Farewell to my 30s

Lord willing, I'll celebrate my 40th birthday in a couple of weeks. That's a pretty big birthday. And, well, you know me. It wouldn't be a big deal until I processed through it here on my blog. So, I thought I'd use this space to officially and properly (albeit early) say goodbye to my 30s... and to share some of the big lessons that I learned during this important decade.

1) There's no shame in being yourself. God made you YOU on purpose. It might take you a while to figure out who you are (especially if people have been feeding you lies about who you are for your entire life), and discovering who you are might be a lifelong process. But that's OK. There's nothing wrong with that.

As for me, I am a highly introverted creative person who's more comfortable expressing herself in writing than she is in spoken words. If you have a conversation with me, I might trip over my words, I might stutter a little bit, you might have to wait a little while for me to get the words out, and I might cut through the awkwardness by singing instead. And I'm OK with that.

I think every time I step onto a church worship platform and simply be myself, it scares the crap out of the devil. (And it should -- not just with me, but with all of us when we are just being ourselves.)

2) Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. Life throws so many curveballs at you, it ain't even funny. Life ain't nothin' like what they teach you in school. There ain't no textbook for life... and even in the Bible (the one Book that could ever qualify as being the perfect Textbook), you can't even get through Genesis without reading about how God was thrown all kinds of curveballs after He created creation, and about how He had to adjust multiple times. I'm not saying any of it surprised Him; I'm saying that He just did what He had to do.

And so do we. You just gotta show up and adapt to every situation as best you can. You might freak out at first, but if you hang in there, you can make it if you need to.

Throughout the years, perhaps you've read way more information than you cared to about my life, so I'll spare you the details about my cats' latest health issues and general shenanigans. But I will say that Macho and Choochie are still alive and kicking. It's taken a lot of work and a lot of adjusting, but I don't regret hanging in there. I hope they don't regret it, either.

3) It's important to respect rush hour. If you live in a large metropolitan area, you understand how frustrating it can be to drive anywhere between about 6:30 a.m. and 10 a.m. and then between about 3:30 p.m. and 7 p.m. Of course, that is the time of day when people are going to work and then coming home from work. If you're on a highway, there's a strong chance that you could be delayed or stuck in traffic. Sometimes during the summertime (when there's no school), Fridays/Mondays (when many people work from home), or non-universal holidays (such as Presidents' Day or Veterans Day), you can get a break and some very smooth travel. But most of the time, Monday through Friday, rush hour will come and go as faithfully as the seasons.

After a while, you'll get the hang of it. You'll learn to expect anything, be ready for anything, and respond accordingly to anything. People will cut you off, honk at you for no apparent reason, scare the crap out of you, drive in your blind spot, tailgate you, bully you, or nearly run you off the road. But eventually, you'll stop taking it personally. You'll learn how to make your way through traffic by weaving around the traffic-impeders or letting the speed demons pass you without incident. You'll realize that sometimes it's safer to speed up than to slow down, and vice versa. You'll learn how to adeptly master a road that used to freak you out.

You'll eventually realize that the people who drove like crazy maniacs during rush hour did so because it was the most effective way that they knew how to make it through the madness.

 

Earlier this week on social media, I posted a picture of a funny-looking sign. Here is a somewhat clearer photo of the "No thru trucks" sign. Wait. Or does it say, "No anvils"?

Several months ago when I started a new job (which happens to be located somewhat near my previous job), I started taking a different route to work. At first, I was delighted that the new route (a small state highway, 45 MPH through quiet suburbs) shaved about five minutes off my trip from my previous route (two larger state highways, 65+ MPH through noisier suburbs, near an airport). But in recent months, I've noticed that the shorter drive on the quaint road has gotten longer. Perhaps the area along the small 45 MPH road has grown, or perhaps law enforcement has identified the speed-trap potential in the area. Lately, I've been driving less and sitting at stoplights more. Hence my ability to safely take pictures of funny-looking scenery.

Whatever the reason for the slowdown, I don't think this new set of drivers that I've been sharing the road with actually has any "rush hour" skills to speak of. I have been SO frustrated lately during my commutes to/from work. Oh, my gosh. Green means go, people. If the speed limit is 45, that means you can actually go 45.

Lately, I've really been missing my scarier "rush hour" commutes through the noisier suburbs. I miss getting to make up for lost time by driving at faster speeds. I miss recognizing the traffic-impeders and the speed demons and responding accordingly. I think that frustrated me and stressed me out a lot less. I think my current quaint drive is giving me a crash course in experiencing and controlling road rage.

I respect rush hour because I've learned that many of the drivers have developed a level of skill that is conducive, ironically, to ensuring their safety and the safety of those around them. (You have to be careful when you're trying to get to where you're going in one piece.)

But I don't have much respect for the wusses who slow down to 35-40 in a 45 MPH zone just because they see a cop. I mean, come on, grandma. I'm seriously considering taking my old route to work again every once in a while just to keep my highway-driving skills sharp. Or maybe just for my sanity.

When I say it's important to respect rush hour, I mean literally and metaphorically.

"...we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope." (Romans 5:3-4)

"And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

When you're trying to maneuver from one place to another in your life -- spiritually, emotionally, mentally, etc. -- it's a lot like rush hour. You're just going along, minding your own business, and then suddenly you get stuck. You're in the middle of a trial, you didn't know it was coming, and now suddenly you have to deal with it. You're getting attacked from every angle, you feel like everything is closing in on you, and you don't feel like you can catch a break. Maybe at some point, you get a breakthrough, and you're able to break free and find some peace again. You're going along at a good pace, and then suddenly you find yourself stuck again.

Or maybe the people around you are dragging you down. You don't know why these people won't use some common sense, or you wish they would just get out of your face, but they're squeezing some stuff out of you, and you don't like it. You might even think you're a jerk for feeling the way that you feel.

