Recalibration

I'm not sure how to introduce this particular post, so I'm going to just jump right in.

God has been teaching me things now that He wanted me to learn back in 1999. In 1999, I was 23 years old, I lived alone, I was getting more hours at work, and I was extremely, unhealthily involved at church. 1999 was an intense year for me. I wrestled heftily with depression, and I eventually lost. (2000 was the year of my suicide attempt.) During my wrestlings, one of the chicks to whom I was accountable told me, "All of us need recalibration from time to time."

The other day, in 2015, God reminded me of that conversation that I had with my accountability chick in 1999. He showed me that I didn't just need a recalibration back then. I was dealing with some dangerous depression, and I needed help. I was around a lot of clueless church people back then. I'm glad God stepped in and protected me Himself.

In case you're not familiar with the term "recalibration," it's basically a readjustment of how something is measured. If you pick up a footlong ruler, you'll see 12 inches on one side and about 30 centimeters on the other. One side is calibrated in inches, and the other is calibrated in centimeters. If you changed your mind and wanted to measure something in meters or picas or pixels or miles instead, you'd probably have to recalibrate. (Or maybe use a different ruler altogether.)

"Dishonest scales are an abomination to the Lord, but a just weight is His delight." (Proverbs 11:1)

"Diverse weights and diverse measures, they are both alike, an abomination to the Lord." (Proverbs 20:10)

OK, so I couldn't find a Bible verse that talks about recalibration. (I think these two verses talk about double standards and cheating.) But I think it's safe to say that the way in which something is measured is very important to God. He has told me that this season for me, now in 2015, is a season of recalibration.

August 1999 was an insanely crazy month when I did not have a single day off from work. The closest thing I had to a day off was one Sunday when I worked approximately one hour to pick up and deliver something for my job. That was a terribly exhausting month.

The summer of 2015 has been very exhausting for me. In addition to the summer heat zapping my energy away, my job will only give me six vacation days this year (not counting paid holidays), so I've needed to be very careful how I use them. The other morning when I woke up, I honestly couldn't remember what day it was. I lay in bed for several minutes until I finally figured out that it was Wednesday. Gosh.

In 1999, I attended a church that constantly (and I mean CONSTANTLY) kept us busy with activities that we were expected to attend. To top it off, they frowned upon entertainment. I even remember (probably in 1997 or 1998) one skit that was performed during a church service. In the skit, a girl was like, "Oh, it's Friday night! I think I'll just kick back, relax, and watch a movie." The moral of the story was... don't do that. Spend time with Jesus instead.

So, the idea that secular entertainment was practically evil... that was implanted in my brain, and God has been un-implanting it. Yes, of course it's important that I be careful about how I entertain myself. I have to be picky. I don't want to accidentally open up any bad spiritual doors. (Trust me, I have enough problems as it is.) But Joyce Meyer is right: Christians need healthy entertainment.

In 1999, I was heavily involved in a part of the church run by prophetic intercessors who were staunchly no-nonsense. We would spend many of our weekends on retreats, we would always talk about mission work, and we would spend hours praying together. And we were expected to attend a leaders' meeting pretty much every Sunday morning around 8 a.m. There's definitely nothing wrong with participating in all those activities. I just don't think that the leadership really knew how to have fun.

My church (now in 2015) prints a monthly publication. One recent issue had an article that my pastor wrote about how important it is, metaphorically speaking, to continually fill our physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual tanks. (Anyone remember Baylor's Welcome Week wheel?) One way in which my pastor recharges is watching funny movies. For me, just knowing that tidbit about my pastor is healing. In the article, he said that spending time with family, friends, etc., are ways in which we can metaphorically refill our tanks. (But in the article, he said we should do what works for us.) I kinda already knew that, but since I'm not always able to do those things, I have to be creative about discovering ways to unplug, relax, and recharge.

God has definitely been helping, and He's been pretty specific. The other day, He told me, "You need to play video games." OK, no problem.

So, I recently dusted off my old netbook (which isn't really good for anything anymore except music and games) and rediscovered Pinball. There's my little computer pictured with my own personal cheerleading section. Aww, yeah.

It's kind of a weird feeling to have old, stupid ideas ripped out of your head and replaced with new, healthy ideas. I asked God yesterday if it was OK to just check out of life for a while during the video games and hit the pause button on life. God replied, "What do you think sleep is?" Indeed.

Another way I like to unplug (especially on the weekends) is listening to music with crazy chord progressions. I found a used Sarah Brightman CD at Movie Trading Company the other day, and my cats are probably sick of me singing some of it. (They are probably also embarrassed by my interpretive dancing.) Perhaps next weekend, I'll dive into some opera. (Do you dare me?)

I'm learning a lot about myself, and certain aspects of my personality are cementing pretty firmly.

I believe it was last summer (while I was unemployed) that I had a blank canvas on which to paint my "quiet time" with God. I would spend about 20 minutes worshiping on my guitar, maybe about 10 minutes reading my Bible, and about 5 minutes praying. God told me that He just wanted to show me my personality/gifting during that season: "You're not an intercessor. You're a worshiper." Ain't nothin' wrong with that.

In 1999, I enjoyed a personal songwriting Renaissance in which my guitar and I were very prolific. In 2015, I have discovered that it is easier for me to sing my prayers than to speak them. If you want me to pray fervently and effectively, put a guitar in my hands and let me go to town for at least 20 minutes.

In 1999, when I lived alone, I was constantly around the same people all the time, and one particular mentor relationship that I had was very codependent. This mentor was actually involved in several codependent relationships with other women whom she was mentoring. I saw the aftereffects of a couple of these relationships, and they weren't pretty at all.

In 2015, when I live alone with two cats, God has shown me that He's been teaching me how to be alone. He's said, "It's hard to deal with loneliness when you have people in your face all the time." Indeed.

"To do righteousness and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice." (Proverbs 21:3)

I think in 1999, my life was still being measured by a Pharisee's ruler: Don't do this; do that. Pray and be spiritual; don't be a human being or have fun. Redeem the time, for the days are evil; so come to our retreat this weekend, or we will assume that you are participating in sinful activities without us.

Blecch. I would much rather God measure my life with His own ruler: Love Me, love people, and don't forget to love yourself. I am not just another category in your tiny little life; I am a God who wants to seep His way into every single aspect of your tiny little life and breathe new life into it. You are in My family now, so let's enjoy this life that I've carved out for you.

