trips to Target and Walgreens.

The fact that God exists isn't my adjustable normal. That's normal normal. The fact that the Bible is true isn't my adjustable normal, and I can't make stuff in it mean whatever I want it to mean. The Bible is normal normal. Sure, there are some outdated things in there like stoning and slavery that should probably be adjusted to fit our culture... and yet things like stoning and slavery still exist in our culture today. (For example, I've gotten stoned with words at my job, but I haven't been able to leave yet because I'm a slave to my creditors.)

The fact that God loves me is normal normal. The fact that God wants me is normal normal. The fact that God heals me, restores me, and rebuilds me is normal normal. The fact that God empowers me to walk in His fruits like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control is normal normal. The fact that God wants to scoop me into His arms and comfort me anytime I'm hurting is normal normal. The fact that God likes to be in my face in an even more intimate way than my cats do is normal normal.

The fact that I'm working my way out of a depression and trying to thoroughly tackle the issues attached to it is adjustable normal. But the fact that God will always be here with me every step of the way -- whether I'm depressed or whether I'm 100% carefree -- is normal normal.

So, being loved, wanted, supported, comforted, and enjoyed is supposed to be normal normal, for me and for everybody. Hmm. I could get used to this. Glory, hallelujah!

Optimistic disillusionment

This post is rated R for profanity, poop, sarcasm, and possibly really gross TMI.

I think working through issues is sometimes like stepping in a pile of poop. You're like, "Aw, crap! It's crap!" Then you clean it off your shoe and proceed about your everyday business, and everything is fine. Other times, you look down at your shoe and notice that you accidentally wandered into a manure field. So, you yank your shoe out of the shitpile, squish away as discreetly as you can, and find Somebody who has a really good waterhose to clean you off with. And still other times, you look down at your shoe and notice in horror that you're about to get swallowed into the biggest cesspool whirlpool you've ever seen. Then suddenly all that shit you've been smelling makes sense. You're like, "No wonder I've felt like I've been sinking."

And, of course, when I say "you," I mean me.

When I was about 4 or 5 years old, my ex-sister was potty-training. One evening, I happened to be in the bathroom while my ex-sister was on her little potty. (I guess I was supervising?) She reached down into her little pot with her little toddler finger, and when she pulled it out, a piece of poop was stuck to it. So, of course, she put the poop in her mouth and tasted it. And, of course, she cried out in disgust. (Many years later, we would laugh about it, but I don't think it's funny anymore.) Where were my ex-parents when all this was happening? Good question. I think my ex-father was at church, school, etc. My ex-mother was at home.

So, being the big sister, I ran to my ex-mother, who happened to be chitchatting on the phone, and I told her that my ex-sister was eating her poop. She shooed me away, didn't even look at me, and continued to chitchat.

Hey, you good-for-nothing, lazy-gossip Cover Girl bitch. Hang up the stupid phone and help your children. Do you honestly think you're going to get away with neglecting your little girls? They're going to grow up to become very troubled women someday.

Well, my ex-mother finally got off the phone and cleaned up my ex-sister, but not before it was etched on my heart long-term that the people who are supposed to be there for you AREN'T always going to be there for you.

I think this was a lifelong pattern. I think the worst of it happened when I was violated at church, I told my ex-mother about it, and she did the equivalent of nothing. Twice. The last Christmas I spent with her and the rest of the family, I went to bed crying silently. (Yes, I learned how to cry as silently as possible while I was growing up.) With our sleeping arrangements that Christmas, I was lying in a bed right next to my ex-mother's bed. I'm not surprised she didn't hear me crying, I'm glad she didn't hear me crying, and it's goshdarn sad that she had zero sensitivity to the fact that I was crying.

Is everybody like that? Are all authority figures completely useless? Will I not be able to find anybody to lean on for support, ever?