But you deal with it as best you can, and you move on with your life. And it makes you a stronger person. Otherwise, you could find yourself in a heap of trouble, and then you're toast.

But if you hang in there, you'll eventually make it through. And while you're hanging in there, you might acquire some skills that you'll need later.

I consider myself to be a strong person now, but I haven't always been. I think God has allowed me to go through some stuff, to process some stuff, and to learn some stuff that has enabled Him to mold me into who I am today. And I think the older I get, the stronger, tougher, more skilled, and more refined I'll hopefully become.

But I haven't always been this way. I wasn't born tough. I used to be a total wuss. But then I think God let me go through some stuff so that I would learn how to fight for my peace, for my sanity, for my existence -- things that could so easily be taken for granted.

I'm not saying I'm not supposed to be soft and sensitive. I'm not saying that God isn't a good Daddy who's strong enough to let me melt into a pile of frightened goo on His bosom while He defends me and protects me. I'm saying I need to be sturdy enough to carry out His will and not be useless on the battlefield. I need to be sturdy, strong, and solid enough for others to lean on me whenever they need to.

I'm saying God has let me fight my way through quite a few rush hours. I don't always get a break from them, but with His help, I have learned how to adeptly master a road that used to freak me out.

4) Sometimes people will fight with you, but there are some battles that you'll need to fight alone. Maybe Jesus experienced this at Gethsemane when He intended to have a few of His closest friends support Him through the roughest emotional struggle of His life. And they let Him down. But He wrestled, anyway. And He emerged triumphantly like the King of Kings that He is.

When I embarked on my 30s, I was excited to do so with a handful of friends. But something happened. I'm not sure what it was, but gradually I either watched friend after friend abandon me, or I felt like some of them were too unhealthy for me, so I was the one who walked away. Now they're mostly all gone.

I still have a small group of new friends who are available to fight some battles with me, but it looks much different than it used to. I feel like I'm fighting alone most of the time. But I wouldn't want to force, manipulate, or guilt-trip anyone into fighting with me, so I work with who/what I have. And there are some battles that I'm needing to fight alone.

I guess it's kind of like watching a baby chick hatch out of her shell. You feel like helping her, because she looks exhausted fighting her way through her little prison. But if you were to help her, you'd actually kill her. It is in her battle for breakthrough that she finds the strength she needs to stay alive and kicking. Baby chick needs to conquer the shell on her own. Then she can kick some barnyard butt.

5) I'm worth fighting for. There are all sorts of things swirling through my head as I write this... so many people in my past who had opportunities to either protect me or pursue me, but they didn't. They failed, and I either got hurt or slipped through their fingers.

I hope I don't mean this arrogantly, but their loss is God's gain. Jesus believed I was worth fighting for. He overcame sin, death, and the grave for me. And now HE has me. They don't.

 

6) "Family" is a group of creatures who belong together. These creatures will keep showing up until they stick to your life forever. Above is a photo of my lap this evening. It's actually a snapshot of what happens nearly every evening: My cats will find me and want to be where I am. They will cherish my presence. They have pretty much the entire apartment to hang out in, but throughout the evening, they choose to stick with me. They insist upon it.

They belong with me because they're mine, and I'm theirs.

Of course, it's the same way with me and God.

7) God truly will never, ever, ever leave me or forsake me. It says this in Hebrews 13:5, but He has proven this to me by simply showing up, 24/7, 365. I've given Him plenty of reasons to disown me. By mere human logic, He probably should have given up on me a long time ago.

But He didn't, and He won't, because I don't want Him to. He's committed to our relationship in a way that no one else could ever be committed. He thought me up, He made me, He bought me, He lives inside me, He surrounds me. He wants me. He yearns for me. He waits for me.

And He wants me to pursue Him, too. He rewards me when I do so.

Even though He is the most complex Person in the entire universe -- because He designed it and looks after it -- He keeps my life simple.

He is. I am. We are.

And I like Him. And He likes me.

OK, I think I'm good to go. Onward to my 40s! 

Sheep and landmarks

Disclaimer: As I've said before, I'm not a theologian or an ordained minister. I just use my blog to process some stuff that I've gone through in my past or that I'm going through now. I'm not proposing that everyone start doing things my way. I'm just talking about myself and the things I learn as I live my life. And you are welcome to read about it. Thank you kindly in advance for doing so.

"Do not remove the ancient landmark which your fathers have set." (Proverbs 22:28)

Five years ago when I took a spiritual gifts test, I was shocked to discover that I am gifted in shepherding, but when God started talking to me about it, it made sense. (My entire life started to make more sense.) Since then, I've noticed that shepherding affects nearly everything I do. For example, the disclaimer at the beginning of this post is basically me saying, "Hey, reader-sheep, if you don't like what you're reading, don't send me hate mail; instead, focus your attention on the fact that blogging is cheaper than therapy." At my day job, I'm an editor, and God has told me that I'm a word shepherd; at work, my red pen basically says, "Hey, sentence-sheep, you have a misspelled word over here," or "HEY! COMMA-SPLICE WOLF! Get out of my sentence-pasture!!"

I know. I'm obsessed.

I'm sure you've heard the saying that herding cats is impossible. Well... I had a conversation about this with a coworker at a previous job, and I explained that I (literally) herd my cats by feeding them; if I want them to be enclosed in a certain room, I'll feed them there inside that room and then close the door. But my coworker was like, "That isn't herding; that's attracting them to what they desire."

Um, what do you think shepherding is? You just lead the sheep to a place where they need to be. That's all there is to it. Leave the shepherding to us shepherds. We know how it's done. When you spend all your life in a lonely field looking after sheep who may or may not appreciate you, your mind begins to adapt with all sorts of problem-solving skills, and you get pretty darn creative.