I used to be a much nicer person. I used to be extremely, weirdly gracious and nauseatingly forgiving toward people... or was I? After all, I did become gravely depressed, and one major cause of depression is unforgiveness. So, now in 2015, God has been helping me pour out my heart to Him (Psalm-62 style) and resolve stuff on the inside before it officially festers into depression. He's been re-teaching me how to forgive, how to be gracious, and how to love people, and He's shown me that I originally learned how to do these things the wrong way. I am not a doormat. It's OK for me to have boundaries. It's OK for me to do things like entertain myself, pick my friends, and have fun.

As Sarah Brightman would say, it's time to say goodbye.

2, 3, 4...

The other day while I was driving home and listening to music (Billy Joel, I think), I noticed myself counting off out loud, "2, 3, 4..." almost every time a new section of a song would begin. It was obsessive and hilarious. (I even think I noticed myself doing the same thing after I switched to Queen.) Even after that very fun drive home, I've noticed myself doing the same thing from time to time when I listen to music, if it's a song that I'm already familiar with. This anticipatory counting off is instinctive for me because I'm a singer/musician.

Perhaps this quirky behavior shouldn't surprise me. Metaphorically speaking, God does the same thing all the time. And I am made in His image.

"Behold, the former things have come to pass, and new things I declare; before they spring forth I tell you of them." (Isaiah 42:9)

"Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." (Isaiah 43:19)

While I was driving home on Friday evening, I was spewing out my complaints about my job and my life in general to God (which He likes me to do, and I really would die if I couldn't do it). I don't remember His exact words, but I remember that I was crying, and He gently comforted me: "Different things are needed in different seasons. Back then, you just needed a job, and you got one. Now you need your dignity back."

While I was trudging to my apartment, I debated whether or not I should attend a church service that evening. I asked God that if I were to go to the service, that He please just speak to me.

So, the pastor that evening preached a little bit about the Bible story about the daughters of Zelophehad. From what I understand, these were the first women in the Bible to inherit property, which they were able to do because their father died without producing any male heirs. The pastor said that these women were very bold and that their story was a significant one because women in biblical times weren't always treated very well. But the daughters of Zelophehad were women of dignity.

I believe that part of the message began in Numbers 27:3. Do you know what one of the preceding verses says?

"Then came the daughters of Zelophehad the son of Hepher, the son of Gilead, the son of Machir, the son of Manasseh, from the families of Manasseh the son of Joseph; and these were the names of his daughters: Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah." (Numbers 27:1)

I rarely have the privilege of sitting through a church message where any biblical story about Tirzah is mentioned. So, this past Friday evening, God definitely confirmed what He had already spoken to me. He blessed me. He encouraged me. He overwhelmed me by showing me how important I am to Him, just like He always does.

Just like how everybody is important to Him, and He'll show everybody if they'll just let Him.

 

For the past couple of weeks, I've been giving Macho some medicine orally every 12 hours on a full stomach. I live with both my cats in a small apartment, so there's no use hiding anything from them. Anytime I have to administer some sort of veterinary treatment on them, I like to tell them about it first... even if I have to warn them about my sneakiness. "Is it OK if I trick you into taking some medicine?" "Wow."

So, it didn't take long for Macho to figure out when it was time for me to give him his medication. I would usually say, "Would you like some breakfast and some medicine?" or "Dinner and some medicine?" or "Snacky and some medicine?" etc. Sometimes he would hide under the bed as soon as he was done eating (which would require some fancy cat-herding moves on my part), or he would try to skip a meal altogether (like this morning), and other times he would eat his meal solemnly and then crouch in anticipation of the inevitable (so that I could carry him into the kitchen, force his mouth open, and squirt the stuff down his throat).

But whenever I say, "medicine," Macho has an idea of what to expect. It is very important to me that my cats trust me to deliver whenever and whatever I say I'm going to deliver.

"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven." (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

"But, beloved, do not forget this one thing, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day." (2 Peter 3:8)

So, when we musicians count off during a song, it often indicates that something is about to change -- that something new is going to happen. For instance...

2, 3, 4...

Begin verse two.

2, 3, 4...

Bridge.

2, 3, 4...

Key change.

As the metaphorical song of my life plays, I think sometimes God metaphorically counts off every time a new section or season of the song begins. I kinda wish it would go something like this...

2, 3, 4...

Begin new job.

2, 3, 4...

Boyfriend.

2, 3, 4...

Calling fulfilled.

And sometimes things happen that quickly and almost that predictably (especially when you're a kid and don't have anything to worry about except school during the week, cartoons on Saturday, and church on Sunday). But sometimes things don't happen that neatly (far from it -- waaaaay far from it).

In a nutshell, music is half logical math ("theory") and half vague art (the kind of stuff that makes this artsy chick's heart soar). Perhaps both aspects of music also come into play as the metaphorical song of my life plays. I wonder if perhaps God's metaphorical count-offs happen more like this...

2, 3, 4...

Um... sure, you can have a new job... eventually. Like, when you get to heaven, you can work for Me.

2, 3, 4...

[crickets chirping, clock ticking]

2, 3, 4...

Hey, child, have I ever told you the story about the little girl who let her Daddy carry her through the valley of the shadow of death? Oh, I have told you that story? Let Me tell it to you again. It's one of my favorites. Once upon a time...

So, I think I might be on the verge of something new happening in my life, because I think I've heard God metaphorically counting off. And yet... it's very possible that He's counting off (or thinking very seriously about counting off) something that might happen in the distant future... maybe... if everything goes just right... unless He changes His mind and just wants to share an ice-cream cone with me instead.

He can be like that. I think I just need to keep listening and stay ready.

Stalking

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." (Psalm 23:6)

A while back, my pastor mentioned this verse in a sermon. He said that the original word for "follow" actually means "chase" -- that God's goodness and mercy chases after us, and they will finally find us and grab us if we will just stop running from them. I haven't been able to find the original Hebrew, but it sure got my imagination going. What if God's goodness and mercy are actually stalking us?

Sure enough, I did find this in Nelson's Compact Bible Commentary: "The Hebrew verb follow describes an animal in pursuit. When the Lord is our Shepherd, instead of being stalked by wild beasts we are pursued by the loving care of the Lord."

Reader, welcome to my world.

Growing up as a female in a Mexican culture (even in English-speaking Texas) meant being constantly pursued -- stalked, you could say -- by males. Now, as a chronically single woman, I'm certainly no expert at relationships, but I can tell when a guy likes a girl. All I have to do is remember what it was like to be pursued. (My immensely heartbreaking disappointment of not being pursued by eligible bachelors in a non-Mexican culture is another story.)