"Happy is he who has the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them; who keeps truth forever, who executes justice for the oppressed, who gives food to the hungry. The Lord gives freedom to the prisoners." (Psalm 146:5-7)

Many years ago, I was livid at God. I hated Him. And is it any wonder? But I'm glad He's restored our relationship, I'm glad I repented, and I'm glad He doesn't mind my puking my anger into His face. (In fact, He totally welcomes it.) Otherwise, I'd be toast for sure.

It's uncanny. I've never, ever, ever been disappointed whenever I've turned to Him for anything. Yes, life in general has definitely had some disappointments. People in general have definitely fallen short, as I definitely have.

And it's amazing how He can completely turn people's lives around and use their circumstances for good, like a Master Artist who studies the manure field and says, "You see shit, but I see clay. I think this little pile of stuff over here will make a great sculpture. Just let Me do my work, and you'll see what I mean. It won't stink anymore, either."

I used to be an extremely optimistic person, honest. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but maybe some of that optimism is still there. (Just not in nauseating "The sun'll come out tomorrow" proportions.)

I imagine myself many years from now as one of those wise-looking women with the wild, graying hair and the hoop earrings and the wrinkled smile and the understanding gleam in her eye that says, "Hang in here, youngling. I, too, used to want to punch out the lights of any do-gooder who crossed my path. In time, you will learn that this world does, in fact, have some caring people in it and that our God will, in fact, enable you to overcome evil with good."

"Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good." (Romans 12:21)

So, maybe an important step in the whole overcoming-evil process is to take a step back and watch the pieces come together.

The other day while I was trying to get my brain out of the cesspool whirlpool, God was like, "Depression is a type of anger. Just work through it." That makes sense. In the psych hospital all those years ago, I was taught that depression is "Anger turned inward" and that it's "Looking at the world through shit-colored glasses." Of course, anger is something that begs to be processed immediately in a healthy way. Otherwise, it will manifest in an unhealthy way. Depression is something that begs your immediate attention. Otherwise, you could be toast for sure.

And, of course, when I say "you," I mean me.

I remember when I was a little girl, probably about 4 years old, I was in bed and supposed to be falling asleep. Instead, I was stewing about how much I hated my ex-mother. I think I was crying, and I remember thinking and/or saying, "I want to kill her." Perhaps this was demonic. Or perhaps this was a justified anger, as you can possibly tell from what I shared at the beginning of this post.

Perhaps I should have worked through my feelings more thoroughly back then. Not sure how, though. I honestly don't remember many resources being at my disposal back then other than a Good News tract and a sanctuary full of hymnbooks. Is it any wonder that many disillusioned people turn their backs on God at some point in their lives? But perhaps working through my issues back then could have lightened the load that I've been carrying now.

Now it makes sense that I freak out anytime people in authority let me down. I think I understand now why I feel like strangling or cussing out anyone who's in charge when I feel neglected or pushed away by them. I think I understand now why I'm so offended anytime my current supervisor has one of her unprepared moments and is like, "Uh, wait. Which assignment did I give you?"

Of course, that's not to say that the above authority figures are doing everything perfectly. I think perhaps it's normal, natural, and healthy for me to be angry at them for abusing their positions and/or just not doing their jobs. (Seriously, if somebody puts you in charge of somebody, make some type of an effort to remember what you told that somebody to do. Otherwise, just give yourself pointy hair and rename that somebody Dilbert.)

Hmm. Perhaps one way that God is overcoming evil with good is using some of my survival skills -- the ones I acquired while I grew up as a neglected little girl -- for good. If my supervisor's main concern is looking good to everybody else, and if one of her main complaints is that I'm supposed to make her look good, then that reminds me of somebody... ah, yes. The phone-chitchatting Cover Girl. I know exactly how to deal with my current supervisor. I know exactly how to fly under the radar. I know exactly how to make her look good while I secretly look for another job. I know exactly how shocked her face is going to look when I hand over my two-week notice someday. Hmm. Thanks, Lord.