Speaking of herding cats, earlier this week, during an almost sleepless night, I basically told God I was done with this whole Macho-peeing-on-my-bed thing. So, I started doing a couple of things differently. Firstly, instead of keeping my cats inside my bedroom at night with me, I've left my door open and let them sleep wherever they want inside my apartment. (Hopefully at this point, they're conditioned to stay away from my kitchen sink and cabinets.) I've also decided to not enclose them in my bedroom anymore when I leave for work. (They seem very happy with these changes.)

 

Secondly, I decided to protect my bed with wee-wee pads when I'm not sleeping in it. So, I bought a big package of puppy-training pads that are supposed to attract dogs to pee on them. I think they have the opposite effect on cats, because my babies haven't really shown any interest in the wee-wee pads so far.

 

After I placed a few of the pads in strategic places on my bed, I noticed only one little accident on my bed a couple of inches away from a pad, so I decided to just cover my bed with pads. So far, so good! The pads have remained completely dry, my floor has remained dry, no one has seemed to protest my methods by squatting in any unauthorized locations, and the litterbox has been buzzing with much activity. Mission accomplished thus far!

If you read my previous post, perhaps you have an idea of how frustrating and heartbreaking it has been for me -- for all three of us who live here inside my apartment -- to adjust while Macho has been relearning how to pee. God has had to hold my hand through this and help me to have some grace and wisdom in how to handle everything. Because this isn't anything they teach you at PetSmart when you adopt a kitten and bring him home.

Actually, a lot of the things that people told me about how to take care of cats have been wrong -- at least for my particular cats. For example, 1) I was told that cats like pressure, so when you pet them, you should pet them hard. This doesn't work with Choochie, who is tiny, delicate, and meows in pain/frustration if you pet her too hard. 2) Everyone says to discipline a kitten by squirting water on her whenever she is naughty. Again, this doesn't work with Choochie, who loves water, so much so that she gave herself an infection in her ear one time from drinking out of the faucet too much. 3) People will tell you to drug a cat with prescription medication or Benadryl before you take them on a roadtrip with you. Heh. Good luck trying to force any kind of tablet into Macho's mouth. Ever since he refused Benadryl once, I decided that both my babies will just have to deal with any kind of roadtrips medicine-free.

So, wee-wee pads designed to attract puppies actually repel cats. Who'd a thunk?

Not everything works for everybody. And God knows that.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." (Psalm 23:1)

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will guide you with My eye." (Psalm 32:9)

Earlier today, I was thinking about a memory from about 9 1/2 years ago, when I moved into the metropolitan area. Dad, Mom, and my cousin were helping me move into an apartment. I have an old desk, and I packed its contents simply by taping a bag over the top of each drawer. (I saw Mom pack some dressers that way years ago, so I had packed my drawer contents that way ever since. It was easy and convenient because it saved so much work.)

But Dad had this quirk of demonstrating gravity to everyone outside my immediate family. (I have no idea why. Welcome to my life.) So, while my cousin was there with us, Dad did his gravity-demonstration thing. He grabbed one of my desk drawers and said something like, "See what happens? There's this thing called gravity..." What was supposed to happen was, Dad would turn over my drawer, nothing would fall out of it because its contents were packed securely, and voila, my cousin was supposed to ooh and ahh over Dad's supreme knowledge of science. Instead, alas, Dad turned over my drawer, all of its contents spilled out because I guess my packing technique royally failed me, one of my glass picture frames broke, and Dad said, "Whoops."

I ended up replacing the frame, but Dad didn't show any kind of remorse over breaking my property, and I don't remember him offering to fix it or make it right. (The next time I moved, I emptied out all my drawers, packed the contents into boxes, and hired professional movers.)

Today while I was thinking about that memory, God basically told me, "You were raised by an overgrown child, and I had to remove you from there and re-raise you Myself."

I'm God's sheep. He's my Shepherd. Throughout the ages, since the beginning of time, there has only ever been one ME. While God has been taking care of me, I guess He could have taken advice from people about the proper way of taking care of a Tirzah. But maybe I'm not like all the other Tirzahs. Maybe I'm ME. And maybe I need some very specific TLC that only God knows about.

Psalm 23 says He herds me to the places where I need to be, and Psalm 32 says He instructs me in the way that I should go.

 

I've recently decided to start a new tradition: Every Saturday afternoon, I will enjoy a vanilla milkshake. (Last week, it was Braum's; this week, it was Whataburger.) Why? Is it because I need the extra calories? Is it because I'm five years old?

Recently, I've been fighting some depression that pops up during the weekends when I'm lonely. It's OK; I know how to kick depression's butt. God has taught me all about how to do that during the past decade and a half. And during this particular leg of my journey, it seems wise to set up a new landmark -- a new tradition.

Traditions are bad if you worship them, and they're especially bad if you depend on them to get you to heaven someday. If you're an artsy-fartsy chick like me, it's fashionable and cool to blow traditions to smithereens, because they go against everything that your artsy-fartsyness stands for.

But through the years, I've learned that traditions aren't all bad. They help you keep your sanity (especially when your artsy-fartsyness makes you crazy like a senile cat who thinks it's OK to pee on his owner's bed). They give you something to look forward to. It's nice to know that you're going to get some kind of celebration every year on your birthday. It's nice to know that little kids are going to dress up in silly costumes and ask you for some candy every 31st of October. It's nice to know that somebody is going to have a huge turkey dinner with your name on it every Thanksgiving. It's nice to know that somebody is going to give you some kind of present every Christmas. It's nice to know that people in your area are going to count down to the very last second of the year every 31st of December.

Traditions are all over the Bible. For example, there are all sorts of Jewish holidays that I barely know anything about, but that I would like to learn more about and maybe even observe myself.

But for now, my new tradition is a vanilla milkshake every Saturday afternoon. It will give me something to look forward to. (And I like vanilla milkshakes.) God is a good Daddy. I'm sure He'll give me plenty of conversation while I slowly chug down a dessert drink every weekend.

Because that's what good fathers do. Good fathers spend time with their children. They enjoy their children. They defend their children. They don't destroy their children's lives bit by bit, inch by inch, year by year, just to make themselves look good.