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was minding my own business one day while walking near the cafeteria around lunchtime. I was relatively new to my school, and I was still growing out of my awkward early-teenage phase. But out of the corner of my ear, I heard a guy say, "I want to [bleep] her."

Almost immediately afterwards, I was approached by an extremely unattractive guy. He had very bucked teeth and ears that stuck way out of his longish hair. I thought he looked like a mouse. (I'm not making this up.) He announced that his friend wanted to meet me. Really? Someone really wanted to [bleep] the nerdy new girl who wore discount-store clothes, her hair in a ponytail, and big glasses? This was uncharted territory for me.

So, mouse-boy introduced me to his friend -- a stocky, nervous-looking guy who was fairly cute but otherwise creepy. (I mean, you'd probably think so, too, if he announced that he wanted to [bleep] you.) I don't remember if it was at this particular meeting or if it was another time that he delivered a note that he had written to me. In this note, he said that he had his own truck and that he went to church because he thought it was "good for the body." I'm not sure what he meant about that part, but when I announced my newfound boy-adventures to my family, my birth father suggested, "Maybe he means the body of Christ." Eh, I don't know. I think he was just trying to impress me.

Frankly, if he had kept his inappropriate [bleep]ing comments to himself and, especially, if he had pursued me himself instead of recruiting mouse-boy to do it for him -- THEN I might have been impressed.

I turned him down as nicely as I could, but apparently it wasn't nice enough for him. A couple of years later, he saw me in the hallway while he was cruising with his friends and called to me, "Hi, Pierce-ah!" His entourage laughed. Ah, ha, ha.

Fast-forward to the summer after my freshman year in college when I had my first job. I worked at an insurance agency and met at least a dozen new customers every day. One time, one of the customers called me at the office and asked me out to lunch to thank me for helping him buy a policy. This created a bit of a stir in the office, of course. My boss laughed and said that this particular customer was married with five kids and that he was crazy. Well, if you consider adulterous to be "crazy," OK.

I got out of going to lunch with him, but he did return to the office and half-hug me while squishing his bushy sideburns on my cheek. Ick, I'm shuddering just typing this.

I know these are kinda silly examples of being pursued or stalked. (My cats weren't available this evening for photographs.) But as I mentioned earlier, that's how I can tell that a guy likes a girl -- he'll chase after her.

No, this post isn't just about romantic relationships. It's about THE relationship.

"Seek the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near." (Isaiah 55:6)

"When You said, 'Seek My face,' my heart said to You, 'Your face, Lord, I will seek.' " (Psalm 27:8)

"... if My people who are called by My name will humble themselves, and pray and seek My face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land." (2 Chronicles 7:14)

I don't remember the exact context of the conversation, but I was talking to my birth sister one day years ago about something God-related, and the subject of "seeking the Lord" came up. She became a bit defensive and was like, "Seeking the Lord is a charismatic thing." Well, sorry to throw a wrench in your cessationist ideas, but the truth is all over the Bible, right there in black and white. God likes to be pursued.

I learned / was reminded of this quite recently while I was working through some boiling emotional stuff in my head. I don't remember exactly what I was thinking or what I was silently screaming about, but I prayed. Then God said, "Don't bother Me."

So, of course, I bothered Him.

I'm not completely sure if He was doing a reverse-psychology thing with me, but of course it worked. I don't remember our exact conversation over the next few days, but I was like, "Wait. Was that really You talking?" And He repeated, "Don't bother Me." And I was like, "Am I being prideful? Are You resisting me?" And I was like, "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," and I followed Him around like a lovesick puppydog who knows that it's mealtime, and her Master has some kibble with her name on it, but for some reason He just won't give it to her yet.

I'm crazy. Sometimes I have to say something to the effect of, "I don't care if You burn me to a crisp, but I need You to hug me" to communicate how I'm really feeling to the God of the universe, the Consuming Fire who I can't see with my earthly eyes and still live, my Father who adopted me and is probably aching to hug me, too.

At any rate, I came out pretty quickly from whatever type of foggy whatever that was in my head, because God was like, "You passed the test." I think maybe He wanted me to stalk Him. And He showed me how the stress of me always trying to please my birth father (who always looked down on us) contributed to my current issues. God is pretty efficient, especially when He speaks. Sometimes He likes to kill multiple birds with one stone.

And the cool part about God and me stalking each other is that neither one of us will ever need to get a restraining order. Quite the contrary. If I don't chase after Him, and if I don't let Him chase after me, I'll die.

So, Psalm 23:6 says that goodness and mercy will chase after me for as long as I live. Maybe that means that goodness is like a persistent customer who calls me up out of the blue and is like, "Hey, your Father wanted to thank you for letting Him adopt you. How about a roof over your head, food in your fridge, and a movie date on Friday?" Maybe that means that mercy is like a sight for sore eyes who suddenly approaches me and is like, "Hey, your Friend wanted me to tell you that He doesn't want to [bleep] you, no offense. He wants to bless you. He really, really, really, really, really likes you. How about some grace to keep your mouth shut when you want to open it and hurt people, a schedule that miraculously gives you a bit of breathing room to take care of your ailing cat, and some incredibly divine protection while you're zooming down the highway day in, day out?"

Heck yes. I'll take all of that. Thank You.

Quick, slow, slow

If the title of this post sounds like a dance, well... yes, in a way, it is like a dance.

"My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires." (James 1:19-20, NIV)

 

I also thought about titling this post "The incredible shrinking cat" as a nod to a movie that I saw on TV when I was a kid: The Incredible Shrinking Woman. In that movie, from what I can remember (with Wikipedia refreshing my memory), Lily Tomlin mysteriously begins to shrink. Her story makes national headlines as the world scrambles to discover the reason why she is shrinking. People give her really weird solutions to her problem: Oh, you started shrinking after you tested various household products such as hairspray? Well, then you should stop using various household products such as hairspray... and so should the rest of the world, lest we suffer the same fate! Cheesy-dramatic orchestra playing!

Anytime anyone has a problem, people can offer solutions that are ignorant, insensitive, or just plain dumb.

Right now, my cat Macho (as you can see in this photo that I've shared) weighs about 9 pounds. At last year's vet visit, he weighed 10 pounds, so he's been losing weight. The vet has been performing tests to find out why. (So far, the vet has confirmed that Macho has a Vitamin B-12 deficiency, in addition to some sort of GI disease, and possibly some type of lymphoma, but more tests will be performed in the near future to confirm that last part.)