Seriously, if you don't take the time to win the hearts of your people and genuinely care about them as human beings, you won't have their loyalty. If you want somebody's loyalty, you need his or her heart. 

So, I think just as I was just trying to do the right thing when I was 4 or 5 years old, I am still trying to do the right thing when I am 37 years old. Just like I was doing the mini-shepherd thing when I was 4 or 5, I am doing the good-employee thing when I'm 37. You want me to find another job elsewhere? Fine. I'll do that. You want me to make you look good? Fine. I'll do that, to whichever degree I can control. But honestly, if you look bad, it might not be my fault. You want me to become a machine for 8 hours a day while I take your patronizing micromanagement like a real woman? Fine. I'll do that, but if our company ends up going under because the higher-ups got greedy, that will definitely not be my fault. The worst thing that could happen is that I could find a better job elsewhere that respects my self-esteem and pays me even better than you do. Or maybe I'll just write a song about you and take it on the road with me. I think King David kinda did the same thing, except he used the people's real names.

Deep, happy sigh. Honesty feels good.

So, now that I've had excellent examples of how to NOT take care of another person, I hope I learn from these examples as thoroughly as possible. And it truly amazes me how God will always be the Best example of how to support people -- sacrificially, thoroughly, painstakingly, excellently, strongly. Do you hear that? I think the Lion of Judah just roared.

Whatevs

This post is rated R for real profanity used in real life.

I have a point, honest. But to get to my point, I need to tell a story. Thank you in advance for reading.

Several years ago, I was working at a pretty stressful job that became unnecessarily even more stressful whenever an assistant supervisor was left in charge two shifts per week. I consider her to be the second-worst supervisor of my career. (The worst supervisor bought me health insurance illegally. The third-worst supervisor currently still works with me.)

One particular night, this assistant supervisor was in charge. She was taking a personal call at her desk, as usual, and she was talking about us to her boyfriend, as usual, and we could hear every word she said, as usual, because none of us had cubicles and none of us were allowed to work with headphones to block out any noise. An employee from a different department came over to ask this assistant supervisor a question, so she told her boyfriend on the phone, "Hold on; let me see what this dumbass wants." If memory serves, a new trainee who was fresh out of college also had questions for this assistant supervisor, and they seemed to have some sort of disagreement that offended her and/or him. The tension in the non-privacy, non-cubicle room was quite thick that night.

I believe it was the following night, when our regular supervisor was in charge, that I went to the new trainee and asked him if he was doing all right. He said, "Yeah," but what he communicated more to me was his countenance. He had this look on his face that I almost envy now. It was a very casual, very relaxed, very carefree, almost apathetic smile that communicated, "Whatever. I don't care if I get fired. I can't do anything right for these people. I am so over this stupid job situation. Just whatevs." And he did get fired, I think the night after that, after we had met an important deadline.

I felt that he had been the victim of an injustice, and I felt that our assistant supervisor had treated us very poorly. So, I wrote a candid letter to my supervisors who were higher up, and I explained in detail the unprofessional behavior that I had witnessed from the assistant supervisor. My higher-up supervisors were very understanding when they received my letter, and they even talked to the assistant supervisor about what happened, because I saw her crying while she exited a meeting. But I'm guessing she only received a slap on the wrist, because she wasn't demoted, and the work environment barely changed at all. (The assistant supervisor rarely gave me eye contact or spoke to me after that, which honestly was an improvement.) I suspect that she might still be working there today.

Eventually, I left that job, but something that really impressed me was my ex-coworker's countenance: the one that said, "Whatevs." I think I get it now.

"Woe is me, that I dwell in Meshech, that I dwell among the tents of Kedar! My soul has dwelt too long with one who hates peace. I am for peace; but when I speak, they are for war." (Psalm 120:5-7)

I don't exactly know what was going on in Meshech or Kedar that inspired the psalmist to complain so bitterly, but I'm guessing it was a terrible environment and that the psalmist must have been pretty miserable. Maybe he had "PLEASE FIRE ME" tattooed to his forehead, too.