As the closing song from the old TV show Square Pegs asserts, "One size does not fit all." What might work for somebody else might not work for me. So, I think I'll just leave the shepherding of Tirzah to the ultimate Shepherd. He knows how it's done.

It's me, it's Him, it's us

During the past year or so while Macho's health has experienced multiple incidents, I've been on an emotional rollercoaster. (I can only imagine how Macho has felt.) He couldn't pee; he peed too much and too often and in the wrong places. He pooped normally; he pooped diarrhea. He grew a tiny little bump on his belly that went away; he grew huge, scary-looking scabs all over his belly that are stumping the vet. He was so weak because he wouldn't eat, and he couldn't meow; he was so strong that he bit me and broke the skin while I was administering his antibiotic.

One minute, he's a sickly little 6.75-pound elderly cat who visits the litterbox to pee almost literally 20 times in one hour. The next minute, he's a strapping-virile swashbuckler cat who bullies my petite girl cat out of her napping spot.

Look at him. Does he look sick to you? The other day, I heard a loud thud in my living room. It turned out to be Macho trying to catch a bug through the door-window. Huh. So, Macho is a windowbrawler. Who'd a thunk?

I've cried at the mere thought of possibly needing to put him to sleep. And I've yelled at him for peeing on my bed YET AGAIN after I shooed him off my bed multiple times, and I've run out of clean sheets, and I've thought about putting him to sleep just so that I can have my life back.

But there's no need to put him to sleep. He still has so much life left in him. And if given the choice, I really don't want to live without him.

From what I understand, Macho's vet performed a thing-ectomy on one other cat before Macho. The other cat was donated to somebody afterwards and lived happily ever after.

There are times when I realize that I became a cat person because cats are low-maintenance, self-cleaning animals. But even when I look around and notice that my elderly cat isn't low-maintenance anymore, and it feels like all I'm doing during my spare time is cleaning up after him... I can't give him away to anyone else. His heart would break, and so would mine. He's mine, and I'm his.

Faithfulness can be EXTREMELY hard. But I think Somebody has been teaching me how He does it.

"If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself." (2 Timothy 2:13)

"And the Lord said to Moses, 'I have seen this people, and indeed it is a stiff-necked people! Now therefore, let Me alone, that My wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them. And I will make of you a great nation.' " (Exodus 32:9-10)

The one true God -- the One who loves unconditionally, the One who loved the world so much that He gave His only begotten Son, the One who IS love -- had a moment where He wanted to zap His chosen people off the face of the earth. And Moses talked Him out of it. (Although I'm pretty sure He would have relented, anyway.) See? Maybe I'm not crazy after all. If God can have an "After all I've done for you, THIS is how you pay Me back?" moment, so can I, if I need to.

Like I said, faithfulness can be SO hard. It's hard showing up day after day, moment after moment, laying your life down over and over again, for someone who may or may not appreciate you... for someone who may or may not give you the time of day... for someone who may either just ignore you or adore someone else instead of you. And yet, you keep showing up, and you can't pull yourself away.

It's insanity... until you find someone who reciprocates your heart-actions. Then your ache becomes sweet. When you discover that the recipient of your affection actually wants you, too, there isn't anything you wouldn't do for them. If they give you an inch, you'll gladly give them a mile in return.

"But without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him." (Hebrews 11:6)

 

Sometimes I wonder why an aging cat -- who isn't allowed outdoors, who isn't as spry as he once was, who has been doubly "fixed," who has difficulty controlling his bathroom reflexes, who possibly may be battling an undiagnosed autoimmune condition, and whose owner keeps imposing boundaries on what he can and cannot do -- would want to still live with me. What is his motivation?

I think I know the answer. It's me.

Macho and I have a special bond that has grown and deepened over the past 16 years. He and I have a history together. Our relationship isn't perfect, but he and I belong together. And as we continue to grow old together, he will continue to be my $6 million cat, and I will continue to be his crazy-cat-lady mama who would do anything for him.

Sometimes I wonder why a middle-aged woman -- who isn't anyone's spouse/mother/bestie, who will never be the best-looking or the best-dressed or the best in her field, who is constantly living in other people's shadows, who is still learning how to control her volatile emotions, who has experienced a vast array of disappointments that just keep coming, and who has become so incredibly tired of allowing her heart to take risks only to be run through the shredder over and over and over again -- would want to still trust God with her life. What is my motivation?

I'm pretty sure I know. It's Him.

My Father and I have a special bond, and we share a secret place together that nobody else will never knew about. He and I have a history together, and we talk about it every once in a while whenever He wants to teach me something through it. Our relationship will always be uneven -- since He's an all-powerful, all-knowing, ever-present God, and I'm just His kid who could never, ever compare to Him -- and we like it that way. And as our relationship continues to grow, I will continue to be His little girl who can't live without Him, and He will continue to be my King-Father who will always be available for me.

When life breaks my heart and life's questions scream at me on the inside at deafening decibels, and I feel like I'm the only one who can hear the noise, I know my motivation to keep going. It's my relationship with God. I don't know if this is all there is to life. But I'm going to keep trusting God and keep going. He's never let me down. And at the end of the day, if all I have is Him, then I'm going to curl into His lap and purr, because I know I'm welcome there. I know I belong with Him. I know He loves me and would do anything for me.

The truth is, whether things are going awesomely or horribly, I can't live without our relationship. It would break my heart. And it would break His.

Macho is a lot stronger than he looks. I think maybe I am, too.

Kicking the puffy remnant's butt

I'm going to be honest with you. On Saturday afternoon when I power-walked into church late, during song #1 in the worship set, I wasn't surprised that we were singing "Only Your Love," as song #1 for the zillion-billionth time. I've been a bit annoyed that my church has turned a song #2 into a song #1. It kinda goes against the praise/worship protocol that the pastors have ingrained into us worship leaders over the years. So, while I was settling in my seat, I composed a Facebook status update in my head that would have gone something like: "You know you have PMS when... you seriously consider bribing the worship leader to lead a hymn instead of what they picked for song #1." (If you know me, you know I hate hymns.)