He kinda used to have the opposite weight problem: He used to be a little glutton. About a decade ago when I took him to his annual vet visit, the technician took one look at him and was like, "Oh, looks like we need to go get a tubby chart." She provided literature that educated me on the myriad of health problems that an overweight cat can develop. Then they put Macho on a diet to help him drop the weight. However, after being on the diet for a few weeks, instead of losing weight, he gained half a pound. Great. The veterinary staff was puzzled and deflated.

I, on the other hand, knew exactly why he was chunking up. At the time, I was living with my birth parents. While I was at work during the day, my birth mother would give in to my cats' begging whines and feed them. I told the vet that I knew exactly what I needed to do to help him lose weight: I needed to move out of my parents' house. So I did, and I began to micromanage Macho's food intake. Eventually, he went from approximately 16 pounds to 15, 14, and 12 pounds.

But now that he's a mere 9 pounds, there's definitely cause for concern. I have noticed that his appetite began to decrease earlier this year, which isn't like my Macho. I figured maybe I was micromanaging his food a little bit too much, and I've been enjoying being able to carry him with only one arm. But when I took him for his annual checkup, the vet performed some tests which revealed that other stuff is probably going on underneath the surface. (Macho won't tell me about all his symptoms directly. I mean, he is quite the macho-man cat.)

But I think Macho is a good example of a creature whose issues can't be explained away in a simple textbook lesson. Not everyone's life conveniently follows all the textbook examples.

I've known for years that Macho is a cat after my own heart. His personality and temperament are very similar to mine. He is introverted, moody, skittishly afraid of the outside world, easily entertained, content with whatever food you put in front of him, deeply clingy, and loyal to a fault. And, apparently, he requires further probing to accurately analyze and diagnose the source of his issues.

Because my issues aren't easily solved like textbook examples, either.

"Be angry, and do not sin. Meditate within your heart on your bed, and be still. Selah." (Psalm 4:4)

"He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city." (Proverbs 16:32)

With all due respect, I am learning that for me personally, while "freedom ministry" has been helpful to a degree, it has also been useless to a degree. While psychotherapy was helpful to a degree, some of my therapist's advice was full of crap to a degree. While analyzing and fixing me has been enormously helpful to a degree, it has also felt tremendously damaging to a degree.

On the other hand, every time God slices a specimen of my soul and looks at it under a microscope, He always sees everything, and He always tells me exactly what I need to know to be OK and to keep going... even if He doesn't answer right away, even if He's silent, and even if He changes the subject and starts talking about something else when I'm aching to know the answers to my current agonies.

For example, years ago, I visited a theophostic counselor (if you've never been to one, I would NOT recommend it) who said that we can all turn to other things to numb the pain -- such as TV, movies, or sleep -- to take our mind off the things that are causing depression. Any good counselor (theophostic or not) would tell you that you need to face your problems head-on. Deal with that anger right away before you end up stuffing it or unhealthily expressing it. Stop coping and start healing. Don't medicate your pain; take it to Jesus.

Um, I try, honest. But all that doesn't always work for me.

For instance, no matter what I try, no matter who I try to hang out with -- most of the time -- I STILL end up being lonely on the weekends, and I still feel rejected and very angry because of it, and my brain still boils it around in my head in a scary way. Over time, it has gotten gradually better. I don't give myself sinus headaches from all the crying anymore. I'm not suicidal anymore. I'm not officially clinically depressed anymore. But -- most of the time -- weekends still aren't fun for me. Do I really need to wrestle with the pain AGAIN, weekend after weekend, 52 times in one year, rinse and repeat, with very little relief?

God recently gave me a very practical answer: "Don't beat a dead horse." OK, then. If the horse is dead, I'd like to cook it and serve myself up a banquet.

If people don't want to give me the deep relational connections that I crave, especially on the weekends, no problem. You can call it "medicating" or "coping" if you like. I don't care how unspiritual I look to you. If escaping from life for a couple of hours by watching a movie by myself is going to help me enjoy my otherwise gut-wrenching lonely weekend, then that's what I'm gonna do. And I daresay I have my Father's blessing to do it.

"The blessing of the Lord makes one rich, and He adds no sorrow with it." (Proverbs 10:22)

But when I'm not enjoying life, regardless of what day of the week it is, I have been dealing with and working through quite a bit of angry emotions that flare up and boil around in my head. I daydream and fantasize about having all kinds of terrible conversations with people who I've been trying to forgive. (Yes, forgiveness is a choice, but after you make that choice, you still need help following through with it. Hello, common sense.) I imagine myself doing all kinds of violent, angry things that I could truly get arrested for doing. It shocks me, and it really does scare me, and when I talk to God about it, He reminds me that I'm not actually doing the things in my head, and I'm still learning self-control. This is God's mercy, and it is one way that He comforts me. And gradually, the violent, angry thoughts fizzle out and float away. And I think I grow up a tiny bit.

As a very mild example, I've imagined myself yelling at my boss and really letting him have it -- not in a buddy-like zinging way but in an emasculating almost-abusive way. The thought itself will shock me, and then I'll remind myself that I can't talk to him that way in his house/at my job. My thought will stay in my head, my mouth will stay shut, I will keep my job, and God and I will get closer together because He helped me analyze my soul in a way that I can understand, in a way that helps me.

Yes, the Bible says to forsake anger (Psalm 37). But it also says to be slow to anger. Anger is going to come, but I don't helplessly have to let it take over and carjack me on some high-speed chase across town. I can sneak up behind it and catch it in a jar like some crazy poisonous insect and let it just sit there until it uses all the air inside its jar and finally suffocates. Then I can pin it with the other suffocated trophies in God's giant science project.

For me, one of the biggest discoveries that God has shown me -- one of the biggest puzzle pieces that helps make this whole thing make sense -- is that I have a psalmist temperament, and I've been learning how to control it.

Hmm. A psalmist? Psalmists are harmless, aren't they?

"Do I not hate them, O Lord, who hate You? And do I not loathe those who rise up against You? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them my enemies." (Psalm 139:21-22)

"O daughter of Babylon, who are to be destroyed, happy the one who repays you as you have served us! Happy the one who takes and dashes your little ones against the rock!" (Psalm 137:8-9)

"For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to the grave. I am counted with those who go down to the pit; I am like a man who has no strength, adrift among the dead, like the slain who lie in the grave, whom You remember no more, and who are cut off from Your hand." (Psalm 88:3-5)

"Attend to me, and hear me; I am restless in my complaint, and moan noisily..." (Psalm 55:2)

Dang, we psalmists can be pretty messed up. But I suppose if we weren't, how would we be able to dig deeply enough to write all this stuff? That is what I am learning.