Welcome back to another evening of Job Venting With Tirzah. On tonight's menu, we have past traumas for an appetizer, light-bulb revelation for our main course, and an adorable cat photo for dessert.

My therapist has been helping me see that many of my current job frustrations more than likely are rooted in past parent wounds that are still healing. I have noticed that I flare up on the inside anytime I feel neglected. Add rejection, betrayal, and shame-filled criticism to the mix, and you've got a mental-health crisis on your hands.

Speaking of parents, after I moved back in with them about a decade ago, my ex-mother was getting to know my cats. She was already quite fond of Macho because he reminded her of a cat she used to know. She enjoyed playing with Macho in the evenings. However, it took her a bit longer to warm up to Choochie. I remember during one of her playtimes with Macho, my ex-mother motioned toward Choochie and asked me with a macho-hispanic headflick, "¿Y esa?" If I'm not mistaken, she was basically saying in her gestured question, "I understand that your boy cat is fun because he plays with me, but what about your girl cat? I am unimpressed with her."

At first, I was deeply offended by her question, even though I did not express this offense, because Choochie has always been my little buddy who always insists on snuggling as closely to me as possible. (In this photo I shared, she was extremely interested in playing with my camera strap.) But of course, in due time, Choochie won my ex-mother's heart, I think by attacking her while she was smoothing out my bed comforter. Yeah, Choochie will do that. She's a cat.

The thing is, Choochie had to DO something drastic to impress my ex-mother. I understand now that that's pretty much what EVERYBODY had to do to get on her good side, including me. If you made one little mistake, you were on her bad side, and you would have to spin straw into gold to get back on her good side. But the thing is, I already knew that Choochie was awesome, because I had already taken the time to get to know her. She didn't have to jump through any hoops with me.

I hope you enjoyed tonight's menu. For your beverage selection, would you like Gosh No Wonder I Need Therapy or I'm Frickin' Surprised Tirzah Is Still Alive?

So, in the environment I grew up in, I was pretty much doomed unless I could jump through all the right hoops at all the right times. Similarly, in my current work environment, I am pretty much doomed unless I will jump through all the right hoops at all the right times. Remember my new trainee coworker whose countenance I admired? I suspect that he understood this concept much sooner than I did. "I know I can't please these people. Whatevs."

After I left my family, of course I grieved so hard it felt like I had fallen into a bottomless pit of sadness. But there was no way I was going to bicker with them back and forth over why I had left. If I had, they wouldn't have stopped stop torturing me. Whatevs.

At my current work environment, I understand now that I am employed by people who are impossible to please, kinda like the rich kid next door who would invite you to come play, only to change the rules constantly to manipulate them to win and you to lose. They're never going to stop asking me to work unreasonable workloads in unreasonable conditions. I need to just keep doing my best, knowing that I belong to Somebody who's looking after me and who will help me, and if my best efforts aren't good enough, so be it. Whatevs.

And you know what else? Not everybody is going to be exactly like Macho, who meets your exact expectations of what a cat is supposed to be like because he instantly plays with anything you dangle in front of his adorable face. Maybe some people are more like Choochie, who may not be impressive at first, but who will inspire your devotion as soon as you see how adorable she really is. Not everybody is a performance-driven machine. Some of us are deep, long-term snugglers.

I hope I don't have any apathy issues that I'll need to discuss with my therapist later. But if you won't accept me unless I jump through your severely, ludicrously impossible hoops, whatevs. I may not be precious to you, but I'm precious to my Father. I know who I am.

On vacation?