But I'm glad I didn't post that, because there would have been so much wrong packed into that snarky statement:

1) God's presence was there during that service, regardless of the songs that were picked for the set list. God doesn't care as much for the quality of a song than He does for the expression of a heart -- a song is merely meant to be a vehicle for just that.
2) I probably would have hurt the songwriters' feelings.
3) I would have totally overlooked the fact that the worship pastors and leaders considered and prayed about which songs to include in the set list.
4) It's so obvious: My church isn't singing any of MY songs. Hello, jealousy, good to see you again.
5) I totally would have sounded like those old-fogey religious jerks who criticize everything. Maybe to a degree, I still am one.

Maybe God has been working overtime to squeeze more of that junk out of me.

Meanwhile, on Saturday afternoon, I did remember a random conversation I had with a stranger many years ago. I was at a wedding, and I sat at a table with some of either the bride or the groom's family. They had traveled into town for the wedding, and one of the men was asking me questions about my church. I think we ended up talking about the church's music, because he asked me if we sang any Maranatha! Music. Then he went on and on about how much he loved Maranatha! Music. (Um, OK, but that music was written like 30 or 40 years ago. When you read the Bible, do you skip the verse that says to sing a new song to the Lord?)

I also remembered how I went on YouTube a few years ago to listen to a Hillsongs song that I really like -- incidentally, it was an updated hymn. I remember scrolling down and reading some of the comments that people had left on the video's page. One of them said something like, "Hillsongs should be writing new songs instead of updating hymns." (Um, excuse me? 1) It's excessively rude to give a blanket criticism about an entire artist's repertoire on one of their YouTube videos and 2) If someone like ME actually likes the song, then mission accomplished.)

I guess everybody has an opinion. And there's certainly nothing wrong with having an opinion. I have freedom of speech just as much as any other songwriter does. God gave each of us a brain, a heart, and a gut for a reason. But I'm learning that sometimes it's appropriate to share an opinion -- in an appropriate way -- and other times it's best to just save it for when you're alone with God. (He always likes to hear what you have to say, even though He already knows what's floating around inside your brain, your heart, and your gut.)

I'm kinda learning a lot of stuff right now.

"Knowledge puffs up while love builds up." (1 Corinthians 8:1b, New International Version)

"Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and the Sadducees." (Jesus talking in Matthew 16:6)

"Your glorying is not good. Do you not know that a little leaven leavens the whole lump?" (1 Corinthians 5:6, quoted out of context)

"A little leaven leavens the whole lump." (Galatians 5:9, so there)

Heh, heh. OK, so maybe I'm having too much fun quoting Bible verses that are actually pretty serious. I grew up in a Pharisee's house, with Pharisee DNA, in a Pharisee family, breathing in Pharisee attitudes, which were constantly reinforced by Pharisee survival techniques. Pharisees are very puffy, critical know-it-alls who invent backbreaking rules for people to follow. Jesus pretty much yelled at them in the Bible and called them whitewashed tombs.

I am an ex-Pharisee. I remember being a Pharisee. It was extremely hard work keeping up a façade all the time, keeping the anxiety at a rolling boil in my head, not really being able to do what I really wanted in front of everybody and therefore developing all sorts of secret sins behind everyone's backs. (I have discovered that religious spirits and lust issues often go hand in hand.)

God has set me free from all that Pharisee junk, but of course the recurring problem with the ongoing healing process is the leaven. You can't just chop off a piece of dough and say, "Hey, all the leaven is in this piece over here, and now it's gone. You're free!" In a real piece of dough, the leaven is mixed evenly throughout. So, in a metaphorical piece of dough, removing every tiny piece of leaven is often a long, painstaking process.

In my life, I thought God was done squeezing out the leaven. But I think He's found some more stuff, and He's been slowing wringing it out.

I heard my pastor once say, "Once a Pharisee, always a Pharisee." In terms of getting rid of all the leaven, I can agree with him. But in terms of repenting, I disagree.

Some Pharisees repented in the Bible, but I think God had to be really drastic and shake their worlds to get their attention. (How else are you going to soften a stubborn person?) When Nicodemus came to Jesus in John 3, Jesus straight up was like, "Hey, man, if you want to be like Me, you need to be born all over again." When Paul was traveling to Damascus to hunt down some Christians, Jesus suddenly showed up and basically blinded him for three days.

I can't speak for everybody, but speaking for myself, taking Freedom classes at church hasn't always helped me. God has had to reach down, slice me open, rearrange some stuff, blow my paradigms to smithereens, be my Friend in a way that no one else could ever be, and love me to death. That has seemed to help me the most through the years.

 

Lately, His way of squeezing out any remnant of leaven has been during the current format of my "quiet times," which is just a few minutes every night -- just me, God, and my phone on the couch. (This photo is an example of what I usually see during those times.) No guitar. No keyboard. No library full of printed books. No intercessory floor-pacing. Just a smartphone with more than enough access to the Bible and music... and the awkwardness of accepting that that's all God wants right now. "It's the simplicity that's tripping you up," He said recently.

Whimper. Yes.

If I've heard Him correctly, this will be our nightly format through the rest of March. I think I'll get to unplug and regrow my guitar calluses in April, but we'll see. I might even graduate from Psalm 46 again and jump back into Isaiah.

But for now, I'm letting Him expose a very deep insecurity that's lurked in my heart. Remember me talking about the Pharisees who raised me? Dad didn't want me. I'm sure I felt it even when I was a little embryo inside Mom's womb and there was a brief little mention of a possible abortion inside a doctor's office.

God has told me, "You don't know what it's like to know the security of a father."