So, quick to hear... slow to speak... slow to wrath. Quick, slow, slow. Quick, slow, slow. What do I say? Where do I go? Quick, slow, slow. Quick, slow, slow. Is it safe yet? Should I say no? Quick, slow, slow. Quick, slow, slow. Can I scream now? Watch me; here goes!

OK, so in this post I mainly ended up talking about the "anger" part (as opposed to the "hear" part and the "speak" part), but I still think it's sort of like a dance.

It's holding on for dear life to your Dance Partner, because you're utterly dependent on Him to lead.

The other day when I drove Macho home from a vet visit, he and I both had a rather traumatic experience. I dropped him off before work in the morning, and then I picked him up during rush-hour traffic. Macho's vet is in another part of town, so we already had quite a drive awaiting us. So, there we were stuck in almost bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic, and Macho was stuck in his carrier, and he needed to poop. Both of us were helpless to stop it. There wasn't enough room in his carrier for him to stretch out the way he normally does in his litterbox, so he ended up pooping directly onto his tail. Then he tried to cover it up the way his instincts know how to do, which of course didn't work this time because he had a towel instead of litter, and he ended up getting bits of poop all over his carrier. I wept. You probably would, too, if you were stuck in a poop-infested car in the middle of rush-hour traffic. But my heart also broke for my cat, because it was certainly NOT my desire that he soil himself and be massively uncomfortable on the drive home. I kept telling him, "It's OK. I'll clean it."

I got a huge whiff of God's heart for me during that massively uncomfortable drive home.

A few days before that, my emotions had flared up to the point of almost spiraling me down into another depression pit. Thankfully, the depression didn't stick. But while I was working through it, I remember going through my day and cringing on the inside, achingly crying out to God in a giant, massively uncomfortable silent whine. I heard God crying and telling me to not break His heart. I didn't really understand why until I saw and smelled my cat poop on himself in a place that nobody else saw but us, in a way that nobody else could fix but him and me, in a manner that wasn't anybody's fault per se. I guess you could say that I needed to poop emotionally, I couldn't help it, and I didn't fully understand how desperately God wanted to just wave a magic wand and instantly make all the imperfect things perfect, all the uncomfortable things comfortable, all the terrible things unterrible. We both just needed to let it run its course, and I ended up learning how deeply compassionate He is, how incredibly close He wants to be, and how permanently loving He will always be.

I don't think I would ever be able to learn that in a textbook.

Crazies

I originally intended to write about the subject of anger (which is what I am dealing with in my life right now), but I will save that for another day. Today, I ended up writing about a few ways in which other people's anger or otherwise random outbursts/behavior have affected me. There's a crazy motif, of course.

I truly hope that what I'm about to write isn't insensitive. It's just my quirky way of processing stuff that's in my face.

Lately, the tragedy that happened in South Carolina has been all over the news. That truly was a senseless tragedy. That was hatred, violence, and evil unchecked. That act was performed by the type of person who could very possibly burn in hell alongside someone like Adolf Hitler. (Unless the shooter repents, of course. Nobody is beyond hope unless they just shut themselves off from it.)

It happened in a place that's supposed to be safe for everyone who walks through its doors: a church. The innocent people who died were simply having a Bible study, and they innocently welcomed a visitor into their midst -- which is exactly what you're supposed to do. I used to lead church small groups. A tragedy like that could have happened to me.

Honestly, a couple of people who visited my old lifegroup have ended up on the news. (I wrote about one of them previously on my blog.) One of them committed suicide after he caused a hit-and-run accident. Another one, if I remember correctly, was a teacher who got arrested for having sex with one of his students. Right before I was about to lead our group in worship one night, and while I was explaining that everyone was welcome to worship freely, he remarked, "So, we can all take off our clothes and dance naked like David danced?" I clarified, "Rated G." He never returned to my group, but it was a weird non-surprise that he got arrested some time after that.

So, you can meet all kinds of crazies at church.

Right before I found my current church -- a huge megachurch that provides lots of safe nooks and crannies anytime you feel the need to hide from the crazies -- I attended a church where I made a rather, um, interesting friend. (I've blogged a little bit about her before.) That was back when I was rather, um, naïve. She would sometimes sit by herself in the sanctuary with her arms crossed and a very ticked-off look on her face. I would ask to sit with her, and she would reply gruffly, "No, that's all right. You don't need to sit next to me." I would smile and reply cheerfully before I'd walk away, "OK."

One day while several of us were gathered at our Sunday School teacher's house for lunch, my friend kind of went off about one of the other women in our class, while the woman in question awkwardly left the room. I naïvely got involved in the conversation, which happened to be about race. Since I am half-Hispanic and grew up hearing all kinds of sad stories from my Mexican-American relatives, racism has always been a subject that I'm very comfortable talking about. So, I told my friend something to the effect of, "Oh, yeah, I'm half-Hispanic, and you're African-American."

That was when I discovered that not everybody appreciates it when you try to be politically correct.

My friend then went off on me: "Oh, don't throw that African-American crap in my face! I've never been to Africa! Nuh-uh! I'm black!" Naïvely, of course, I apologized and tried to appease her. I didn't think anything was wrong.

After our church slowly began to lose membership because of some stuff that was happening internally, she and I began to spend more time together. As our friendship progressed, I found out that she was bipolar and that she had lost at least one job because of an angry outburst. Since I knew what it was like to have mental-health issues, I naïvely kept pursuing a friendship with her, and she seemed to appreciate my company.

We finally left our church and each started looking for a new church in separate places. The first place I visited (and returned to a short while later after hopping to a couple of other places) was what is now my current megachurch. When I realized that that church had what I was looking for, I excitedly talked to my friend on the phone about it. (I don't remember if I called her or if she called me, but I do remember that at this point, she had become rather clingy, and I wondered why she was calling me nearly every day.) She complained about how she would never find a good church, and I explained that this new church that I found was the real deal.

"That's a white church," she retorted. I think I tried to explain that the church is open to everybody, and that I thought I saw some black people sitting in the congregation, but she kept insisting, "That's a white church." I don't remember all the details of that conversation, but I do remember thinking that maybe she was demon-possessed. I even asked the caller a couple of times, "Is this [insert chick's name here]?" She was like, "Yes, this is me." I also remember her cussing with the word "hell" quite a bit. At one point, I asked her to please stop saying that. She was like, "What's the matter with 'hell'? It's just a place. But if it bothers you, I won't say it anymore."