For many years, I have fed both my cats in my bedroom. But yesterday, I completely dismantled my cats' feeding routine because Choochie was prescribed a special food for her hyperthyroidism. Here's a picture of her chowing down. (She often likes to scoop the food out of her bowl with her paw before she takes a bite.) The big drama about this new food is that if Macho eats Choochie's new food, he'll get sick. So, I have to feed them separately now. I still feed Macho in my bedroom. But I also set up a feeding area for Choochie in my bathroom, which seemed natural because lately she's been following me in there, anyway. So, after I close the door (to keep Macho out), and while she eats, I supervise her, and I use my time trapped in the bathroom for beauty-routine things like eyebrow maintenance, toothbrushing, etc. I also have a Gideon Bible in there with Psalms and Proverbs. Wait. Was that TMI?

After Choochie finishes her meal/snack and I open the door again, the perpetually hungry Macho rushes into the bathroom and checks out her feeding area. It's a good thing I empty her food bowl before he arrives, or we'd all be in trouble. (See that desperate hungry-feline look in his eye?)

So, Choochie's current medical condition requires me to temporarily separate her completely from Macho so that she can get the treatment she needs and so that he can stay away from the food that can harm him. I think Macho is gradually getting used to it. But I think it confused Choochie at first, of course. She had a look on her face that told me, "Hey, I don't know whose idea it was to arrange this new vacation spot in the bathroom, but I think you need a new travel agent."

"Hear my prayer, O Lord, and give ear to my cry; do not be silent at my tears; for I am a stranger with You, a sojourner, as all my fathers were. Remove Your gaze from me, that I may regain strength, before I go away and am no more." (Psalm 39:12-13)

One of my favorite movies is What About Bob? with Richard Dreyfuss and Bill Murray. Many years ago, the first time I was in therapy, a friend introduced me to this movie. Since then, I've seen it dozens of times on VHS (and now on DVD). It's hilarious. It's about a psychiatrist who seems to care more about his reputation than he does about people. Right before he goes on vacation, his brand-new client has his first session with him. Then the client has a mental-health crisis and tracks down the psychiatrist at his vacation spot. So, while the psychiatrist is on vacation, the clingy client totally disrespects the boundaries and latches on to him and his family. Meanwhile, the psychiatrist is planning a TV interview to promote his new book (his son says, "Oh, great. Another vacation that's not a vacation"), and his family truly falls in love with his crazy client. Severely stressed out, the psychiatrist drastically tries to get rid of the client a couple of times but fails. During the course of the movie, the client becomes healthy but the psychiatrist becomes certifiable. Eventually, the client marries the psychiatrist's sister, so the psychiatrist is stuck with having the client in his family forever.

So, most of the events of this profoundly, therapeutically funny movie occur while the characters are on vacation. But during this vacation, their lives are changed completely, and they can never go back to the way things were.

The whole point of going on vacation is to simply get away from real life for a while. You get to unplug from reality and forget about it. Maybe you can see some new sights, try some new things, or eat some new food. But at the end of your vacation, you can plug back into your regular life and proceed with reality as usual. And you're recharged, reenergized, and rested after your vacation.

Sometimes when traumas occur, crises rear their ugly heads, or life just happens, it feels like a really bad vacation -- as if sometime soon, you'll get to drive or fly back home and plug back into your regular life again. Or sometimes it feels like a really bad nightmare -- as if sometime soon, you'll get to wake up and realize that you were just dreaming right before you plug back into your regular life again.

What happens when you wake up one morning, and suddenly you realize your job will never, ever get better, and that it will only get worse until you quit or until they fire you? What happens when you wake up one morning, and suddenly you realize that you're nobody's spouse, you're nobody's kid, you're nobody's best friend, and that if anything were to happen to you, nobody would notice right away? What happens when you wake up one morning, and suddenly you realize that you're 37 years old and most of the stuff that you dreamed would have happened in your life by now haven't happened, and some of them possibly never will?

What happens when your nightmare continues even after you wake up in the morning, and it never stops? What happens when your bad vacation isn't really a vacation, but it's now your new life?