Nope. I don't. That old-fogey religious jerk, the one who used to criticize everything and probably still does -- the guy who raised me and basically only wanted a kid around so that he could study language development in children -- didn't give me the security of a loving father that many children have.

But God has been giving that to me for many years now. Lately He's been doing it while I've been nothing but a lump of a couch potato/mouse potato/phone potato in His presence. I don't have anything fancy to offer Him. I just have my life.

And I think He's also been letting me offer the security of a loving mother to a cat who probably should have kicked the bucket a long time ago. But as long as he's with me, I'll make sure he has everything he needs, and I'll make sure he knows that I love him and want him -- right to the very last feline breath.

"Listen, O daughter, consider and incline your ear; forget your own people also, and your father's house; so the King will greatly desire your beauty; because He is your Lord, worship Him." (Psalm 45:10-11)

Going back to the worship song situation I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I need to just shut up and be thankful that my church seems to be flexible about breaking protocol at all. Maybe someday they'll be like, "Hey, all those boundaries we set up about new songs being written for the church suddenly feel silly to us now, and we're now very curious about the ones you've written. Can we listen to a sound clip on Monday morning?"

All those rigid protocols, boundaries, and rules can often be hindrances to creativity, anyway. I'm thankful to be involved in a church that continually submits its processes to God and what He wants.

He's the most creative Being of all. Maybe many of His processes only begin with an idea. I mean, all He said was, "Let there be light," and six days later the entire world was created.

Maybe my dreams will come true when I least expect them to, or maybe in a way that I won't expect them to. But I certainly don't want some puffy remnant to get in the way.

Being ourselves

Warning: I'm going to write about my aging cat in this post, so things might get a little gross. And I'm going to talk about my relationship with God, so I might use some PG-13 language. Just a heads-up.

When I was a little girl, maybe about 5 years old, I was out shopping with my family. Rather, Dad was inside the store shopping, while Mom and sister and I were hanging out in the car. (We used to do that a lot, and I'm not sure why, but whatevs.) We had the windows open, and I saw a woman, maybe in her 50s or 60s, walking across the parking lot. She was wearing tennis shoes, and for some reason this struck me as odd because I had never seen that before. In fact, I blurted out loudly, "An old lady with tennis shoes??" She heard me, because she suddenly turned her head toward our car. She kept walking and didn't approach us, but I probably hurt her feelings. And I definitely embarrassed Mom.

Yes, even as a child, I used to freely speak my mind. Are you surprised?

Years later, of course I understand that there's nothing wrong with being "an old lady with tennis shoes," especially since now I'M the old lady with tennis shoes. And I take selfies everywhere, even in the church restroom. 'Cause that's how I roll.

I'll be 40 in a couple of months, and although I really don't consider 40 to be "old," I guess comparatively speaking, it kind of is. For example, if a college-age male flirts with me, I ain't gonna flirt back. Are you kidding? I'm old enough to be your mom, son.

I'm not sure if I've ever had an official mid-life crisis (although I've had plenty of other kinds of crises), but I've had plenty of time to think about my life and figure some stuff out. I'm definitely an adult, but in some ways I still live like a college student (e.g., I've lived in this apartment for three years but have never, ever used my stove/oven, and I don't ever intend to). I enjoy the independence of living alone and doing whatever the heck I want (e.g., I stopped by the McDonald's drive-thru and bought an ice cream cone on the way to mail my tax return today).

My independence is God's gift to me. Maybe that's one thing that sets me apart from other women my age. I'm definitely not the only 39-year-old independent woman in the world. I'm definitely not the only "old lady" who walks around in tennis shoes.

But I am me.

I have to be myself. I think God would be heartbroken if I weren't myself.

 

In my previous post, I mentioned that my cat Macho recently had surgery to remove his little thing. (Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to pee on his own.) His recovery has been interesting, to say the least. See his adorable little butt that's groomed/shaved metrosexual style?

Seriously, oh my gosh, he is such a drama queen. I never have to guess how he's doing, because he'll come find me and tell me. Or if I wait long enough, he'll show me. For example, I knew it was time to take him back to the vet yesterday when I caught him peeing blood in my bathtub. (He was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection, and I was warned beforehand that he could get this type of infection with his type of surgery.)

But even when everything's going well and he isn't having any health crises, he is so clingy. He follows me around everywhere. Sometimes when I come home, he's waiting for me by the front door like a little dog. He meows at me to feed him at 3:30 in the morning. He meows at me to feed him anytime I mention anything food-related. He tries to sneak inside the refrigerator nearly every time I open it.

He wants to snuggle with me on the couch. He wants to snuggle with me on my lap. He wants to snuggle with me while I'm typing on my computer. He wants to snuggle close by anytime I play my piano keyboard.

I have to keep a close watch on him. Sometimes he'll bully my other cat Choochie. (Which is probably why she swats her claws at his face every time he struts by her food bowl.) If he does #2 in the litterbox, I have to wipe his little metrosexual butt immediately or I might find a surprise somewhere in my apartment later. If he does #1, lately he's been missing the litterbox, and I've had to clean up after him. If he vomits, I have to clean it up right away or he'll eat it (seriously, he's like a dog). If he has difficulty with any of the above, I won't really have a moment's rest.

Right after he had his surgery, he had trouble learning how to control his newer, freer flow, so he ended up giving himself some kind of infection (possibly a fungal one; it's still being tested) on his belly. He was prescribed two different medicines to treat it, so now I have to apply these topical drugs on him every few hours. And I've been washing blankets and pillowcases and keeping Macho away from my bed and my table where I eat. Because, like a paranoid little mama, I don't want Choochie or myself to catch what he has.

And yet, I have no idea why he keeps getting sick, because he's as healthy as a horse. I recently discovered that I can't eat chicken anymore because Macho will climb on me and claw at me unless I feed him from my plate. Sometimes I give in to his desires just so that he will give me a moment's peace.