I was as nice as I could possibly be to her (I was a much nicer person back then; nowadays, I have a much lower tolerance for crap). But the conversation kept going around in circles, and she eventually started verbally attacking me. I tried to not cry over the phone. "White people just don't understand," she repeatedly told me condescendingly. I told her that she was insulting me, and then I hung up the phone after ending the conversation as politely as I could.

I grabbed my Bible and collapsed into a crying mess on the floor. I asked God, "What is going on?"

He replied, "I wanted you to see what she was like." Then He impressed quite deeply on my heart, "Friendship is voluntary." He was right. Until then, I thought I could be friends with everybody who crossed my path.

Thus began my journey of learning how to pick my friends carefully, weed out unhealthy people, set boundaries, and even build firm walls to permanently eliminate certain people out of my life. Yep. I'm certainly not an expert in this area, but I guess you could say this was like the shot heard 'round the world for me.

"Make no friendship with an angry man, and with a furious man do not go, lest you learn his ways and set a snare for your soul." (Proverbs 22:24-25)

Some time after that, she emailed me to apologize. My way out of the friendship was when she said if I never called her again, she would understand. OK, then. I was glad that she was the one who set the boundary.

A few years later, she ran into me at a New Year's Eve service at my "white" church. She gushed at how wonderful the special services (Christmas and New Year's Eve) had been. Of course this encounter was awkward for me (as are lots of encounters with church crazies), but I spoke to her as politely as I could, and I was glad that she was only visiting, because I truly hope to never see her again.

One very interesting part of belonging to a megachurch is that you never know who you'll run into. Our special holiday services tend to draw lots of visitors who regularly attend other churches, and I guess maybe some people like to stroll in to see the show. Which they're welcome to do, of course. I just wonder what my ex-friend thinks about my pastor's black son-in-law, the dozens of black pastors and staff members, and the myriad of black members at my "white" church.

Loneliness is a dangerous thing. It can blind you from seeing all the crazies and their red flags waving in your face.

"Among the gods there is none like You, O Lord; nor are there any works like Your works. All nations whom You have made shall come and worship before You, O Lord, and shall glorify Your name." (Psalm 86:8-9)

"Then Peter opened his mouth, and said, 'Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons...' " (Acts 10:34, KJV)

Speaking of being in my face, there are a couple of things about my current job that have been demonstrating and reinforcing some interesting things for me. Firstly, I've heard people talk for years about how God isn't a "respecter of persons" -- that if He acts/moves/works in one person's life, He won't show favoritism but will act/move/work in anybody's life. My boss is a perfect anti-example of this. The way we kiss up to certain clients kinda made me sick at first, but I think I've kinda grown numb to it now. I don't think we'll tell a client to their face that their ads suck, but we sure won't give them the red-carpet treatment in the privacy of our office. The people who rent office space in our building get treated like kings and queens, even when they are weeks late paying their rent, but if we peon employees make one tiny mistake, we will be corporately crucified for it.

But with God, if I stumble and fall yet again, He'll just nonchalantly smile and say something like, "I don't hate you." I don't get it. How the heck can He still be so nice to me after the stuff I've done or the way I've treated Him? I haven't done anything to earn His respect. And yet He's made me a princess in His palace, and He treats me like a queen. I don't think I'm even supposed to get it. That, my friends, is called a "mystery." That, my friends, is a reason to cling to His feet and vow to follow Him wherever He goes. That, my friends, is why He is stuck with me forever.

Secondly, there are two types of people who work in my place of employment: the big-picture people-oriented people and the microscopically obsessive detail-oriented people. (I fall into the latter category, of course.) Sometimes people will straddle both categories, which tends to create confusion and frustration. But in general, the big-picture people will show up to meetings after supposedly reading our periodical and declare, "It looks great." And the microscopic people will show up to the same meetings after combing the periodical and state, "On page such-and-such, there needs to be a period at the end of the photo caption; on page such-and-such, thus-and-so was duplicated from page such-and-so; on page such-and-such, the article was missing a headline," etc., etc., and so on and so forth. The big-picture people will be like, "Eh, there were some words on some pages with some pictures in between, so voilà, we have successfully published yet another periodical." The microscopic people will be like, "We have obsessed over every square inch of our periodical and have discovered a mountain of mistakes and a staggering amount of material that is screaming for improvement."

I think God is like both types of people simultaneously. He sees the big picture and is like, "Hey, Tirzah, you made a friend who needs somebody to love on her." And He also sees the microscopic details that no one else sees and is like, "Hey, Tirzah, your new friend is a crazy psycho who could potentially do a staggering amount of harm to your soul, and I would like to give you an opportunity to end the friendship now should you choose to do so." I think He shows His love during both instances.

(At any rate, it doesn't matter if you're black, white, brown, blue, pink, purple, green, or anything in between. God loves you, God wants you, and God wants you to worship Him. I was taught this years ago, but now I'm thoroughly convinced that He creates all of us differently on purpose just because He likes variety. After all, it is the spice of life.)

Simultaneously, yes, everybody needs love, and yes, I am thankful for all the security guards who work at my church to protect me from the crazies.

And, of course, I are a crazy, too. Rated G.

Tangents, fries, and boobs

Disclaimer: Please understand that this is my personal blog. I use it to process my life, express my opinions, and share things that I've observed or learned. This is where I offer what I have to offer to the world. But I am not trying to take over the world. (Blogger tells me that most of my posts usually only get about 15-30 views each, so I wouldn't be able to use my blog to take over the world, even if I wanted to.) I am merely trying to process and share my life. I do not welcome debates or lectures here. If any readers decide to disrespect what I have experienced and learned in my life, and if they do so by preaching some canned arguments at me, that will earn a mighty fast deleting of the inappropriate comment in question, or perhaps a swift clicking of the Unfriend or Block-this-person button on Facebook. I'm not afraid of doing any of that. That's not a threat; that's just an honest heads-up.

About 19 years ago when I was in college -- before Facebook existed and everybody used the internet for everything -- I had a friend who typed up a humorous newsletter and distributed it to select people at the apartment complex where we lived. She did so anonymously, and from what I can remember, she folded up the newsletter and -- under the early-morning cover of darkness -- taped it to the apartment doors where lifegroup leaders at my church lived. The title of the newsletter was The Tangent, and it was indeed a random collection of hilarious stuff. I think the author wrote it just to make people laugh, or perhaps to just have an outlet to express her humorous and creative energy. Unfortunately, the newsletter only had one issue; the author did not create any more after that. Perhaps her busy college schedule caught up with her and her early-morning secret shenanigans.