About 14 years ago when I was clinically depressed, I remember thinking in my distress, "I want my life back." But I couldn't ever get it back, not like the way it was.

In the movie What About Bob? the psychiatrist prescribes something special to his client: "Take a vacation from your problems." I disagree with this prescription. (The psychiatrist in the movie turned out to be a bad doctor, anyway.)

I can't take a vacation from my problems. I can't take a vacation from my emotions. I can't take a vacation from my issues. They will follow me everywhere I go until I finish working through them. Sure, I can take a break from them so that I can give my fried brain a short rest, but when the break is over, my problems, emotions, and issues will still be there. I can either tackle them or let them tackle me.

At my most recent psychotherapy session, I talked a heck of a lot about my job. My therapist observed, "So, inside you is a little girl that's desperate, but in order to do your work, you have to become this angry marine. That's exhausting." Yes, indeed. She also observed, "So, you're using anger as a shield." Hmm. Maybe that's why I pay her the big bucks: to notice some important things that I wouldn't be able to notice myself. Clocking out from reality when I clock in to work has got to be extremely unhealthy for me. Fantasizing about mooning the CEO or cussing him out during his bi-annual open-forum company meetings or reaching down his throat to pull out his intestines is probably an unhealthy way to spend 40 hours a week. No wonder God has been showing me that I need to just find a better job.

Sure, God can definitely restore my life. He can definitely return anything to me that's been stolen from me. When life shoves me into a corner without warning and beats the crap out of me, He can definitely surprise life from behind, choke it away from me, and help me to my feet, like a Hero-rescue scene from a movie. God can help me make the best out of my situation, and He can even make it better for me.

Sometimes what seems like a vacation could end up becoming a long-term fixture, if not a permanent one. ("Oh, great. Another vacation that's not a vacation.") Choochie will need to continue her new feeding routine until the vet says to stop, until her thyroid gets better, or possibly even for the rest of her life. Maybe I could just keep my therapy book in the bathroom to read while she chows down. In a similar treatment plan, maybe God knew what He was doing when He told me to have my "quiet times" with Him at night instead of in the morning, because the nighttime is when I'm most vulnerable and most desperate, and He's working through my intimacy issues with Him. If my neighbor is reading this, yes, that is a chick singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" with her guitar at 9 p.m., and she is just trying to obey her God, and she more than likely is blubbering, and I hope you can't hear too much from your fireplace vents. And I hope I'm not being too noisy. 

So, these are the waves that we're riding right now in Tirzah's world: Choochie has her thyroid issues, I have my depression/anger/fear/emotional issues, and Macho is cat-manly-gentlemanly enduring our chick drama. Sorry, this ain't a vacation. This is life.

In my case, I think things are gradually getting better. I think accepting my current job situation is a bit easier now that I realize that I simply work for a bad company. (Reading anonymous online reviews from my current coworkers was quite freeing: I'm not the only one who is having a bad employment experience there.) Now all those times I heard God telling me to get out of there are making a lot of sense. And I think accepting the fact that the only Person who I'll always be able to count on for intimacy, companionship, and acceptance every single time is God... well, that will help make my involuntarily loneliness much easier to bear.

On a side note, you can keep your fame and fortune and reputation. That isn't important to me. What motivates me to do anything is that spot between God's shoulders that has my name on it. I don't want to say or do anything that would keep me away from my spot in His arms. When the world comes crashing in around me, or when the world rushes at me to promote me, I'm going to be looking for my spot between God's shoulders. That's where I belong. That's where I want to be. That's my motivation, whether I'm on vacation or not.

Sorry, but my "vacation" doesn't have a souvenir shop. I just have blog posts. Maybe next season, I can sell T-shirts that say something like, "I SURVIVED ONE OF THE MOST GUT-WRENCHING TRIALS OF MY LIFE, AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS CRUMMY T-SHIRT." Heh!