The truth is, Macho is completely helpless without me. Yes, my apartment was SO QUIET while he was away at the animal hospital, but I would rather have him here with me than not at all. He's a hot mess, but he's my little hot mess.

And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Macho has to be himself. Anytime he's not himself, I know that something is horribly wrong.

"So the King will greatly desire your beauty; because He is your Lord, worship Him." (Psalm 45:11)

"Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!" (Psalm 46:10)

Macho reminds me so much of myself. I'm just as overly dramatic, emotionally helpless, and clingy as he is (if not more so), and maybe there have been times in my life when God just gave in to what I was asking Him for because I was desperate and wouldn't leave Him alone. (Kind of like that neighbor or that judge in those parables where Jesus describes prayer.)

But just as quirky as I am, or just as quirky as my cat is, I think we both learned from the Master. I mean this respectfully, but God can be kind of crazy, too. See that photo a couple of paragraphs up? That's a once-in-a-lifetime selfie of me holding Macho (while he was wearing his little lampshade) and trying to make some eye contact with him. I was trying to meet him where he was.

God does the same thing with us, of course. He stoops down and tries to connect with us exactly where we are. Yes, of course the only way to access God the Father is through Jesus, but the fact is that He wanted so much to be near us that He actually BECAME one of us. And after we accept Him, He puts His Holy Spirit inside us -- He actually LIVES INSIDE US.

I don't know of any other god who does that. My God seriously wants us. He's for real. And He interacts with us in a way that I don't think any other god would reduce himself or herself to do.

For example, I don't remember the exact words of our conversation, but I recently was talking to my God about how tough I've become. I was like, "I'm a badass." And, because He's always going to be better than everybody else, He was like, "I'm the Baddest Ass of them all."

Yes, Father. With all due respect, and definitely in the spirit of what You were saying, You are absolutely correct. You are always going to be absolutely correct.

'Cause that's how You roll.

People may not always know how to break through all my quirks, temperament, or personality, and simply connect with me. But God always knows how.

I love my church. It's so huge that it meets on several different campuses at the same time. Sometimes I'll be going through something hard, and at church God will speak something very specific that I need to hear. On a couple of occasions, during a season when I was experiencing very deep grief, people walked up to me and said, "I feel like God told me to give you a hug." At the campus closer to my home, on a day when I happened to be thinking about my finances, a person sitting behind me told me that they felt like they needed to give me $100. Yesterday when I was feeling a little bit self-conscious about my looks, a perfect stranger walked up to me after the worship music and said, "I felt like the Lord said that you're beautiful and your worship is beautiful."

Wow. And all I did was show up. (See? You should go to church, if you don't already.)

Ideally, church is a place where you can show up and be yourself, and God can show up and be Himself.

At home, in my struggle to be OK with having a non-religious "quiet time," where I'm still on Psalm 46, God has boiled down our short, quiet times together: "I just want to cuddle with you."

That's my Father. That's how He rolls. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

God has to be Himself, and I have to let Him. I honestly don't know how I would exist otherwise.

When healing hurts

Lately, I've been fascinated with the concept of strength vs. weakness. In my previous post, I talked about being strong during a trial. Today, I'm going to talk more about being weak. Honestly, I'm not really going to talk about the following verse...

"And He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

...because I haven't really gotten the hang of it yet. So, I think I should just let my cat do the "talking." I heard a preacher say once that physical healing shouldn't be compared to emotional healing, but I say those processes can be pretty darn similar.

Reader, beware: I'm about to get kind of personal.

Last weekend, Macho had rather drastic surgery. After several days at the animal hospital and a couple of not-so-successful treatments, it got to the point where he couldn't urinate without a catheter. So, the only option was to surgically remove Macho's penis. "He will pee like a girl," the vet explained. Um, I don't know if your pet has ever had a major part of his or her anatomy removed, but at first I didn't really know whether to laugh or cry. It's a good thing I call my cat Macho, because that might be the only manly thing he has left. Stifled snicker.

But the healing process has been no laughing matter. The surgery was successful in that Macho can urinate on his own now. But since his little opening is larger, and since the urine has a shorter distance to travel, he has had to make some major adjustments.

Shucks -- we all have had to make some adjustments. My apartment has turned into a feline nursing home. Macho has been on two different antibiotics, and he bit me a couple of times while I administered his medicine. (You're welcome, cat.) Today, I followed both my babies around so that I could clean up pee, poop, hairballs, etc. Ever since I brought Macho home a few days ago, he has wet his bed, he has peed on the floor, and he has had to use a special type of litter in the litterbox. Choochie, of course, has had to use the special litter, too, and I'm very proud of her for adjusting (instead of protesting by making a mess on purpose).

A couple of summers ago, Macho had surgery to remove a couple of stones, and I blogged about how he had to make some adjustments to his life with the soft little satellite dish on his head.

However, this time around, the vet felt it necessary to upgrade Macho's post-operation gear to a hard lampshade (aka cone of shame). I recently noticed some abnormal-looking inflammation in his stitched-up area, and I emailed a photo of it to the vet, who said it didn't look infected but that Macho had probably been licking at it. Sure enough, I caught him in the act today, so I tightened up his little lampshade, and I've been keeping a closer eye on him.

Gosh. Even with that drastic of a boundary that was set so that his wound would heal properly, Macho still found a way to mess with his incision. But I do understand his deep desire for normalcy. His little lampshade kind of gets in the way of everything.

 

For example, it makes it impossible for him to crawl under the bed to take his morning naps.

 

Mealtimes have been difficult because his little lampshade won't let his head reach the bottom of his bowl. So, I put a saucer on top of his bowl so that his mouth could reach his food. That solution works well when he actually has an appetite (which shrunk for a little while, probably because of the medicine I've been forcing into his adorable little fanged mouth).