But that one issue of The Tangent was so well-written and so fresh that people talked about it years afterwards. (I'd share a copy of it here, but I don't have one, because I wasn't one of the select people on its mailing list.) Perhaps its mystery fueled its popularity in our circle of friends, but other than that, I honestly don't understand why the author of The Tangent chose to keep her identity a secret. Some people thought it was me. Honestly, no way. If it were me, I wouldn't have written it anonymously. I would have wanted credit for that brilliance. And my prolific self would have written more than one issue. (Perhaps my 280+ blog posts can vouch for that.) Unfortunately, since I was sworn to secrecy, I cannot reveal the identity of the author of The Tangent, even though I am no longer friends with her.

However, I can re-create a tiny part of it here from memory. There was a Top 10 list of "Ways You Can Tell If Your Roommate Is Fasting." One of them was "If you eat a sandwich in front of him, he tells you, 'GET BEHIND ME, SATAN!" And the #1 reason was "He tells you, 'Hey, dude, I'm fasting.' " This was truly hilarious stuff, especially in a church culture where we fasted very often, and we probably needed to laugh about it.

"Moreover, when you fast, do not be like the hypocrites, with a sad countenance. For they disfigure their faces that they may appear to men to be fasting. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward." (Matthew 6:16)

Hey, reader, I'm fasting. I'm not bragging about it, and I'm not telling you (hopefully) so as to violate the scripture that I just quoted. I'm telling you because I've written here before about the stuff that I've learned during my fasts. And, frankly, if I wait until next weekend (after I break the fast) to write about this, I might not have time.

I'm currently doing a 14-day salad-only fast, which is what God and I now do every year around this time. For the past few years whenever I've fasted, God has usually shown me some symbolic stuff, and He's usually used the circumstances of the fast itself to ingrain some very important lessons inside me. (I'm sure He knows that I'm a kinesthetic learner. If I don't learn something by doing it, the lesson might not stick.)

Years ago when I was first learning how to fast, I was taught by people who considered food to be the enemy during a fast. So, it was difficult for me to NOT think about food while I was fasting. I mean, if all you're doing is drinking water and juice, you're probably going to be screaming, "I WANT HAMBURGERS AND ENCHILADAS!!!" inside your head all day. (It's kinda hard to focus on God when that happens.) In recent years, I began hiding all the food in my pantry, refrigerator, and freezer in preparation for any fasts.

But this time, God told me to not hide any of the "temptation." My boxes of frosted mini-wheat and oatmeal are still sitting on top of my refrigerator where I can see them. My pantry still has a tiny little can of beef macaroni sitting in it, but I know it's there, and it's waiting for me.

And during this particular fast, God has told me that I can drink whatever I want. That part is extremely cool. So, I still pour flavored creamer into my coffee, I've been drinking lots of juice and a little bit of soda, and I even dip into the free hot chocolate between meals when I'm at work. But I can only eat salad. God told me that during this particular fast, I would crave salad, and He was right. It wasn't until very recently that I started wanting hamburgers and ice cream, but it's OK. I CAN eat salad for the next several days, and I'm good to go.

I think this particular fast has been awesome practice at resisting "temptation." I went to Dollar Tree the other day -- a frugal person's shopping paradise -- and only felt a tiny tinge of "Oh, I can't eat any of the stuff in here" for a very short second.

But it wasn't until a couple of days after the fact that I realized that I had actually eaten a sit-down meal at Braum's without flinching. Everyone around me was eating hamburgers, fries, and ice cream, and I was in salad heaven. I should have taken a picture of the strawberry and poppyseed salad before I wolfed it down. OH, MY GOSH. I actually thought to myself, "I am officially a fast-foodie." (After I took out the brown-looking pieces of lettuce, it was a very scrumptious meal.)

The boundaries that God set for me for this fast were that I can drink whatever I want, and I can only eat salad. That is plenty right now. Yes, my tummy experiences a little bit of pain sometimes between meals, but that's what juice and hot chocolate are for. And after my stomach shrank a tiny bit at the beginning of the fast to accommodate my curbed appetite, things got better.

This is all totally symbolic to me.

For the past year, I have been battling a lust addiction (which isn't a secret; I blogged about it here). God told me that my healing would be gradual, and He wasn't kidding around. I've felt like my progress has been all over the place, but God has been encouraging me every step of the way, helping me, listening to me, and showing me that I haven't been where I was about a year ago. That's all Him, and that's all me finally letting Him have His way.

So, sexually, God's boundaries for me are that if I get married, to a man, I can have as much sex with him as he and I want to have. But until then, metaphorically speaking, I'm all dressed up and no place to go. And I have a Father who will know me better than any stupid man ever will. (No offense.) I get to spend the rest of my life, the rest of my eternity, getting to know Him back. Those are the boundaries, period.

My current battles aren't the only sexual-related issues I've dealt with in my past. (Those aren't secrets, either; I've blogged about my beliefs and my struggles especially here and here.) So, I hope you understand that I don't hate anyone who has struggled sexually or who disagrees with my beliefs or God's very real, very pronounced boundaries.

However, I do disrespect Bruce Jenner. Nope, I'm not going to pretend to be a courteous modern-day journalist and call "her" Caitlyn. Especially not if "she" professes to be a Christian.

"Therefore God also gave them up to uncleanness, in the lusts of their hearts, to dishonor their bodies among themselves, who exchanged the truth of God for the lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever. Amen... And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a debased mind, to do those things which are not fitting..." (Romans 1:24-25, 28)

"So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate. She also gave to her husband with her, and he ate." (Genesis 3:6)

I understand that there are many gender-related situations in which surgery would be necessary. We live in a fallen world, and tragic stuff happens all the time like people being born one gender that either lacks a certain component required for their gender, or they are born with extra stuff that isn't needed in their gender. Surgery can fix that type of stuff, no problem.

But to just be born a regular, healthy male and decide that you are really supposed to be female, or vice versa, is just plain wrong. One thing that I've been learning during the past few years is that God makes us in His image -- which is both male and female -- so there are real, genuine, God-given traits ON THE INSIDE that can float around inside us regardless of what our actual gender is. For instance, men are direct and organized. But that doesn't mean that women who are direct and organized are actually supposed to be male; that just means that they are made in God's image. For instance, women are intuitive/sensitive and poetic. But that doesn't mean that men who are intuitive/sensitive and poetic are actually supposed to be female; that just means that they are made in God's image. Because God is direct, organized, intuitive/sensitive, and poetic simultaneously. Yes, God is both male and female simultaneously.

But to be a male all your life -- and a beautiful male, too -- who even goes so far as to get married, father children, and WIN A FRICKIN' GOLD MEDAL IN A MEN'S OLYMPIC EVENT, and then decide that you're really supposed to be a female... I'm sorry, but that's just wrong. I don't mean to pick on Bruce Jenner; it's just that his story is plastered all over the internet, and it's constantly in my face. I can't even research his life on YouTube without a whole page worth of Caitlyn videos (some inappropriate) cropping up. I had to type in "Bruce Jenner Olympics" to find something worth my while. (Did you know that back in the 70s, Bruce Jenner was considered to play the role of Superman? Can you smell the irony?) I can't even read about his life on Wikipedia now without him being called "her" or "she." And supposedly, according to Wikipedia, Bruce isn't even a homosexual or a heterosexual anymore; he's asexual. I would have done more research to find out what that means, but my curiosity on Wikipedia is what got me into trouble last year, so I'm going to assume that that means that Caitlyn is attracted to himself.

I mean, my gosh. All God-related stuff aside, come on, Brucie. Do you honestly think you can become a bona fide woman with mere surgery? Are you honestly willing to go through the same things that we women go through? Are you honestly ready to go through menstruation, cramps, PMS, menopause, hot flashes, mood swings? Not that you're at the age for that type of thing. You conveniently skipped most of it. All you got was hormone treatments, facial surgery, breast implants, and some mutilation of something that was probably originally created to be very beautiful. Of course you had a panic attack when you woke up one morning and suddenly realized that you were a woman. How are those new breasts working for you, buddy? Kinda messes with your equilibrium, doesn't it? We REAL women spent our puberty years growing into them and getting used to them, and then we spend our adult years figuring out how to hide the brutally honest, brutally sagging truth. And we are stronger because of it. And is that what you think we look like? Some kind of masculine-looking freak? You insult us, you big Olympic jerk. Oh, sure, you're happy now, because everybody is giving you so much attention. But what about when you're 90 and your brand-new boobs don't match your wrinkly-old-man frame?

Seriously.

But I guess if a suicide attempt is just as big of a slap in the face to God as an unnecessary gender-altering surgery is, then I probably shouldn't throw stones.

One thing I've been thinking about lately is that in the Garden of Eden, all the trees looked good. Even the tree of the knowledge of good and evil looked good. I wonder if maybe it still looks good today. I wonder if maybe EVERYTHING around us in the world still looks good to us fallible human beings today. Want to become a woman instead of a man? The world will tell you that's good; you should follow your heart. Want to marry a video game instead of a human being? The world will tell you that's good; you should follow your heart. Want to buy a gun and shoot all the employees in your office? The world will tell you they're so sorry that you were hurting, and they'll pay for your lawyer; way to go for following your heart.

Oh, yeah. Minor detail:

"He who trusts in his own heart is a fool, but whoever walks wisely will be delivered." (Proverbs 28:26)

" 'The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it? I, the Lord, search the heart, I test the mind, even to give every man according to his ways, according to the fruit of his doings.' " (Jeremiah 17:9-10)

"For if our heart condemns us, God is greater than our heart, and knows all things." (1 John 3:20)

Our hearts are deceitful things that can't always be trusted, so following your heart can be very bad news. I'm not talking about God putting something on your heart and you following that. I'm not talking about God creating you to be a certain way and to have certain desires (e.g., to be a crazy cat lady who spends her Saturday night blogging) and chasing after those. I'm not talking about having certain personality traits or nurturing certain dreams that make us beautifully human. I'm talking about embracing and running with the stupid things that float around inside us, and doing what they compel us to do, instead of doing our part to utterly destroy them, like what God wants us to do, so that our hearts can become purer and purer.

Despite the surgery, Caitlyn was not created overnight. I don't think Bruce Jenner woke up one morning and was like, "Hey, I think I'm actually supposed to be a woman." And I don't mean to poop on his personal struggles or on the things that he may have wrestled with for years. Sure, Eve contributed to the fall of the entire human race by succumbing to one tiny little temptation. But sometimes deception takes years to grow. And unraveling it out of your life is a process that can also take years. I know what I'm talking about.

That is something that comforts me. When I'm wondering why I keep tripping and stumbling while I'm trying to walk uprightly, I take comfort in the fact that God told me that my healing would happen gradually and in the fact that new growth is a process that can take quite a bit of time.

"Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path." (Psalm 119:105)

The truth is, our world is a very dark place. While we are groping around and trying to find the right path, we are told that everything around us looks good and to just keep walking however our hearts lead us. But then Somebody turns the light on and-- AAAAAGH! You're about to step in a pile of poop. Or a manhole. Or a nest of vipers. Aren't you glad Somebody loved you enough to turn the light on? Aren't you a little bit ticked off at the lying voices who told you that you weren't in any danger?

The fact that God's word is a lamp unto our feet and a light unto our path isn't just a catchy 80s church song. It's a life-saving truth. In this dark, crazy, heartbreaking world, everything looks good enough to sink your teeth into. But God has different ideas. He's the One who created it, so He's the One who already has very clear boundaries set in place. The boundaries that still seem vague are the ones that we need to trust Him with. It's imperative to be able to hold His hand and stick close by Him so that we will know where to walk, where to step, where to sink down our roots and grow. It's important to use His word as a light, as a guide, as a life-giving tool during this journey that contains so many landmines, so many dangerous twists and turns, and so many opportunities for disaster.

In this world where God has told us, metaphorically speaking, that we can only eat salad -- even though everyone around us is eating burgers, fries, and ice cream -- it is the salad that will truly satisfy our appetite. If we want to live life His way, we will have no other choice until He gives us permission to metaphorically eat otherwise.

Hmm. I didn't mean to end this post so cheesily. Maybe I should make a joke about my future husband. Once upon a time, there lived a man named Jacques who lived in the French Riviera with his poodle. One day, he suddenly appeared at Tirzah's front door with a plate of highly aromatic French fries. While his poodle rudely barked at Tirzah's alarmed cats, Jacques held out the plate. "Zees plate contains zee greatest expression of love that money can buy," he said. "Inside zees French fries ees hidden your engagement ring. Eef you can find eet, I will properly propose to you, and you will be my wife, and we will leev happily ever after while I cook you highly aromatic foods that will never make you fat. And I will trade in my rude poodle Pierre for a proper cat. I happened to spot one at the animal shelter on my way to deliver zees plate to you. We can name heem Jean-Claude, and we can train heem to wash zee dishes after I cook you highly aromatic cuisine."

Heh. See? I can create tangents, too.