Today, I realized that exactly 15 years ago this week, I was nursing another kitty back to health: Choochie. I've mentioned here before that after she got spayed, she gave herself an infection from scrape-licking her stitched-up area. (I have no idea why her quack-shack discount-surgery clinic didn't give her any kind of protective collar to take home, and I'm kind of frustrated at myself now for being such a naive cat lady back then. But God's mercy and hand definitely kept her alive and helped her heal.)

Macho's instincts are powerful enough to cause him a great deal of harm. Yes, of course he reminds me of myself.

"Thus my heart was grieved, and I was vexed in my mind. I was so foolish and ignorant; I was like a beast before You. Nevertheless I am continually with You; You hold me by my right hand. You will guide me with Your counsel, and afterward receive me to glory." (Psalm 73:21-24)

I've never had anything drastic surgically removed (except wisdom teeth), but I've had all kinds of precious things cut out of my life: dreams, people, dignity, parts of my heart, etc. God has pruned me John-15 style, and He is continuing to do so. He's made all kinds of adjustments in my life to set me up for healing, restoration, and regrowth. It's been awesome, but it's also been gruesome.

I ain't gonna lie. I'm still bitter in some pretty big areas. Yesterday, I asked God to lance my bitterness like a boil. Later on while my heart was fuming, I was like, "Where the heck are all these thoughts coming from??" And God was like, "Well, you asked Me to lance it, so I lanced it." Oh. That would explain the icky thought-oozing.

One issue that has been in my face lately has been rejection -- like, the deep, intimate kind. For example, today is Valentine's Day. If you've read my blog for the past several years, you know how I feel about shmalentine's day. I think it's the worst holiday ever. Celebrating love? OK, but why only one day a year? If the people in my life don't already show me or tell me that they love me on a consistent basis (e.g., more than once a year), they can take a hike.

Come on. It's a holiday for couples (as if they don't already celebrate each other on their anniversaries). Who's that little cherub symbol with the bow and arrow? Cupid, aka Eros, aka the mythological character from whose name we derive the word "erotic." Shmalentine's fray is for couples. That's why we non-attached single people try to make peace with it and celebrate it as best we can. For me, that means not celebrating it at all. (As you can see from my icky thought-oozing, it's probably better that way.)

I am never going to get married. And I'm OK with that. I've accepted that.

Frankly, I don't want to get married anymore. The only thing I would want a husband for at this point in my life is sex. (And I don't even want that most of the time anymore.) I'm not called to be single. But I've accepted the fact that marriage isn't something God has in store for me anymore, and I'm OK with it.

But it's a recent realization, a recent pruning that's still in the process of healing. Metaphorically speaking, I'm still wearing my cone of shame so that I won't cause myself harm from obsessing over my still-healing wound. Most of the time, the scab is OK, the stitched-up area is clean, and I am at peace.

Then suddenly, something or someone will come along and start picking at my stitched-up area, and the wound will flare up all over again. Maybe someone who barely knows me will try to set me up on a blind date. Or maybe those feelings I still have for a certain guy will bounce around inside me and then fizzle away when Mr. Clueless won't even give me the time of day. Or maybe a national holiday will come along every 14th of February that will make every cashier in America ask you if you have any big plans for Valentine's Day. Yes. I plan on avoiding eye contact with chatty cashiers.

I am OK with my involuntary singlehood. However, I am not OK with being treated like an unused pair of ovaries. I don't think I've ever been OK with that.

I think whenever that gets flung in my face, I'm suddenly back in the fifth grade being humiliated in front of my entire class when a certain boy announced to everybody that he didn't like me the way I liked him. I'm suddenly reading an email from a guy who emotionally used me for 14 years, only for him to admit that he only thought of me as a sister. I'm suddenly dealing with family friends who thought my birth sister was older than me because she was already married. I'm suddenly back at my grandparents' house where my grandfather is having a warm, lengthy conversation with my sister, but he only talks to me for like 30 seconds and asks coldly, "Are you happy?" I'm suddenly at the park when I'm 4 or 5 years old, and my uncle is playing ball with me, and then he throws it to a perfect-stranger child instead, and I retreat to a nearby park bench and sulk because I'm feeling something that I don't know how to verbalize yet.

It's rejection. It's abandonment. It's shame. It's betrayal.

God saw all of it. He's been going to a lot of trouble to fix it. And He and I have been trying to work together to keep my stitched-up area clean.

If my heart/brain goes to a certain place and I start dreaming again about getting married, God is like, "You don't need to go there." If I ask Him if I'm ever going to get married someday, God is like, "Why do you need a husband? You have Me." OK, then. I'm good to go. I just need to wait for the healing process to run its course, because I don't want to mess any of it up.

Sometimes when I'm still enough, I can put together the pieces of what I've heard God say, and they all make sense: He's told me that my independence is His gift to me... He's told me that He wants me to channel my loneliness into songwriting... He's told me that He wants me to be strong...

Which is probably why lately I've just wanted to crawl into a cave, write songs, and dance with gypsies. Hey, an independent woman can do that, right?

Seriously, though, I want to be strong enough for other people. I want people to lean on me and receive wisdom, dignity, and courage from me -- like the big sister that I am -- without me feeding them the poison of my bitterness. I want people to look at me and think, "If she can make it, I can, too. Whatever helped her through her stuff -- I want that, too."

Well, I hope it's no secret that that "Whatever" is actually a "Whoever." It's God.

 

Today, I gave Macho a heart-to-heart and explained why he's had to wear his little lampshade and why it's important that he doesn't scrape-lick his adorable little stitched-up area. (Yeah, I know he's a cat, and he might not have understood a word I said, but I talked to him, anyway.) I think one nice side effect of the lampshade is that it forces Macho to give me his undivided attention. And it forces him to trust me to take care of the areas that he can't see.

It's the same way with me and my metaphorical lampshade, of course. Lately while I've been working through a deep emotional issue, God has let me just vent a lot of stuff to Him. And He's said, "You're always going to be Mine. That's all you need to know."

Indeed.